Sunday Short: GREED

Kenji Rahman believed money wasn’t evil.

Not having enough of it was.

That was the story he told himself every morning as he adjusted his tie in the elevator of Meridian Tower, the tallest building in the city and home to the hedge fund that paid him handsomely to never feel satisfied.

Kenji didn’t grow up poor.

He grew up watching people poorer than him.

And he swore he would never be one of them.

He traded ruthlessly. Fired without remorse. Stepped over colleagues like loose change on the sidewalk. Every bonus only sharpened his hunger. Every promotion only widened the hole inside him.

When Meridian announced a new internal program — The Accumulation Initiative — Kenji signed up without reading the details.

The email promised unlimited growth.

That was all he needed.

The first changes were subtle.

His bank balance began increasing overnight — small amounts at first. Hundreds. Then thousands. No record of transactions. No source.

Kenji checked the logs obsessively. Nothing.

But the numbers kept growing.

Then his apartment changed.

A second safe appeared in his walk-in closet. Heavy. Cold. Already unlocked. Inside it sat stacks of pristine cash — neatly bound, smelling faintly of iron.

Kenji laughed nervously.

“Someone’s mistake,” he whispered.

He kept it anyway.

Soon, everything multiplied.

Coins in his pockets doubled when he wasn’t looking. Receipts reprinted themselves. His phone showed balances that made his hands shake.

But so did the sounds.

At night, he heard scraping from inside the walls — like fingernails dragging against metal. The safes began appearing in other rooms. Under his bed. Behind his mirrors. Inside cabinets he never opened.

Always full.

Always waiting.

He stopped sleeping.

At work, people avoided him.

Not out of jealousy — out of fear.

“Your office…” one intern whispered. “It’s breathing.”

Kenji laughed it off until he noticed the veins in the walls pulsing slowly, like something alive beneath the paint.

One evening, as he counted cash for the hundredth time, a voice spoke from inside the largest safe.

Soft. Wet.

“There’s still room.”

Kenji slammed the door shut, heart racing.

“No,” he whispered. “I have enough.”

The voice laughed.

“You’ve never had enough.”

The safe burst open.

Hands spilled out — pale, thin, gripping coins and notes that fused into their skin like parasites. Faces followed. Hollow-eyed things made of numbers and debt and want, their mouths stuffed with gold.

They crawled over him, pressing money into his chest, his throat, his eyes.

“Hold it,” they crooned.

“Keep it.”

“All of it.”

Kenji screamed as the weight crushed him — bones cracking under the sheer mass of wealth he refused to let go.

The next morning, Meridian Tower security found Kenji in his office.

He was seated perfectly upright, smiling peacefully.

Solid gold.

Every coin, every note, every number he hoarded had fused into his body, turning him into a flawless, priceless statue.

A plaque appeared beneath his desk overnight:

KENJI RAHMAN

NET WORTH: MAXIMUM CAPACITY REACHED

And somewhere deep within the building, a new email notification chimed.

THE ACCUMULATION INITIATIVE IS ACCEPTING NEW CANDIDATES.