Ultimate Choice System: I Became The Richest!

Noah pulled his hood lower, the fabric casting a shadow over his sharp, focused gaze. The damp streets glistened under weak, flickering streetlights, and the stale scent of old beer and piss lingered in the air. Groups of men loitered near alleyways and outside dingy shops, their voices low, their eyes sharp, following him like predators sizing up prey.

One group, huddled near a broken lamppost, stopped mid-conversation as Noah passed. Their laughter faded, replaced by a cold silence.

"Hey, you!" one of them barked, his voice cutting through the muffled hum of the street.

Noah didn't flinch, didn't even glance back. His steps were steady, his pace unbroken. The casual indifference in his stride only added fuel to the fire.

The men exchanged looks, smirking. One of them, a wiry man with an angular face and a leather jacket that had seen better days, spat onto the cracked pavement. "Yo, Sebastian! He's ignoring you, mate."

Sebastian, a stocky guy with a shaved head and scars crisscrossing his knuckles, straightened up from where he was leaning. "Big mistake," he muttered, cracking his neck.

He started after Noah, his boots scuffing the ground. "Oi! I'm talkin' to you!"

Noah didn't pause.

The group chuckled, jeering as Sebastian picked up his pace. "Get him, Seb! Don't let some punk walk off like that!"

Sebastian closed the distance, his hand shooting out to grab Noah's shoulder.

It never landed.

In a flash, Noah's arm moved, his hand locking around Sebastian's wrist like a vice. Without so much as turning his head, Noah yanked him forward and twisted his body, sending Sebastian flipping through the air.

The crack of bone echoed as Sebastian slammed onto the concrete, hard enough to send a shudder through the ground. He let out a strangled gasp, clutching his shoulder as he writhed on the pavement.

The group froze, their jeers cutting off mid-laugh.

"Holy shit, did you see that?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling.

Sebastian groaned, trying and failing to prop himself up on his good arm. His face twisted in pain as he spat out a curse.

Noah finally stopped walking, his stance relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. He turned his head slightly, just enough for them to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the hood. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto the group.

"Anyone else?" he asked, his tone low, casual, as if he were asking for directions instead of daring them to take a step closer.

The group exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier bravado evaporating into the night air.

"Nah, man," one of them muttered, backing up a step. "We're good."

Noah gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, before turning back toward his destination. His steps were as calm as ever, unhurried as if nothing had happened.

Behind him, Sebastian let out a strangled cough, still writhing on the ground. The group hesitated, caught between helping him and pretending they didn't know him.

As Noah disappeared into the shadows, one of the men finally broke the silence.

"Who the fuck was this guy. Did you see that look in his eyes?"

The others nodded, gulping.

The address wasn't hard to find—224 Birchwood Lane stood out like a sore thumb in a neighbourhood that looked like it had given up on itself a decade ago. The building was an old, crumbling complex, its walls streaked with grime and graffiti, with windows so filthy they barely reflected the dim glow of the streetlights. A rusted mailbox hung crookedly by the entrance, its contents spilling onto the cracked concrete below.

Noah approached the door to Flat 3A with the same unhurried stride that had carried him through the district. The wood was chipped and swollen from years of damp, the paint peeling in long, curling strips. A faint odor of mildew and fried food lingered in the air.

He raised his hand and knocked—softly, almost lazily. The hollow sound echoed through the narrow hallway.

Nothing.

Noah waited a moment, tilting his head slightly, listening for movement. The silence was louder than any sound. He knocked again, this time with the same lack of urgency.

Still nothing.

His gaze shifted to the window just beside the door. In the dim light, he caught it—a flicker of movement. A small, darting shadow, quick but unmistakable.

Sam Richard was home.

Noah's lips quirked into a faint smirk. He could practically feel the guy's panic bleeding through the walls. This was the kind of place where you didn't answer the door unless you were expecting someone—or packing heat. And someone knocking in a hood? Yeah, that screamed bad news.

But Noah wasn't in the mood to wait.

