I set out before dawn again, the chill sharper than yesterday. My breath puffs in front of me as I move through the silent streets, heading for the chipped stone steps of the old library. It's my secret prize: a stack of discarded business journals the city tosses when their covers peel. I slip inside through a side window, careful not to wake the night guard. Inside, the air smells of mold and cracked leather. Dust motes float in the thin shafts of moonlight.
I flip through the dog-eared pages, scanning corporate charts and market analyses. My fingers trace lines of profit and loss, unfamiliar terminology suddenly illuminated by my hunger. I copy snippets into my journal: how futures contracts hinge on supply forecasts, how a 0.05-percent drop can trigger automated sell-offs. I imagine exploiting each rule, bending numbers until the system bleeds into my hands.
By dawn, I'm back in the alley behind Mr. Lee's stall. He's already unpacking bags of grain, the rising sun casting pale light over his stoic face. I slide him a worn page from the journal. He reads it quickly, eyes widening. "Where did you get this?" he whispers. I shrug and stare at my worn shoes. He tucks the paper into his apron, hands me two steaming rice cakes, and sends me on my way without another word.
The rice cakes burn my fingertips, but I eat them slowly—savoring warmth I haven't felt since Mama's last birthday, years ago. My mind ticks through the library discoveries. If I can manipulate the grain traders, and then circle profits into rice suppliers, I could feed half the district for weeks. Then I could turn my eyes toward Angelica's father's holdings. A fair trade: I save my community, and in doing so, I prove my worth.
Later that afternoon, I find myself on the crowded platform of the elevated train. The metal groans under the weight of bodies and cargo crates. I grip the railing and peer down at the city rushing by. This isn't my home—those rusted rails, the neon advertisements above—but it's the gateway between where I am and where I'll go. In my coat pocket, my journal feels heavy with possibility.
At the trading house, I push through a side door labeled "Employees Only." The air inside is warm and smells of boiled coffee and recycled air. Terminal screens glow with scrolling data. I pull out the data-tap again, connecting to one console, and open a micro-algorithm that reroutes small percentages of each grain sale into my hidden account. Red warnings flash, but the loophole holds. This time I siphon enough to fund a full week of rice and porridge for every family in the Gray District.
As I slip out, the trading manager spots me. He lunges forward, eyes blazing. My heart thunders, and I duck into a narrow corridor, sprinting past startled clerks. My coat catches on a filing cabinet edge, tearing the seam. I rip it free and burst into the alley, adrenaline fueling each stride until I reach the safety of the tenement stairs. I slam the door behind me, lean against it, and gasp until my vision clears.
Mama is waiting, pale eyes wide. I drop a handful of coins and a tally sheet on the table. "I—" I swallow. "We won't go hungry this month."
She reaches for my hand, trembling. "You've done enough," she whispers, voice breaking. I shake my head, sweat cooling on my brow. "This is just the beginning."
That night, as I update my journal by the flicker of a single candle, I realize the world will never look at me the same way again. My petty hacks and alley stunts have grown into something powerful—something I can't unlearn. I close the book and slip it under my pillow, mind racing with the next move. Tomorrow, I'll face Jin's taunts with new confidence. Tomorrow, I'll begin the climb out of these ashes. And tomorrow, the Gray Phantom will rise again.