The dirty dollar bill feels a little wet in my hand. I look at the glowing blue timer floating in the corner of my view.
23:25… 23:24…
The numbers keep counting down without stopping, it feels relentless. Every second feels like sand slipping through my fingers. I only have $38.50, but I need $100. The math is simple: I can't make it work. It's impossible.
Grrr… My stomach is growling again. The smell of Tony's Pizza is torture. Hot cheese. Spicy pepperoni. My mouth waters. I could buy a slice. One slice. Maybe $3. But $3 is almost 8% of what I need. 8% of my pathetic $38.50.
"No," I mutter. My voice sounds gritty. "I have to save it." The thought of hot food makes my knees weak. I lean harder against the cold brick wall. The rough surface scrapes my back through my thin shirt.
People keep walking past. A group of college kids were laughing. An old man walking with a cane. A woman walking with confident in bright pink sneakers. They don't see me. And if someone does glance my way, they look away immediately. The juice stain on my shirt seems enormous, as if it's glowing. It feels like a sign reading "KICKED OUT LOSER."
I try again. My voice is barely a whisper lost in the city noise. "Spare… spare any change? Please?"
Nothing happens. Just the honking cars. The thumping bass from a car stopped at the light. The pizza shop door whooshes open, and hot, cheesy air drifts out. My stomach tightens in a painful cramp.
23:15… 23:14…
Panic bubbles up. Cold sweat prickles my forehead. I feel like I'm already failing. There are only 23 hours left and it's nothing. What does "increased poverty" even mean? Does it mean sleeping in a dumpster? My breath hitches. The alley's cold darkness looms behind me. I can't go back there. Not yet.
My fingers find my phone in my pocket. The battery is at 11%—dying fast. A stupid idea came to my mind. Maybe… maybe I can ask Ben? He's cramming for finals. But he's my only friend. Maybe… a loan? Just $20? $30?
My thumb hovers over his contact: Ben – Roommate. Shame burns hotter than hunger. Should I really ask my friend for money while I'm sitting on the street, after being kicked out like garbage? My thumb trembles. I can't. I just… can't. He would ask questions and want to help, but I'd feel worse asking because he's struggling financially too. I shove the phone back into my pocket. 10% as the battery hits 10%.
23:05… 23:04…
Think, Ace. Creativity. The System's word mocks me. Resources? I only have $38.50, a dying phone, and a mind fogged by hunger and shame. What kind of plan could I possibly come up with using that?
The pizza place door opens again. A guy in a delivery driver uniform walks out, holding two hot bags. He heads towards a beat-up scooter parked nearby. An idea. Dumb. Risky. But… maybe?
I push off the wall. My legs feel stiff. I walk over, trying not to look like a threat. My heart thumps hard.
"Uh… excuse me?" My voice cracks.
The delivery guy turns. He looks young. Maybe my age. With tired eyes he looks me up and down, noticing the grime and the desperation. His hand tightens on the pizza bags. A look of wariness crosses his face. "Yeah?"
"Tony's… uh… are you hiring?" The words tumble out. "I need work. Anything. Washing dishes? Cleaning? Right now. I added voice trembling "I'm strong and I will work hard." It's a lie. I feel weak and shaky.
He shakes his head. Quick and firm. "The manager handles that. Not me. And he's gone for the night. Try tomorrow." He turns away, unlocking his scooter. Dismissal.
"But… I really need–"
"Tomorrow," he cuts me off, not looking back. He kicks the scooter to life. It sputters, then roars as he speeds away, leaving me standing there. The smell of exhaust rushes over me, mixing with the lingering scent of pizza in the air. My shoulders slump.
22:55… 22:54…
I press my back against the cold wall. Night is closing in and the temperature is dropping. I have no jacket. Just this stupid juice-stained tee. I shiver. Hunger gnaws like a rat inside my ribs. The $38.50 mocks me from my pocket. It was not enough for food and shelter. Maybe not even for one.
Begging isn't working. Job's a dead end. What else? What else can I do? That question screams inside my hollow chest. The blue timer glows. 22:50…
Suddenly, the blue box flashes back into existence. Right in front of my eyes. Brighter than before.
[User Distress Detected.]
[Analyzing Resource Utilization… Inefficient.]
[Deploying Auxiliary Function: Resource Optimization Protocol.]
"What?" I breathe. Resource Optimization? What does that even mean?
[Accessing Local Network…](via User Device: Battery 9%)
[Scanning Financial Data Streams…](Public Feeds Only)
[Processing…]
My dying phone buzzes violently in my pocket. I yank it out. The screen flickers. Battery is 8%. But instead of the home screen, numbers and graphs fill the display, racing across the screen: AAPL, MSFT, TSLA. Weird abbreviations flash alongside percentages and arrows pointing up and down.
"What the hell?" I whisper. The System is… using my phone? To look at stocks?
A new blue window pops up beside the timer:
[Opportunity Identified: Volatility Spike - MicroCap Sector](Probability: 68.2%)
[Asset: BRZL (Brazelton Robotics)]
[Current Price: $0.87](Down 45% Today - Erroneous Earnings Report Fear)
[Projected Short-Term Rebound: 120-150% within 1-2 Hours](Post-Correction Confidence Interval: 89%)
[Recommended Action: Invest Available Capital ($38.50 USD).](Projected Return: $84.70 - $96.25 USD)
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding. Invest? With my last $38.50? In some robot company which is crashing? The System wants me to gamble my food money on stocks? This isn't 'ingenuity'. This is insanity!
"Are you insane?" I hiss at the blue text. "This is all I have! If I lose it…" The thought of $0.00 makes me dizzy. Truly destitute. The alley dumpster becomes a real possibility.
The blue text doesn't care.
[Risk Assessment: Moderate.]
[Failure Probability: 10.8% (Based on Real-Time Sentiment Analysis & Historical Data)]
[Reward Probability: 89.2%](System Confidence: High)
[Execute Trade? (Y/N)]
The 'Y' glows softly. The 'N' is dim. The timer keeps ticking. 22:40…
My hands shake. The cold bites harder. My stomach feels like it's eating itself. $38.50 could buy a cheap blanket from a thrift store about to close. Or a whole day of bus rides. Or… enough junk food to stop the gnawing pain.
But $84.70… almost $85. That plus my $38.50… $123.50. Over the $100 goal. Enough for a motel. A shower. Real food. Maybe… safety for a night.
The numbers dance on my phone screen. BRZL: $0.87. There's a red down arrow next to it. It looks terrifying. 89.2% chance, the System says. That means almost 9 out of 10. But that 10.8% failure… that's losing everything.
The wind picks up, slicing through my thin shirt. I shiver violently. The alley behind me feels like a dark, cold mouth waiting to swallow me whole. The pizza smell is gone. Only exhaust and garbage remain.
I look at the glowing 'Y'. My thumb hovers over my phone screen, near the virtual 'Buy' button the System has conjured. Battery: 7%.
My last $38.50. My last hope.
Do I trust the blue box in my head?
22:35… 22:34…
I take a ragged breath. My finger trembles.
I press the button.