Slightly drunk and swaying, SilasDao stumbled into the neon-soaked streets of Las Vegas. Shame didn’t follow him—never had. The man was shameless, through and through.

He came from a long line of so-called wise men. Men who wore “wisdom” like a badge, yet had no real achievements to speak of. Bottom feeders. Catfish of the sea, happy to gorge on the filth tossed their way.

The thought made SilasDao snort.

“Truly pitiful,” he muttered, half-slurred.

No, SilasDao wasn’t one to follow in someone else’s footsteps. He was here to leave a mark. Where that mark landed—and on whose shoulders it’d fall—was up for debate. But one thing was certain: SilasDao would leave his mark. He was different from his ancestors. Maybe it was his ambition. Maybe it was his moxie. Maybe it was the way he clung to the last drop of wine like it was gospel. But different he was.

SilasDao had the rare gift of recognizing opportunity when it came knocking.

And oh, baby... opportunity was very much alive tonight.

He looked out at the dim-lit streets, where a pack of rag-covered, shaggy-bearded homeless men huddled like forgotten relics. The stench wafting toward him confirmed what he already knew: these were not his people. SilasDao was a different breed—part wisdom, part fire, all umph.

And in that haze of liquor and ego, he felt something stir.

Trouble.

His eyes darted left and right with the ferocity of a caged animal in heat. He was hunting for the perfect moment—and wouldn’t you know it, he found it.

His local bank. A dump of a place.

Faded paint curling off the walls. Tellers half-asleep, barely upright. A manager too busy daydreaming about his next corporate ladder rung to notice the red flags flapping in the wind. But SilasDao saw them. All of them.

One entrance. Easy to block.

A vault tucked behind the counter—secured by nothing more than a rusted-out 1954 padlock, begging to be broken.

And Sherice. Sherice. That dim blond teller who’d been nagging him for as long as he could remember.

This wasn’t just a moment. It was the moment.

His shot.

And wouldn’t you believe it—he took it.

One week later, he was rolling in a clean $23,346. Enough to pay off the crew, tip the whores, and still have enough left to toss in the air like confetti. SilasDao, you could say, was officially rolling in the moola.

But that was just the beginning.

As he leaned back, eyes half-lidded and lips curled into a crooked grin, one question pulsed in his mind:

“If I’ve done this... then what more can I do?”