Mark didn't take the bus. For the first time in three years, he hailed a yellow cab.
The driver, a gruff older man with eyes that had seen too much of the city, pulled over reluctantly. He eyed Mark's stained suit and the slight smudge of dirt on his cheek through the rearview mirror.
"You got money for the meter, kid?" the driver asked, not unlocking the doors yet. "I don't do charity rides."
Mark didn't get offended. He just tapped his pocket where his phone sat—heavy with the weight of ten thousand digital dollars. "I'm good."
The ride was silent, but Mark's mind was deafeningly loud. He kept unlocking his phone every thirty seconds, refreshing the banking app, terrified that the numbers would vanish. $10,012.75. It was still there. It wasn't a glitch. It was a lifeline.
The cab pulled up to the "Sunrise Apartments," a name that was painfully ironic for a building that looked like a concrete tomb. The brickwork was crumbling, the gutters were rusted, and the front stoop smelled perpetually of wet cigarettes and regret. It was the kind of place you lived when you had nowhere else to go.
"Twelve fifty," the driver grunted.
Mark pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill—the last physical cash he had from his previous life, before the System. He handed it over. "Keep the change."
The driver blinked, surprised, but pocketed the bill quickly. "Thanks, boss."
Boss. Mark liked the sound of that.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, the humidity instantly wrapping around him again. His heart rate spiked. Standing at the front glass door of the complex was a short, stout man in a cheap, noisy windbreaker, flanked by a burly guy in blue coveralls holding a heavy toolbox.
Mr. Henderson. The landlord.
Henderson was pounding on the glass of the front door, shouting at someone inside the lobby, but stopped mid-yell when he saw Mark approaching. A sneer curled his lip, revealing yellowed teeth.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Henderson barked, stepping down the stairs to block Mark's path. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking Mark up and down with exaggerated disgust. "I was just about to have Mike here drill the lock. You're three months behind, Mark. I'm done listening to your sob stories."
The locksmith, Mike, looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight, gripping his drill. "Look, Mr. Henderson, if the guy is here, maybe we can just—"
"Quiet, Mike," Henderson snapped, not looking away from Mark. "You. You have five minutes to get your clothes. Anything you leave behind goes in the dumpster. I have a new tenant coming to view the place at six. Someone who actually has a job."
Mark stood still. The windbreaker made a swishing sound as Henderson stepped closer, trying to use his physical bulk to intimidate Mark.
A day ago—hell, an hour ago—Mark would have been pleading. He would have been sweating, making promises about a paycheck that wasn't coming, begging for one more week of shelter. He would have felt small.
Today, Mark just felt... calm. It was a cold, metallic kind of calm.
"How much?" Mark asked.
Henderson blinked, thrown off by the lack of fear. "Excuse me?"
"The back rent," Mark said, pulling out his phone. "And the late fees. And the penalty for breaking the lease early, if that's what you're threatening. Give me a number."
Henderson let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It sounded like a bark. "Oh, give it a rest, kid. You don't have it. Last week you were asking if you could pay me in installments of fifty bucks. Just move out so I don't have to call the cops. You smell like garbage, by the way."
"Give. Me. The number," Mark said. His voice wasn't loud, but it had an edge to it—a hardness that hadn't been there yesterday.
The locksmith took a step back.
Henderson narrowed his eyes. "Fine. You want to play big shot? You want to humiliate yourself? Three months rent is $2,400. Late fees are another $300. Plus the 'inconvenience fee'..." Henderson smirked, clearly making numbers up on the spot. "Let's call it $3,000 flat. Cash. Right now."
Mark didn't blink. He opened his banking app. "What's your routing number again? Same as last time?"
"Yeah, same as—wait, are you serious?" Henderson watched Mark's thumb tap the screen. He looked ready to laugh again, expecting an 'Insufficient Funds' error.
Mark didn't just type 3,000. He hesitated. If he just paid the debt, he was back to zero in Henderson's eyes. A tenant on a leash. He needed to secure his base. He needed silence. He needed this man to fear him.
He typed $8,000.
"Sending it now," Mark said, his tone casual. "That covers the $3,000 debt. The other $5,000 is an advance for the next six months of rent."
Henderson's jaw dropped. "You... what?"
Bing!
Henderson's phone chirped loudly from his windbreaker pocket. He fumbled for it, nearly dropping it on the cracked concrete. He stared at the screen, his eyes widening until they looked like they might pop out of his head. He swiped at the screen, checking the transaction ID, looking for a trick.
Payment Received: $8,000.00
Status: Cleared.
The silence in front of the building was heavy. A pigeon cooed from the roof. The locksmith peered over Henderson's shoulder and let out a low whistle.
"Damn," Mike whispered. "That's real."
"Is that good?" Mark asked, pocketing his phone. "Or do you still need to drill the lock?"
Henderson looked up. The sneer was gone, replaced by a flustered, sweaty confusion. His entire demeanor shifted. He went from a bully to a slimy salesman in two seconds.
"I... uh... well." Henderson stammered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I mean, the money is there. I didn't know you came into some inheritance, Mark! You should have led with that! I was just doing my job, you know? Pressure from the owners. Business is business."
