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In his original life, before the transmigration, Michael was twenty-nine years old when the foundation of his family completely collapsed.
A brutal, suffocating economic recession had a chokehold on the country.
Terry, who had always been the unshakeable rock of their household, suddenly lost his long-time job.
He scrambled to find another position in the publishing industry, but the corporate landscape had shifted.
Publications had begun mass-adopting AI to write, edit, and format, systematically replacing human workers to cut costs.
Desperate to provide for his family, Terry poured his severance into a small business venture. But the timing was cursed.
The business failed spectacularly, leaving him not just bankrupt, but buried under a mountain of high-interest debt.
Being the protective man he was, Terry never told Janet or Michael. He carried the crushing burden alone in silence.
They only discovered the truth when the hospital called.
Working a grueling, under-the-table construction job just to make ends meet, Terry had suffered a catastrophic accident.
A load of heavy materials had fallen, and his left arm took the entire impact.
The doctor looked at Michael and Janet with grim sympathy, explaining that the bones hadn't just broken; they had been pulverized into powder.
Terry needed immediate reconstructive surgery and a titanium rod implanted in his arm to save it, and eventually, his life.
They needed money. Money they absolutely did not have.
Michael and Janet panicked, frantically exhausting every single option.
They applied for emergency bank loans and were swiftly rejected due to Terry's hidden debts.
They turned to predatory instant-loan apps.
They broke their fixed deposits, pawned Janet's wedding ring, maxed out five different credit cards, and sold their car to a scrapyard.
It wasn't enough. The surgical fees were astronomical.
Left entirely without a choice, their pride completely shattered, they walked up the driveway to the only relatives they had left: Aunt Madeline and Uncle Keith Wuntch.
Madeline stood on her foyer's floor, looking down at Janet like she had tracked dog feces into the house.
Before Janet could even finish her tearful plea for a loan, Madeline scoffed loudly.
She stepped forward, cleared her throat, and spat directly onto Janet's worn, scuffed sandals.
"I would rather die," Madeline hissed, her face contorting with venomous, ugly hatred, "than spend a single dime of my money to save that ugly n****"
Madeline spat a vile, unforgivable racial slur at Terry's name.
She huffed, turning her back on them, and marched upstairs.
Michael's vision went red.
He lunged forward, ready to physically tear the woman apart, but Janet grabbed his jacket, her hands trembling violently.
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face, silently begging him to stop.
That left Keith.
Keith was a pathetic, rotting shell of a man.
He notoriously funded his frequent trips to the city's red-light district with his wife's money, regularly cheating on Madeline with anyone he could buy, including an eighty-year-old woman two towns over.
Keith didn't even look at Michael.
His unhinged, sickeningly lustful gaze was entirely locked on Janet.
The living room was dead silent for two agonizing seconds.
Then, Keith smirked.
"I can give you the money," Keith said, his voice a thick, oily purr. "But... how about..."
He dug into his slacks, pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill, and threw it directly at Michael's chest.
"How about Michael goes and gets me a pack of cigarettes from the store down the street," Keith commanded, his eyes never leaving Janet's chest. "Take your time, boy."
Keith stepped forward and forcefully clamped his sweaty hand around Janet's wrist.
He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer.
Janet didn't fight back.
She stood there, completely and utterly defeated.
She was silent, her shoulders slumped as fresh tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks.
Her husband was dying in a hospital bed. She was willing to endure anything, even this monster, to save him.
Something inside Michael's soul fractured.
He stepped forward and violently slammed his hand against Keith's arm, forcefully ripping the older man's grip off his mother.
Michael shoved Keith backward.
Keith stumbled, his face instantly turning a violent shade of purple. He bared his teeth, spitting the most vile, degrading curses he could think of at Michael.
"FUCK!!?! You little motherfucker!! What the hell is your problem, you fucking bitch?!" Keith roared, wiping his mouth. "If your mother is okay with spreading her sexy legs for me to save her n**** husband's miserable asshole, what do you care?! You should be on your damn knees thanking me and try to lick my balls for the cash!"
Michael picked up the crumpled ten-dollar bill, and threw it aggressively into Keith's face.
"We don't want your fucking money," Michael snarled, his voice trembling with a rage so pure it burned his throat.
He grabbed his mother's trembling hand and turned his back on his uncle.
He started pulling her toward the front door.
Janet followed blindly, her head bowed, sobbing quietly as she squeezed Michael's hand, repeatedly whispering, "Thank you, thank you," into the collar of her shirt.
But Keith wasn't finished.
Humiliated and enraged, he followed them to the doorway, screaming at their backs.
He began calling Terry that vile racial slur over and over, his voice echoing down the manicured street.
"I hope that n**** dies on that operating table!" Keith shrieked hysterically, clutching the boner. "I hope that useless piece of trash flatlines so your hot mother can come crawling back here for a real dick! HAHAHAHA fucking Cunt!!!"
Michael stopped dead in his tracks.
He dropped his mother's hand.
He spun around, his fists clenched so hard his fingernails broke the skin of his palms.
He was going to kill him.
He was going to jump the steps and beat Keith Wuntch until he stopped breathing.
But before his muscles could propel him forward, Janet threw her arms around Michael's waist from behind.
She anchored her entire body weight against him, sobbing hysterically into his back.
"*sob*No, Michael, please! *Sob*Don't do it!" Janet begged, her voice cracking with absolute despair. "If-if you touch him, he'll call t-the police! They'll throw you in jail, and we don't have the m-money for bail! We have nothing, Michael! *sob* Please!"
Michael froze.
The sickening, reality of their poverty paralyzed him.
He lowered his fists, his chest heaving, and let his mother pull him away into the cold night.
That night, the darkness in their tiny, cramped apartment felt suffocating.
Neither Janet nor Michael slept a single second.
Janet wept silently into her pillow for the husband she couldn't afford to save and the dignity she had nearly sacrificed.
Across the hall, Michael stared at the ceiling, his soul burning with the bitter, acidic realization of his own powerlessness crushed beneath the relentless weight of poverty, utterly unable to protect the people he loved from the monsters who had defiled them.