The city was gray that morning — a dull, merciless gray that felt like it had been painted just to match Jason's chest.
Rainwater gathered in the cracks of the street as if even the sky couldn't stop crying for him.
He sat on the bus, silent, staring out through a window smeared with fog and fingerprints. In his pocket, the holographic screen rested against his thigh like a silent bomb. It hadn't glowed since midnight, after the task, but its presence made his pulse quicken every few seconds — the memory of its voice echoing in his mind.
> "Task failed. One day deducted. Memory penalty initiated."
He didn't understand what it meant until morning, when he woke up and tried to remember something that wasn't there.
Something small.
Something human.
He sat up, hand pressed to his head, trying to recall the face of a boy — his only childhood friend at the orphanage. But when he tried to picture him, all he saw was a blur. He couldn't remember the boy's name, his voice, or even what they used to talk about. Only a faint warmth in his chest remained, like the last ember in a fire.
That was the cost of failure.
He rubbed his eyes, angry at himself, but the anger couldn't stop the emptiness. It was like someone had carved a hole in his memories with a cold blade.
---
At the pizza shop, Mark was waiting — the man's round face slick with sweat and smugness.
Jason barely stepped in when Mark's voice cut through the noise of ovens and laughter.
"Jason! You're late again, you useless stray!"
Jason froze, still damp from the rain.
"I— the bus—"
"The bus, the bus," Mark mocked, mimicking him with a cruel laugh. "You think I care? Customers complain about your delivery last night! Said you looked like a homeless man shaking at their door!"
The other workers giggled nervously. Jason just stood there, swallowing the words that wanted to come out.
He wanted to tell him everything — about the sickness, the countdown, the strange screen, the pain — but who would believe him?
He barely believed it himself.
Mark stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're fired. And don't even think of asking for your last pay. You owe me for the damaged boxes last week."
Jason's head jerked up. "You can't— I didn't—"
Mark's hand shot out, grabbing Jason by the collar, dragging him close. His breath smelled like stale beer.
"Listen, orphan," he hissed, "you should be thankful I even let you work here. You think I didn't know you sleep in that old hostel? I could call the cops and say you stole from the shop — who do you think they'll believe?"
Jason's vision blurred with rage. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from humiliation. Around them, workers looked away — none of them dared interfere.
He wanted to hit Mark. Just once.
But the holographic screen pulsed faintly in his pocket, like a heartbeat warning him to stay calm.
> "Violence negates virtue. Consequence: loss of task progress."
Jason forced his fists open, breathing through his teeth. "Fine," he said quietly. "Keep the money."
He turned and walked out into the cold rain. Behind him, Mark shouted something about losers and pity jobs, but the words blurred into the storm.
---
Hours later, Jason sat on the edge of a cracked bridge overlooking the city river.
He could see his reflection trembling in the water — a reflection of someone he barely recognized. The screen flickered to life beside him, its blue light washing over his wet hands.
> Task 04 Penalty Sequence Activated.
Failure consequences stacking. Emotional integrity at risk.
Temporary fund freeze initiated: 24 hours.
Jason's stomach tightened. "What? Fund freeze? You can't do that! I earned that money!"
> Wealth tied to integrity. Loss of purpose equals loss of access.
He felt the rage boil again. The world was already unfair enough, and now even the one miracle in his life wanted to punish him.
> Correction protocol engaged.
New task generated:
Task 05: Multiply $1,000 into $10,000 by dawn. Honest means only. Failure results in further memory loss.
Jason stared at the words until his vision blurred.
It was past 8 PM. He had nothing — no job, no cash flow, no friends.
Only a thousand dollars left in his account before the freeze hit.
And dawn was less than ten hours away.
---
He started walking, fast, through the rain, thinking.
He could gamble — but that wasn't honest.
He could beg — but that wasn't meaningful.
He could steal — but the screen would punish him again.
Every road seemed closed.
