Day 000 – Hour 004: The Letter
I don't remember falling into a trance.
Only that time passed.
The room dimmed. The background noise — gossip from the stairwell, metal clatter from the alley — had folded into the walls.
I sat with the paper on my lap, fingers resting on idea #15, not yet crossed out.
Not yet.
My thoughts had drifted again to my parents — to how little I knew about them, despite how often they filled my memory.
My father never spoke of his family. No aunts, no uncles, no brothers or sisters. Only the present — only us.
My mother claimed hers had all died in a war. She said she ran. That she survived what swallowed everyone else. But she never said where. Or when. Or how.
They had wanted me to dream. To believe. But they left me with no map. No lineage. Just a city that barely knew my name and a sheet of paper too old to fold without care.
From the outside, I probably looked like someone who gave up easy.
But I didn't.
Each idea on that list got its turn. Some longer than others. Some doomed from the start. But they all got a shot.
It's just… some of them were born from a child's mind — one that hadn't yet learned how heavy the world could be.
Idea #3 was a fantasy stitched from cartoons.
Catch a flying star. Sell it. Use the profits to buy better gear. Catch more.
Even tried building a trap once — wires and glue and a glass jar. Nothing happened, of course. But I believed in it long enough to lose an afternoon.
Idea #7 was worse.
Learn to fly. Save people. Get paid for the rescue.
A hero's business model, built on nothing but wind and hope. I remember jumping from low walls, arms wide, waiting for lift. It never came. But I kept jumping.
I still smile when I think about it. Not because it was smart. Because it was mine.
Back then, I thought all I needed was effort.
But effort doesn't bend gravity.
This is the real world.
Where dreams and scarcity don't shake hands unless someone's bleeding first.
That doesn't mean impossible — just… not for now.
Some dreams need timing. Some need tools I don't have yet.
So I wait.
Then there was Idea #13 — the one I never tell people about.
Not the worst idea I ever had. But close.
The plan was simple: ask a thousand people for a dollar. If ten percent gave, I'd be set for the day.
The math wasn't the problem.
The repetition was.
It didn't take long for people to remember my face. I couldn't cover enough ground without running into the same eyes. Some were kind the first time. None were the second.
Word travels fast in slums.
And outside them? There were territories. Syndicates. Begging wasn't just a plea — it was a business. One with rules, and people who enforced them with more than words.
I could've kept trying.
But I didn't want to end up in a hospital — or worse, a lesson for the next desperate kid.
Worse still, the rich never had to beg face-to-face. They just printed brochures and called it charity.
I was never in their league.
The last idea — the one I'd just crossed off — had more promise.
I scavenged the dumps and scrap lots, pulling wood and nails and whatever else I could find. Tried building furniture. Made two chairs and a crooked table over four months.
The second chair sold yesterday.
The buyer didn't want to use it — just tear it apart again.
The price barely covered the materials. Definitely not the time.
And when I added rent, food, and the occasional bandage…
…I was still in the red.
Like always.
I stared into space until my vision blurred.
Then something moved.
A slip of white.
It slid under my door — quiet, deliberate. I didn't hear footsteps before or after. Just the envelope, waiting like it had always been there.
I reached for it slowly.
It wasn't from the landlord — no rent notice or fine. Those usually had apartment numbers scrawled across them.
This one had only a name:
NEMI
There were two of us in the building with that name. But somehow, I knew this wasn't a mistake.
And even if it was, my fingers were already tearing it open.
Inside: a folded letter and a crisp, untouched hundred dollar bill.
I stared at the money for too long.
Not because I didn't trust it — but because it didn't belong. Money didn't show up this clean in places like this.
I opened the letter.
On one side: text, written with mechanical grace — the kind that only comes from either a very expensive pen or a very careful hand.
On the other: an insignia — a capital letter C, hollow in the center, with a $ nestled inside the void.
It looked official. Unnervingly so.
"It is time to inherit a membership.
If you wish to decline, take the money as a gift and never mention it to anyone.
Though no one will believe you, we will not take the chance for you to divulge any information.
If you wish to accept, please do as follows. Everything is a test set to maintain membership."
That's when the steps began.
Not literal ones. But procedures.
Clear. Immediate.
Step 1: Take the money and go to Polito's Shop. Say the exact phrase:
"I request change that can be traced back to me."
Step 2: Start your first task. You have 672 hours to complete it.
You are to spend the least amount possible to acquire a phone.
Send a message to 3334444 with the phrase:
"The $100 Club"
All money used must come from the change you receive.
You may not use your own funds. You may, however, exchange skills, information, or labor.
You will be evaluated at the end of the mission.
More to come.
My heart didn't pound.
My hands didn't shake.
Instead, there was an unnatural stillness in me. A kind of waiting silence that only appears when a door has opened that you don't remember building.
I looked at the clock.
Then at the envelope.
Then at the hundred.
I didn't think about the consequences.
I didn't even change clothes.
Just pocketed the bill, locked the door behind me, and walked into something I didn't understand.
Because curiosity, once fed, never leaves quietly.