Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

The living room was an empire.

Not just rich—obscene. Trillionaire-core. The kinda place that made billionaires feel like peasants. Chandeliers so massive they could probably kill a man. Velvet furniture that had never known a single budget cut. Gold-trimmed everything. The whole damn room smelled like money, old money, the kind that didn't ask for permission—it just was.

And in the middle of it all, seated in a chair that looked more like a throne, was him.

An old man.

Not fragile, not weak—commanding. Still built like someone who could win a fistfight if he really had to. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. A face carved from decades of power and legacy. This was not a man who inherited wealth. This was a man who built an empire from where it once stood to another level and made damn sure no one would ever forget it.

Next to him, curled up like she belonged there, was a girl.

Young, but not too young—just at that age where curiosity had fully taken over. She clutched his old hand, her fingers small against his, but her eyes? Bright. Hungry for answers. The look of a Wilder who needed to know.

"Okay, but—" she leaned in, practically vibrating, "what happened next? You were surrounded. Like, full gunmen, everywhere. What did you do?"

Before the old man could speak, another voice—calm, measured, too responsible—cut in from across the room.

"Father," the man warned. "You shouldn't tell her these stories."

The old man didn't even look at him. He just scowled and waved a hand like he was swatting away a fly. "Shut up, boy."

The other man—definitely the girl's dad—sighed, already regretting this.

The old man shook his head, muttering, then turned back to the girl. "You have to know. You're a fucking Wilder." His voice was sharp, unwavering. "And without that woman, there would be no Wilders."

The girl's eyes widened. She clutched his hand tighter.

He leaned back, exhaling like the weight of history sat on his chest. "So there I was. Bleeding for help. Cornered. Outnumbered." His voice dropped into something deep, low, dramatic. "And then—"

"Val?" the girl cut in, eyes shining. "She came in?"

The old man grinned. There it was.

"She came in."

The girl gasped. "How? What did she do?"

"That's the thing," he said. "I don't know. One second, I was fucked. Next second, she had me out of there like the whole thing was nothing. I didn't even get a chance to process it."

The girl frowned. "That's kinda unfair. You didn't see what happened either?"

"Nope."

"But who was she?"

The old man sighed. "That, kid, is the million-dollar question."

The girl huffed. "Ugh. You suck at storytelling."

The old man laughed. Loud, deep, unbothered.

The conversation stretched on—more questions, more half-answers, more wild theories about who Val was and why she'd been there in the first place. But at the very end, as the energy settled, the old man's voice turned serious.

"You know, your father already knows this," he murmured, looking down at her. "But you have to know too. The last part I haven't told you yet..."

The girl blinked, suddenly very aware of the weight in his voice.

"If someone ever turns up with that pendant," he said slowly, "demanding anything—" his eyes locked onto hers, "or asking for a favor—"

Silence.

The girl swallowed.

"You yield."

She stared at him.

Then, after a long beat, she nodded.

"Okay," she said softly. Then she scrunched her nose. "But please Grandpa don't talk like you're about to die, it's fucking creepy."

The old man barked a laugh.

The girl grinned.

And somewhere, across the room, her father just sighed.

****

The morning sun stretched lazily across the open fields, casting golden light over the rolling hills of Wilder estate land. Horses trotted through the breeze, tails flicking, hooves crunching over the dry dirt.

The old man sat atop a black stallion like he was born in the damn saddle, one hand lazily holding the reins, the other resting on his knee. His granddaughter, meanwhile? Clinging to her horse like it was trying to kill her.

Her little hands gripped the saddle for dear life as the horse beneath her barely walked.

"This thing is gonna throw me off," she muttered, narrowing her eyes.

The old man smirked. "Sweetheart, that thing's got less fight in it than your grandma's poodle."

She scowled. "Yeah, well, Grandma's poodle once ate a hundred-dollar bill, so maybe don't underestimate him."

He barked out a laugh, the kind that shook his whole chest.

**

Two horses trotted lazily through the open land, their riders a perfect contrast—one old man, seasoned, still sitting in the saddle like it was his throne, and the young girl was still struggling, gripping the reins like her life depended on it.

"This horse hates me, I'm telling you," the girl muttered, her small hands gripping the saddle like she was bracing for impact.

The old man chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. "Sweetheart, if that horse hated you, you'd already be in the dirt."

She shot him a glare. "You're so reassuring, Grandpa."

He smirked, effortlessly guiding his massive black stallion beside her. "C'mon now, you've been getting lessons since you were three. Ain't like this is new to you."

She huffed. "Yeah, well, I've also been in 'business strategy' classes since three. That doesn't mean I wanna talk about interest rates and mergers at breakfast."

He barked out a laugh, the kind that shook his whole chest.

"You'll be fine," he said, flicking the reins to guide his horse beside hers. "Now quit whining and listen up. I'm about to teach you something useful."

She gave him a suspicious side-eye. "Is this one of those 'useful' lessons that ends with you getting shot and saved by a lady like a damsel. C'mon grandpa."

He grinned. "Not today."

She sighed dramatically, muttering, "Small wins, I guess."

He grinned. "Alright, alright. How 'bout we talk about something a little more interesting!"

Her brows lifted. "Like?"

He gave her a sideways glance, something sharp glinting in his eyes. "The Five."

She immediately perked up. "The Big Five?"

"The very same." He flicked the reins, the stallion picking up an easy pace. "Five families that run this world. We're one of them."

Her lips curled. "Then start with us before you mention those Ashford assholes. Oh, gods I hate those assholes!"

He laughed so hard. "Damn right. Let's start with us. The Wilders"