He walked past shuttered stores and empty food stalls. Streetlights flickered, painting his shadow in pieces along the wet concrete. Then he saw it — a small night market corner, where a woman in her fifties sold handmade scarves. Her stand was barely lit, and no customers came near.
She looked cold, desperate — the way Jason used to see his orphanage caretaker after losing sponsors.
He stopped, staring at her trembling hands. A thought came, small but clear. Maybe he could help her sell online, use his intuition to draw buyers, turn her stock into profit for both of them. Honest. Meaningful. A chance.
He approached her quietly.
"Ma'am, can I help you sell these?"
She blinked at him. "Sell? You want to buy?"
"No. I mean help you. Do you have a phone?"
She hesitated, then pulled out an old one. Jason spent the next hour setting up a quick online listing, snapping photos under the dim light, writing simple captions that somehow felt warm and real — "Scarves made by a mother's tired hands."
By midnight, he'd promoted it through a few quick groups online. Within an hour, small orders started to appear. A hundred. Then two hundred. Then five hundred.
The woman's eyes filled with tears. "Bless you, son," she whispered, clutching his hands. "Bless you."
Jason smiled weakly. Inside his pocket, the screen glowed.
> Task progress: 67%.
Continue to completion.
He took the remaining scarves, ran with them to a nearby hostel, and convinced the night clerk to let him display them in the lobby for guests — his voice trembling but persuasive.
By 4 AM, they were sold out.
When the woman found him again, she hugged him so tight he almost couldn't breathe.
Jason handed her all the cash.
She tried to refuse. "You helped me! Take— take your share!"
He shook his head. "Keep it. I just… needed to help."
The screen pulsed.
> Task complete. $10,000 earned. Reward: $50,000 credit +5 days.
Remaining life: 69 days.
Jason's heart pounded. For a moment, he forgot the pain, the fear, even the rain.
But then, the screen dimmed, and another line appeared.
> Warning: External interference detected. Wealth trace initiated.
His phone buzzed.
It was Mark.
"Thief," Mark's voice snarled. "You moved ten grand in one night? You think I don't see what you're doing? The police will love this story."
Jason froze. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb, kid. I reported your account. Said you stole funds from deliveries. They're freezing everything. You'll be lucky if you're not arrested by morning."
The call ended. Jason stared at his reflection again, the storm crashing against his face.
He didn't even notice the car that pulled up behind him — until a voice he recognized laughed softly.
"Well, well… if it isn't the famous poor boy."
Victor.
Jason turned slowly. Victor stood there, dry under a black umbrella, a mocking smile on his face.
"Lost your job, lost your girl, lost your money. You're consistent, I'll give you that."
Jason's jaw clenched. "What do you want, Victor?"
Victor smirked. "A deal. Join me. Work under me. I've got a job for someone who knows how to suffer quietly."
Jason glared. "No."
Victor's smile widened. "Think about it. You'll stay poor forever, Jason. Or you can let me fix your life."
Jason turned away. The screen glowed faintly in his pocket.
> External link detected: Potential threat identified.
Note: "Victor Kane" – data anomaly. Parental file access proximity: 0.2%.
Jason froze. "What did you just say?"
The screen blinked again — faint static.
> "Parent link proximity increasing…"
Victor tilted his head, watching Jason's shock. "Something wrong, poor boy?"
The words faded from the screen, replaced by a single chilling sentence.
> "Trace origin… linked to Victor Kane."
Jason's stomach dropped.
Victor leaned in, voice soft and poisonous. "Your mother always said your eyes looked just like mine."
The umbrella turned away. The sound of rain swallowed his laughter as he disappeared into the storm.
Jason stood there alone, the screen flickering weakly, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe.
The pain of betrayal cut deeper than any wound. His thoughts spun between rage and disbelief. His parents. Victor. The curse of his bloodline.
The holographic screen pulsed one last time that night.
> New Task Incoming: "Uncover the truth before your time runs out."
Then it faded, leaving Jason in the dark — rain washing over his face, mixing with the tears he refused to shed.