Part I:
You ever met a man who loved money like it was breath in his lungs?
No, not liked it. Loved it. Worshipped it. Dreamed in its colors.
That man’s name was Malik Cross.
To the world, Malik was a success story: a black man who made it from nothing. Southside Chicago, roaches in the cereal boxes, gunshots instead of lullabies. He clawed his way out with grit, a silver tongue, and a head full of business schemes.
By thirty-two, Malik had flipped one real estate deal into ten more. Then stocks, then crypto, then tech. Then came the watches, the six-figure cars, the 30th-floor penthouse with marble cold enough to echo your footsteps.
He had it all. And still, Malik wasn’t full.
What no one knew—what he’d never say out loud—was that Malik didn’t love money because of what it could buy. He loved it because it made people listen. Respect. Fear. Applaud.
It filled that hollow place where childhood used to be.
But all that changed—one night. The night the money wept.
Part II:
It started when Malik woke up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that feels off, like the world forgot to breathe.
His alarm didn’t ring. His phone screen wouldn’t light up. The smart blinds stayed frozen, blocking out the sunrise. Malik sat up, rubbed his eyes—and realized something strange.
His bed wasn’t his bed.
He was lying in the middle of a one-room apartment. Wood floors creaked under him, old fan spinning slow overhead. Cracked paint on the walls. No penthouse. No marble. No echo.
Confused, he stood. Walked to the window. Outside: kids running barefoot, neighbors arguing on a stoop, someone blasting Anita Baker from a busted stereo.
This wasn’t a dream.
This was the block. His block. Where he grew up.
Exactly how it looked in 1999.
Panicked, Malik ran out the door—but everything was…wrong. People didn’t see him. He shouted. No one turned. He stepped in front of someone. They walked right through him like smoke.
He wasn’t there. Not really.
Then he saw it. Or… her.
On the curb sat an old woman, silver locs wrapped in a scarf, skin the color of worn mahogany. Her eyes locked on his like she’d been waiting.
“You walkin’ with ghosts now, baby,” she said calmly. “Reckon it’s time you heard what money never told you.”
Part III:
Malik opened his mouth, but no words came.
The old woman stood. She walked with a limp, but her presence—Lord—it filled the street. She snapped her fingers, and the world shifted.
Suddenly, they stood in a boardroom. Malik’s boardroom. Leather chairs. Glass table. Suits. Men and women pitching ideas. All Black faces. Hope in their eyes.
Malik remembered this moment. The time a group of young Black entrepreneurs came to him, asking for investment in a tech incubator on the South Side.
He’d laughed. “No ROI,” he’d said. “Try Shark Tank.”
The woman pointed. “Look again.”
The scene froze. One of the young men—Darius, that was his name—had tears in his eyes. Behind him, a folder read: “Project Rebirth — Black Futures Initiative.”
Malik swallowed hard. “I didn’t know…”
“You didn’t want to know,” she said. “Now you will.”
Part IV:
Scene after scene unfolded.
A single mother standing outside a closed daycare center—one that Malik’s hedge fund had bought and shut down.
A 14-year-old boy getting jumped because the only safe after-school program lost its funding.
A Black-owned bookstore going under while Malik threw fifty thousand on a watch in Vegas.
“These were your people,” the woman said. “And you had the power to pour life into them. Instead, you poured into yourself until you overflowed—and still you felt empty.”
Malik dropped to his knees.
“I didn’t understand,” he whispered.
The woman leaned down, touched his forehead.
“Then wake up, baby.”
Part V:
Malik bolted upright in bed—his bed. The sun was rising through the smart blinds. His phone buzzed, alive again.
It was morning. April 4th.
He sat still. The marble under his feet no longer felt luxurious—just cold. Lifeless.
That day, Malik withdrew $2 million from his account and walked into the heart of the city. He met with community leaders. Teachers. Activists. Builders. Griots. He didn’t come with a pitch—he came to listen.
Weeks turned into months.
He funded the return of that daycare center. Opened the first tech hub for Black youth on the South Side. Partnered with Black farmers to supply affordable groceries in food deserts. And every time someone asked why, he smiled and said:
“Because I saw what money couldn’t fix.”