He shifted his weight slightly, lifting one foot off the ground. There wasn't any flourish to it, no dramatic windup—just a quick, precise motion as his boot slammed into the center of the door.

BOOM! CRACK!

The frame shattered, wood splintering with an ear-splitting crunch as the door swung inward, slamming against the wall with enough force to shake the cheap plaster.

Noah stepped inside, the air thick with the musty scent of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. He didn't rush. His footsteps echoed through the space, measured and deliberate, as he turned down the narrow hall.

He stopped at the first door on the right, the one with the cheap curtain half-drawn over its window. Pushing it open, he stepped into a room that looked as pathetic as the rest of the flat.

Sam Richard stood frozen in the corner, his thin, wiry frame shaking like a leaf in a storm. His wide eyes darted to the door, to Noah, and back again, his brain clearly struggling to catch up with the situation.

The room itself was a mess—clothes piled on the floor, half-empty bottles of cheap liquor lining the windowsill, and a battered sofa that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster. The single bulb overhead flickered weakly, casting jittery shadows across the walls.

Noah's gaze locked onto Sam, calm and unyielding. He didn't need to say a word—his presence alone filled the room like a heavy fog, suffocating and impossible to ignore.

Sam swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like it might leap out of his throat. "W-who the hell are you?" he stammered, his voice cracking.

Noah didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a slow step forward, the floor creaking under his weight. The casual way he moved—controlled, unhurried—only made him more terrifying.

Sam's back hit the wall with a dull thud, his breath hitching as Noah kept advancing. The air in the room felt heavier with every step Noah took, the kind of oppressive weight that made you reconsider every bad decision that led to this moment.

"Listen, man," Sam stammered, his voice shaky but loud, like he was trying to convince both Noah and himself. "I don't have any issues with anyone, okay? Just—just tell me what you want. I'll do whatever you want!"

Noah didn't respond. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, each one a quiet, precise click on the grimy floorboards. His eyes, cold and unblinking, locked onto Sam like a predator sizing up its prey.

Panic flared in Sam's eyes as Noah closed the distance without a word. His chest heaved, and his gaze darted to the cluttered table beside him. His fingers snatched up an empty liquor bottle, the label peeling off from years of neglect. Desperation flared in his mind—fight or flight, and fight won out first.

With a sharp grunt, Sam hurled the bottle at Noah.

For a moment, it looked like the throw might land. It wasn't amateur, not completely—years of chucking things in bar fights and alley scraps had given him a decent arm. The bottle spun through the air, aiming right for Noah's head.

But Noah didn't flinch. His body barely shifted, only a slight tilt of his head breaking his stride. The bottle whipped past him, shattering against the wall behind with a sharp crash, shards scattering across the floor.

Sam froze, his eyes widening as if realizing he'd just pissed off a bear.

"Stop—stop right there!" he barked, his voice cracking under the strain. But Noah didn't stop. He didn't speed up, didn't slow down. He just kept coming, calm and unbothered, like a force of nature that didn't care if you begged or fought.
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Sam's hand scrambled for another bottle—a slightly fuller one this time, the cheap whiskey sloshing inside. He threw it harder, desperation adding to the velocity.

The bottle flew just as true, but Noah's reaction was faster than before. His hand came up lazily, deflecting the projectile to the side with the back of his wrist. It spun off course, hitting the ground with a dull thunk before rolling into a pile of laundry.

Sam's breath hitched. He was out of tricks.

His eyes flicked between Noah and the window to his left, the filthy pane barely letting the outside streetlight through. It wasn't a plan, but it was a way out.

Without another word, Sam yanked his t-shirt up over his head to shield his face. He lunged toward the window, his momentum carrying him forward in a frantic sprint.

CRASH!

The glass exploded outward as Sam barreled through, shards scattering like jagged confetti. He hit the pavement below with a grunt of pain, his legs buckling under the awkward landing.

A few onlookers peeked their heads from their windows and stared at Sam as he sprawled on the concrete with glass glinting in his hair and a smear of blood on his arm. Sam groaned, shaking his head to clear the haze.