How I Became Ultra Rich Using a Reconstruction System-Chapter 217: New Year’s Eve Part 1

December 31, 2029 did not feel like a holiday inside TG Tower until late afternoon, when the work slowed enough for people to look up and remember the date. Most floors were running on skeleton staffing. The elevators were quieter. The pantry areas had more food than usual, brought in by assistants and department heads who knew people would stay if they felt cared for. A few desks had paper hats sitting on top of monitors. Someone had taped a small calendar page to a glass wall and circled midnight in marker like the building needed instructions.

Timothy stayed in the office longer than he planned. It was not because he wanted to. It was because end-of-year decisions stacked up even when he tried to push them away. Payroll approvals. A final review of the foundation’s January mobilizations. One call with procurement to confirm they were not cutting corners on year-end deliveries. He handled what had to be handled, then shut his laptop and left it shut.

When he stepped out into the hallway, he saw Hana coming toward him with her phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

"You look like you were about to work again," she said.

"I was about to leave," Timothy replied.

Hana held up the bag. "Good. Because if you go back in, I will drag you out."

Timothy’s eyes dropped to the bag. "What’s that."

"Food," Hana said. "And no, it is not catered trays that taste like cardboard. I bought it myself."

Timothy did not ask where she bought it. Hana did not offer. They walked together toward the elevators, passing a few employees who looked surprised to see them moving around without an entourage. A couple of them nodded, awkward but respectful. Hana nodded back like she was on a normal day.

They took the elevator down to the mid-level floor where TG’s internal operations team had claimed a lounge area for the night. It was not a party room. It was a conference space someone had re-labeled "Year-End" on a printed sign. The tables had been pushed to the walls. Chairs were arranged in loose circles. Someone had plugged in a cheap speaker. A projector showed a countdown timer against a plain background. The lighting was dimmed, not for atmosphere, but because everyone was tired of overhead fluorescence.

When the doors opened, noise rolled toward them. Not loud, but layered. Laughter. People talking over each other. A few quick shouts when someone scored in a game. The room smelled like fried food, soda, and the faint sharp bite of marker ink from the sign.

Hana stepped out first.

A staff member near the entrance spotted them and froze, then straightened like he was about to salute.

Hana cut him off with a hand gesture. "No speeches," she said.

The staff member blinked. "Ma’am?"

"No speeches," Hana repeated, calm. "We are just here."

The staff member nodded fast. "Yes, ma’am."

Timothy walked in behind her and took in the room. Faces he recognized from meetings. Faces he only knew from email signatures. People from comms, legal, operations, payroll, foundation coordination, and a few from engineering who had obviously been dragged here against their instinct to hide in a lab.

Carlos was already in the room, leaning against a table with a paper cup in his hand. He saw Timothy and lifted his cup slightly, as if to say you made it. He did not walk over. He let Timothy choose whether to cross that distance.

Hana went straight to a side table and set the paper bag down, then started pulling out boxed food and placing it with the rest. No announcement. Just adding to the pile like she was another staff member.

Timothy stood near the entrance, hands in his pockets, watching the room decide what to do with his presence. Some people went stiff. Others pretended not to notice. A few looked curious. It was the same dynamic he saw in project sites when he arrived unannounced, except here the stakes were social.

A young woman from the communications team approached, cautious but smiling.

"Sir," she said. "Happy New Year."

Timothy nodded. "Happy New Year."

She hesitated, then pointed toward a corner where a small group was playing a simple card game. "They said you might join."

Timothy looked at the card game, then back at her. "They said that."

She laughed. "They were joking, but they said it."

Timothy walked toward the corner without comment.

The group noticed him too late. Someone dropped a card. Another coughed like he was buying time. A third started to stand.

Timothy raised a hand. "Sit."

They sat, still unsure.

One of them, a man from finance, cleared his throat. "Sir, we were just—"

"Playing," Timothy said. "Continue."

They looked at each other.

Hana’s voice carried from across the room. "If you stop, he will leave and you will regret it tomorrow. Deal."

A few people laughed. The tension cracked.

The finance guy picked up the dropped card and slid it back into the deck. "Okay. Rules are simple," he said, speaking too fast. "We draw, we match, we—"

Timothy sat down on an empty chair and leaned forward slightly. "I know how to play cards."

The group stared.

Timothy added, "Not that specific game. But I can learn."

That got another laugh. It was small, but it made the room breathe again.

They dealt him in. Timothy watched two rounds without moving much, tracking patterns, listening to the banter. The game itself was not important. The way people talked to each other was. They teased the finance guy for over-explaining. They joked about someone always getting lucky. They complained about end-of-year deadlines with the tired humor of people who had survived something together.

Timothy lost the first round quickly. He did not react. He watched how the winner collected points, then played the next round with less hesitation. He still lost. The third round he lasted longer. By the fourth, he was no longer the awkward newcomer. He was just another player, quiet, paying attention.

Across the room, Hana sat with a group from operations. She had a paper plate in her hand and was listening to someone complain about a supplier delay from last week. She did not look like she was working, but she was. She was letting them talk without punishing them for it.

Carlos drifted over at some point and hovered behind Timothy’s chair.

"You’re losing," Carlos said.

Timothy did not look up. "Yes."

Carlos leaned closer. "On purpose?"

Timothy glanced back at him. "Do you want me to win."

Carlos thought about it, then shook his head. "No. Keep losing."

Timothy nodded and went back to the game.

By nine, people relaxed enough to start doing things they would not do in front of management on a normal day. Someone turned the speaker volume up and played a playlist that bounced between old pop songs and whatever was trending. A group near the projector started arguing about which movie to put on after midnight. Two staff members used a marker to draw a crude bracket on a whiteboard for a quick rock-paper-scissors tournament.

Hana stood up and walked toward the bracket, scanning it.

"What is this," she asked.

"A tournament," someone said. "Winner gets the last slice of cake."

Hana looked at the cake box on the table. "There’s more cake."

Someone shrugged. "It’s symbolic."

Hana grabbed the marker and wrote a new rule under the bracket. "Winner gets the cake. Losers get to eat too. No starving."

People laughed and the bracket stayed, now less serious and more fun.

One of the junior engineers from the Motus team approached Timothy while he was standing near the drinks table. The engineer looked like he had debated for ten minutes before walking over.

"Sir," he said. "Can I ask you something."

Timothy took a bottle of water and handed it to him instead of answering. The engineer took it automatically.

"Ask," Timothy said.

The engineer swallowed once. "Are we still doing the second run in January."

Timothy looked at him. Not annoyed. Just direct. "Yes. But not because of pressure from outside. Because the revision schedule is real."

The engineer nodded fast. "Good. People online are—"

"Not your problem," Timothy cut in.

The engineer hesitated. "It’s just—"

Timothy’s voice stayed flat. "Your problem is thermal stability and durability. Everything else is noise."

The engineer nodded again, relieved, then looked toward the room where people were laughing.

"You should stay," the engineer said, then immediately looked embarrassed for saying it. "I mean—"

Timothy’s mouth moved slightly, almost a smile. "I am staying."

The engineer backed away, leaving him alone with the noise and the smell of cheap soda and fried food.