There are two kinds of women in this world who can wear Armani: one is the wife of a billionaire, the other—the billionaire's worst nightmare.
Elena Carter knew exactly which one she was.
The gray Armani suit was sharply tailored, as if custom-made for the body she'd been reborn into. The waist cinched just right, the lines clean and precise. A metal pin—perhaps forgotten by some long-gone CEO—was clipped to her chest, making her look like an executive who'd walked into the wrong floor.
But that didn't matter. True power never needed a business card.
She sat on a bench outside 42 Wall Street, flipping through the premium card that bore her backup identity—E. Carter, Independent Quantitative Strategy Consultant.
She had printed it in secret on the back of an award certificate from a data visualization competition in her past life, back when she was still cold-calling firms, desperately trying to land one more client.
Now, she was here with an agenda—an entire system-level revenge—ready to harvest her prey.
Sunlight reflected off her sunglasses as a young analyst, fresh coffee in hand, brushed past her in a rush. He glanced back instinctively. He didn't recognize her, but something about her presence made him think she was one of those "key figures" he'd seen at a hedge fund summit once.
Perfect.
She liked this kind of half-true illusion of power—it was more useful than reputation.
9:45 AM. Elena walked into Devon Capital.
At the security gate, a guard stopped her. "Sorry, I'll need to see your appointment QR code."
Unfazed, Elena reached into her PRADA handbag, pulled out her phone, and flashed a QR code that flickered on the screen for just a second. She had generated it five minutes ago using an AI script, flawlessly mimicking the internal appointment format of the firm.
The guard glanced at it, hesitated for a split second, then waved her through.
He had noticed something off about the code—but her presence overpowered that instinct. She didn't look like someone interviewing for a job.
She looked like someone here to make an acquisition.
The elevator took her straight to the 18th floor—Devon Capital's open-plan research and investment division.
It was the company she had failed to get into more times than she could count in her previous life.
Now, it was the first piece on her revenge chessboard.
The receptionist had just opened her mouth to ask for ID when Elena was already walking steadily toward the analysts' open area. In front of a crowd of investment managers who still hadn't fully shaken off their morning caffeine haze, she tapped the meeting room display, plugged in a USB drive, and began.
"Good morning, everyone. I'm E. Carter, here on behalf of a private capital group. I'm not here to pitch a partnership—we're here to issue directives."
The analysts exchanged puzzled glances. One of the senior members chuckled dryly.
"Let me guess—you're the new sales rep? We don't do PowerPoint-grade products here."
Elena hit the Enter key.
The screen lit up with a stream of numerical graphs—Bitcoin price movements over the past 48 hours, with a prediction error margin of just 0.12%.
Then came a countdown timer: projected Bitcoin price over the next three hours, with a maximum error tolerance of 0.6%.
Following that, a packet of data showing private trades made by several analysts in the room—complete with buy-in timestamps, platforms used, arbitrage routes.
Every detail logged, reconstructed, and even tagged with facial snapshots showing their expressions during the trades—courtesy of her facial tracking model combined with a dark web API that recovered visual traces.
Silence fell over the entire research floor, like someone had just detonated the office's internal surveillance system.
"You… hacked the trade logs?" someone asked, stunned.
"No," she said, removing her sunglasses. "I just did what any good janitor would do—cleaned up the mess you left on public nodes."
When she uttered the word "janitor," it landed like a sheet of ice freezing the air.
Of course she remembered this place.
Three years ago, she had worked here as a "visiting data modeling consultant" for two weeks. The results of her work were eventually "borrowed" by a male analyst—and she walked away with nothing.
Now, she was back. Armed with a flawless prediction model, unregistered assets, and the ability to hack into their so-called "future."
"I'm not here to sign any contracts," she said, scanning the room. "I'm looking for a temporary high-risk platform—something that can double returns in 24 hours. I'll lease you the model for six hours. Whatever profit you make, I take 75%. If it fails, I take nothing."
"Seventy-five percent?" the senior analyst scoffed. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Of course I am," she smiled. "How else would I have the nerve to walk into a cannibalistic investment firm wearing a stolen suit?"
10:15 AM. The model was already running its first test round in the conference room.
Elena sat nearby, fine-tuning the algorithm on her laptop. She made herself a cup of black coffee—no sugar, no milk. Just like the deal she was about to make—cold and uncompromising.
She glanced out the window from time to time—Wall Street pulsed with endless movement. Every pedestrian below was just another pawn. And she was the one rewriting the board.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed—it was Troy.
"How the hell does your prediction model work?" he cut straight to the point.
"In six hours, I can make you more money than you've made in the past six months."
"What do you want?"
"That Cayman shell company under your name—I need it to move some funds. You get 20% of the profit. And you keep your mouth shut."
There was a pause on the other end. Then: "Deal."
11:00 AM. The model hit its target. Profit margin: up 27%. The atmosphere inside Devon Capital shifted—tension, whispers, movement.
Someone tried to look into her background, only to find that her résumé was fake, her email address was fake, and her reference—a former hedge fund director—had been dead for years (in truth, a virtual persona she created using AI).
But by then, it was too late to stop her—the profits were flowing in, and every cent was fuel for the war she was about to wage.
11:45 AM. She walked out of the office, crossing the lobby. A young partner in a sharp Zegna suit passed her and frowned slightly.
"Wait—are you…?"
Elena paused, a slight smirk on her lips.
"I'm your boss's worst nightmare."
The sound of her heels echoed across the polished floor, fading into the distance.
Each step left a mark—like she was walking across the very heart of Wall Street.
And now, the hunt had been claimed.