The storm that swallowed Elias Thorne was unlike any the coast had seen in decades.
It had been twenty five years ago, during a luxury voyage celebrating his graduation from the Royal University of Cambridgeshire. Elias had been brilliant in his studies mathematics, political science, economic sbut outside those hallowed halls, he was a boy dancing on the edge of recklessness. Charm without caution, intellect without instinct. His father, the founder of Draxon Corporation, had warned him many times:
The world won't forgive your naiveté just because you're my son.
But Elias never listened.
That evening, the ship was to dock at Eldervale a sleek, private coastal town reserved for elites. But Elias had insisted on an impromptu midnight detour, lured by tales of an isolated island known only to a few.
Just a thrill, he had laughed, swaying with a bottle of aged scotch in one hand and his friends chanting in the background.
Then came the storm.
The coast guard searched for days. Wreckage washed ashore: broken wood, torn sails, personal belongings. Among them, Elias's signet ring. There were no survivors.
Or so they thought.
Now, twenty-five years later, Elias Thorne stood again but not quite. He was Mr. Dime in Elias's body. Rescued that night by a passing freighter and left in a rural hospital for months, Elias had awoken with no memory of who he was. It wasn't until years later that Dime without realizing it had awakened in that same body, the timelines somehow entangled.
His memories were fractured. The boat. The ring. The thunder. And then blank.
So when he arrived at Draxon Corporation as Elias Thorne, the world stared. Some with awe. Others with suspicion.
Have you remembered anything yet?
The voice jolted him back into the present. He turned to see Milo Brenner a hawk-eyed man with a too-perfect tie knot and a smirk that rarely left his face. Milo had served as the board's legal and strategic advisor for nearly a decade. A snake in polished shoes.
Bits,Dime answered. Nothing concrete.
They sat in Elias's new office, the skyline behind them casting golden stripes across the marble floor.
Milo leaned forward, steepling his fingers. Do you remember the accident?
No,Dime said truthfully.
Convenient, Milo said. A boy dies at sea. The world mourns. Then, a man shows up wearing his face, talking like a ghost. You'll understand why some of us are… skeptical.
I do, Dime replied coolly. And I'm not asking you to believe. I'm asking you to work.
The tension between them pulsed.
Milo stood and walked to the drink cabinet, pouring himself a glass of something dark. Do you know who Landon Crick is to you?
Dime narrowed his eyes. The man who was supposed to marry my sister?
Milo turned with a glint in his eye. Bingo. The engagement was arranged before your disappearance. After you… vanished, Landon grew quite close to your father. Some say too close.
Dime felt a twitch in his temple. Where is my sister now?
She disappeared from public life ten years ago. Rumor has it she's in the North Wards, under a different name. Some say she went mad.
Silence stretched between them.
Why are you telling me all this? Dime asked.
Milo walked back to the desk. Because, Elias if that's truly who you are you're now sitting on a throne built on secrets. And secrets are currency.
Later that night, Dime scrolled through old newspaper clippings in his penthouse. Photos of his younger self. Headlines about the accident. Interviews with grieving family friends. A few grainy pictures of Landon Crick standing next to his father.
And one article barely a whisper mentioning an unnamed woman checked into a psychiatric hospital in the North Wards in 2015.
He shut the tablet and stared out the window. The lights below looked like embers. He clenched his fist.
The next morning, he walked into the boardroom unannounced. Dexter, Milo, and several other execs were already seated.
I'll be instituting weekly audits effective immediately, he said.
Dexter blinked. That's... sudden.
Not really, Dime replied. What's sudden is returning from the dead.
Milo smirked as if watching a chess match play out.
And another thing, Dime continued. I want all past project credits audited. Especially ones from the innovation pipeline during 1998 through 2005.
That was the timeframe when Mr. Dime, in his original form, had worked tirelessly and been erased by Landon Crick.
Dexter cleared his throat. You're not suggesting we revisit projects from two decades ago?
I'm not suggesting, Dime said. I'm instructing.
As he turned to leave, Milo called after him,
"You play the part well, Elias. But do remember—every heir has enemies."
Dime didn't answer. He didn't need to. His eyes told the story.
He was not the same boy who had vanished at sea.
He was not just Elias.
He was Mr. Dime.
And his **retribution** had only begun.