I slip back into the narrow alley before dawn, the same uneven stones underfoot but somehow different now—more alive with possibility. The chill in the air claws at my lungs, but I breathe deeply, tasting adrenaline instead of rust. My journal, tucked into the inner pocket of my coat, holds the tally of every scrap I've ever earned and every grudge I've ever carried. I finger the cover as I head toward the community chalkboard where today's Academy Prep results will be posted.
A small crowd gathers under the flickering lamp: teenagers in faded uniforms, their voices hushed with excitement. I push through until I stand within arm's reach of the board. Angelica's name is there, I know it will be—her neat script standing out in proud black letters. My own name will not appear; I can feel the dull ache already settling in my chest.
"See?" someone whispers. "Top of the list."
A cheer goes up at the far edge of the circle, and I manage a half-smile without looking. My application, rejected for "insufficient aptitude," might as well have been spat on the ground. I step back, the crowd parting like a wave, and let them pass without comment. My bandaged wrist itches where I slipped in the gutters two nights ago. I flex my fingers; pain flares briefly, reminding me that I'm alive—and angry.
---
I spend the morning tutoring neighborhood children: basic sums, spelling drills, the kind of homework the academy children breeze through. We meet under a battered streetlamp that swings in the breeze, its glow faint but steady. The children—no older than ten—eagerly crunch numbers as I scrawl problems on a scrap of plywood. Their laughter bubbles up when one boy solves a division problem faster than his older sister. For a moment, I almost believe I belong here—among these bright eyes and hopeful faces.
But midday comes too quickly. I fold my makeshift chalkboard and distribute bowls of watered-down rice porridge I boiled last night. Their gratitude is genuine, warming something in my chest that I thought had hardened for good. When the youngest tugs at my sleeve and says, "Thank you, Mister," I feel a crack in my resolve—like mercy could be an alternative. Then I remember the bite of humiliation, the sting of rejection letters, and I harden again. These children deserve better than charity; they deserve justice.
---
Late afternoon and I'm back at our tenement, emptying the coffers. Mama greets me with a soft smile, her pale face framed by the gray blanket she's pulled around her shoulders. I place three clay coins on the rickety table—payment from the day's tutoring and my small bartering at the market. She reaches for them, and for a long moment we simply look at each other.
"I'm proud of you," she whispers. "But don't work too hard."
Her concern cuts deeper than any insult. I lift her hand to my forehead, closing my eyes. "I'll stop when we're safe," I promise, though I know safety is a luxury I can't afford.
---
That evening, I sheath my journal in its coat-pocket home and head to the warehouse district. The plan is simple: slip into the back office of a small brokerage firm that rents out dusty terminals to regional traders. I've noticed patterns in their trading logs—a micro-glitch here, a rounding error there. I can exploit that to siphon a few extra credits into an anonymous account, something I can funnel back into our district.
I pick the lock with a borrowed skeleton key and slip inside the darkened room. Rows of terminals sit idle, screens glowing with logged-out screensavers. My breath catches as I crouch by the nearest station, plug in the makeshift data-tap Elena the hacker handed me, and watch the code crawl across the screen. In seconds, I redirect a fraction of a percent from each dormant account to the holding account I set up under a false name. It's a tiny sum by real-world standards, but here it might mean a month's worth of rice and porridge.
Red lights warn of unauthorized access—Elena's backdoor can only do so much. I yank the cable free, wipe the console, and dart back into the night. My heart hammers so loud I can hear it in my ears. If I get caught, I'll be thrown into a cell for weeks. But even as I duck into an alley, I taste victory on my tongue: power, at last, that I've taken for myself.
---
The next morning, I return to Mr. Lee's stall. His ledger sits open where I left it, the flour-to-barley ratio unchanged. I expect a glare, perhaps even an angry word, but he greets me with a nod and slides a small loaf of fresh bread across the counter—no questions asked.
"Business is good," he says. "Must be your idea."
I force a weak smile. "Just luck."
But the coin he presses into my palm is warm, and I press it against my heart before tucking it away. The ledger at his stall now shows a stable inventory—my swift adjustments have corrected the overpricing that was pushing residents away. I think of Angelica, of how the academy underwrites her future while I fight for scraps. If I can bend markets and manipulate ledgers, maybe I can force myself into a future where I'm more than a ghost.
---
That night, under the dancing shadows of flickering neon signs, I open my journal. My hands tremble as I write:
Day 27 in the Gray District. Three coins earned tutoring. Four coins siphoned from the brokers. One loaf of bread returned by Mr. Lee. Total: eight new credits. Grudges: Angelica's betrayal, Jin's indifference, the council's apathy. Promise: I will turn the system's rules upside down and build my empire from these ashes.
I close the journal and lay it beside me as I fall asleep on the hard floorboards. Dreams come swift and strange: a penthouse balcony overlooking a glittering city, a holographic guide whispering secrets of unlimited wealth, and a voice—my own, grown older and sharper—asking, "What will you do with all this power?"
The dream fractures, and I wake gasping, sweat beading on my forehead. The first hint of dawn is breaking through the cracks in the wooden shutters. My life in the slums has taught me one unbreakable truth: when you have nothing, you fight with everything you have. And I'm only getting started.