Mark stepped forward. Henderson instinctively stepped back, clearing the path to the door.
"You're right. Business is business," Mark said. He stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back. "Since I'm paid up for six months in advance, that makes me a priority tenant, right?"
"Of course! Absolutely," Henderson nodded vigorously, looking at his phone again as if to make sure the money hadn't disappeared.
"Good," Mark said. "The radiator in 4B rattles all night. The faucet leaks. And there's mold in the bathroom caulk." Mark's eyes bored into Henderson's. "I want them fixed by tomorrow noon. Or I'm calling the Housing Authority and asking for my five grand back."
Henderson paled. "Tomorrow? Mark, that's short notice, I have to—"
"Noon," Mark repeated.
He pushed the door open and walked into the dark, musty hallway. He didn't look back.
He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, his legs feeling heavy but his spirit light as a feather. He unlocked his door—the lock still intact—and stepped into his small, one-room apartment.
It was messy. A mattress on the floor, stacks of rejection letters on the desk, an empty fridge humming in the corner. But it was his.
Mark closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he hit the floor. He let out a long, shaky breath. He had just spent eighty percent of his wealth.
[Expenditure Detected: $8,020.00]
[Category: Living Expenses / Debt Settlement]
The blue screen popped up, glowing brightly in the dim room. It pulsed with a rhythmic beat.
[Experience Gained: 800 XP]
[Current Level: 1 (0/100 XP)]
[Processing Level Up...]
A golden light flashed, filling the room for a split second.
Suddenly, Mark gasped. A surge of heat erupted in his chest. It rushed through his veins like hot caffeine, burning away the fatigue in his muscles. His vision sharpened. The ache in his feet from walking the park vanished instantly. The gnawing hunger in his stomach disappeared.
He felt... powerful. Not superhero powerful, but healthy. Better than he had felt in years.
[CONGRATULATIONS!]
[You have reached LEVEL 2.]
[Rewards:]
1. Physical Status Recovery (Full Heal)
2. +5 Free Attribute Points
3. System Feature Unlocked: THE SHOP
"Status Window," Mark commanded, his voice trembling slightly.
The screen shifted, displaying a silhouette of a human body with numbers floating next to it. It looked exactly like an RPG character sheet.
[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Mark Vance
Class: Laborer (Beginner)
Level: 2
XP: 0 / 500
[Vitals]
HP (Health): 100/100 (Healthy)
SP (Stamina): 100/100 (Recovered)
[Attributes]
Strength: 8 (Average Adult Male: 10)
Agility: 9
Vitality: 7 (Malnourished -> Recovering)
Intelligence: 12
Luck: 4
Free Points: 5
Mark stared at the numbers. They were brutally honest. His Strength was an 8—below average. His Vitality was a pathetic 7, a result of eating instant noodles for two years.
"I can fix this," Mark realized. "I can literally fix myself."
He looked at the 5 Free Points. He thought about dumping them into Strength to beat up Henderson, but he stopped himself. He needed to work. He needed stamina for the grind.
"System, add 3 points to Vitality and 2 points to Strength."
[Confirming...]
[Attributes Updated.]
A warm tingle spread through his arms and chest. The feeling of frailty he always carried—the feeling that a strong wind could blow him over—faded away.
New Stats:
Strength: 10 (Average)
Vitality: 10 (Average)
He stood up. He jumped in place. He felt lighter. He wasn't an Olympian, but he was no longer a weakling.
"The Shop," Mark whispered. "Show me the Shop."
He tapped the new icon that had appeared on the interface. It looked like a golden shopping cart. A menu expanded, listing items that made his breath catch in his throat.
[Level 2 Shop Inventory]
[Painkiller Pill] - Cures minor injuries
instantly. ($500)
[Focus Drink] - Increases concentration by 200% for 1 hour. ($1,000)
[Lucky Penny] - Increases probability of finding valuables for 10 minutes. ($5,000)
[Skill Book: Basic Appraisal] - Identify the value of items up to $10,000. ($20,000)
Mark stared at the last item. Appraisal.
If he could see the value of things before he picked them up... he wouldn't just be recycling bottles. He could go to thrift stores. He could find lost jewelry. He could see opportunities that others missed.
But the price was $20,000.
He checked his bank balance. $1,992.75.
He was short. He needed eighteen thousand dollars.
Mark grinned. A feral, hungry grin. He wasn't scared of the price tag. For the first time in his life, he wasn't wondering if he could afford it. He was just calculating how much work he had to do to get it.
"System," Mark said to the empty room. "I need money. Show me tomorrow's Daily Mission."
The screen flickered.
[Scanning Local Labor Opportunities...]
[Daily Mission Generated]
[Mission: The filthiest jobs pay the cleanest money.]
[Objective: Clean the grease traps of "Luigi's Pizza".]
[Reward: $5,000 + Performance Bonus.]
Mark laughed aloud. Grease traps. It was disgusting. It was degrading. It was exactly what he needed.
"Accepted," Mark said.
He walked to his small kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was empty, but he didn't care. He ordered a massive steak dinner delivery on his phone.
He was going to eat. He was going to sleep. And tomorrow, he was going to clean sludge until he was rich enough to buy the eyes of a hawk.