Assets: $7
"Wait. Where did this even come from?"
He patted down his jacket, checking every pocket. Nothing. No wallet, no phone, no—
His hand froze on his front pocket. The grocery money. The ¥1100 he'd shoved in his wallet this morning (yesterday? last week? in another universe?)
Gone.
He checked the system again. Seven dollars. About ¥1100 at current exchange rates.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." A laugh escaped, sharp and slightly manic. "I thought this was free starting capital. Should've known better. There's no such thing as a free lunch—just currency conversion."
At least the system had given him clothes that fit Gotham's aesthetic. Plain shirt, worn jacket, generic pants. Nothing that screamed "tourist" or "rob me." In a city where standing out could get you killed, looking poor and forgettable was basically camouflage.
Jude pulled up the system shop and started making purchases. No point in deliberating—without English and identity documents, he was dead anyway.
Purchase: Basic English Proficiency - $1
Purchase: Local Identity Documents - $1
Purchase: Fast Life Recovery - $1
Purchase: Save Point (20 uses) - $1
Remaining Assets: $3
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Save Point purchased! Special reminder: Future missions will unlock the "save point forward" feature. Don't be stingy with your saves!
Current save reads: 20
Distribution: Can be split across 5 different time points (minimum 1 read per save)
CURRENT STATUS: Safe zone active. You won't encounter danger for the next 30 minutes. Save point creation unavailable during safe periods. Relax! Sort of.
Thirty minutes. He had thirty minutes of guaranteed safety in Gotham City.
Jude looked up at the sky—thick clouds blocking whatever moonlight might exist, rain falling in a steady drizzle. He couldn't tell the exact time, but the darkness suggested evening. Maybe night. He'd seen a clock tower from the train. If he could get a clear view, he'd know for sure.
He took two steps toward the station exit.
And then the world shifted.
The ambient noise—the chaotic babble of the station, announcements over crackling speakers, fragments of conversation—had been just that. Noise. Meaningless sound.
Then suddenly, it wasn't.
The shift happened between one heartbeat and the next. English stopped being a foreign language and became... language. His brain didn't translate anymore. It just understood. Like someone had flipped a switch and rewired his neurons.
"—train to Robinson Park, last call—"
"—told you we should've left earlier—"
"—crazy bastard actually tried to mug me with a spoon—"
Jude stopped walking, momentarily dizzy. The sensation was surreal. His English had been passable before—enough to stumble through a conversation, badly—but now it felt natural. Native. He thought of words and they came easily. His accent, he realized with surprise, was American. Standard American English, like he'd lived here his whole life.
It was like going from a broken bicycle to... okay, still a bicycle, but one that actually worked. He'd need practice to really master it, but the foundation was solid.
"Huh," he muttered. "That's actually pretty cool."
He checked his pockets again, hoping to find his new identity documents. Still nothing physical. But when he focused on the idea of his driver's license, information bloomed in his mind—stored in the system, ready to materialize.
He reached into his coat pocket and thought about taking it out.
His fingers closed on plastic.
Jude pulled out a Gotham City driver's license with his face on it. Name: Jude Sharp. Age: 24. Address in the Bowery. All completely legitimate-looking, down to the holographic seal.
He stared at it for a moment, then thought about putting it back. The card vanished from his fingers.
"Finally," he said to the empty air, "something user-friendly."
But novelty aside, he had bigger problems. Namely: shelter, food, and not dying. In Gotham, those were legitimate concerns. He could be robbed, murdered, caught in villain crossfire, or just freeze to death on the street before morning.
He didn't know how homeless people survived in America. And Gotham didn't have "harmless" homeless people—just people who hadn't been killed yet.
And I might become one of them, he thought bleakly.
The system had given him a bank account, but it was empty. No money meant no federal income tax returns, which meant no access to relief programs. Even the social safety net assumed you had something to start with.
He had three dollars.
Jude walked toward the station exit, and Gotham proper revealed itself.
The rain was light but persistent, misting the streets in a thin veil of damp. Cars and motorcycles roared past on wet asphalt, headlights cutting through the gloom. High-rises crowded the skyline—art deco monstrosities and Gothic spires, their lower floors lit by neon and streetlights, their upper reaches swallowed by darkness and cloud.
Smoke billowed from factories in the distance. Closer, the slums sprawled like an infection—low, cramped buildings with broken windows and peeling paint. Barely a light among them. From the alleys came sounds: sobbing, shouting, the sharp crack of a gunshot. Someone screamed. The sound cut off.
Homeless camps clustered under bridges and in abandoned buildings. Jude could see the flicker of barrel fires, people huddled around them for warmth, burning newspapers and old books.
He found the clock tower among the chaos of neon signs and billboards.
9:00 PM.
Too late to find a job. Everything legitimate would be closed. He'd have to wait until morning.
"Great start," Jude muttered. "Really fantastic."
A cold breeze cut through his jacket. He hunched his shoulders, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, trying to preserve body heat. Where the hell was he supposed to sleep? Too visible and he'd be moved along by police—or worse. Too hidden and he'd be easy prey.
There has to be something in the system, he thought desperately.
He pulled up the shop interface and started scrolling.
The system mall had everything. Everything. Daily necessities, weapons, skills, superpowers, magical artifacts. Items that could make him rich, powerful, invincible.
All priced at least a hundred dollars and up.
With his three dollars, he could maybe buy... a candy bar. If the system sold candy bars.
Jude scrolled through the cheapest items, growing more depressed by the second. Bottled water: $5. A sandwich: $8. A knife: $15. A night at a hostel: $50.
He was so focused on the system that he almost didn't notice his pocket felt lighter.
Wait.
Jude's hand shot to his jacket. The driver's license—he'd materialized it a few minutes ago to look at it, then... had he put it back? He must have. He remembered thinking about it.
But it wasn't in his jacket pocket.
"No. No, no, no—"
He checked every pocket. Jacket, pants, shirt. Nothing. Panic started to claw at his chest. He needed that ID. Without it, he couldn't get a job, couldn't—
His fingers brushed something in his front pants pocket.
Plastic.
Jude pulled out the driver's license. It was right there. In his pants pocket, not his jacket.
He stood there in the rain, staring at it, and the realization hit him like a cold slap.
He'd been pickpocketed.
Sometime in the last hundred meters between the station and here, a thief had lifted his license. Checked his pockets for anything valuable. Found absolutely nothing.
And then, apparently out of pity or professional disappointment, put the license back—just in a different pocket.
Jude hadn't noticed. Not the theft, not the return, nothing. The whole transaction had happened without him feeling a thing.
He should be terrified. Angry. Violated.
Instead, he started laughing.
It was absurd. Completely absurd. The thief had been so skilled that Jude never felt a thing—and so disappointed by the results that he'd returned the only item of value, probably because a driver's license without a wallet was useless to fence.
And then it clicked.
A skilled pickpocket could steal a wallet, a watch, a phone. They could lift anything from an unsuspecting mark.
But they couldn't steal from someone who had nothing.
The logic was beautiful in its simplicity. You can't rob a broke man. There's no profit in it. The risk-reward ratio makes no sense. A mugger might even feel bad enough to spare him change.
He was in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, surrounded by criminals, killers, and psychopaths.
And he was completely, utterly, magnificently broke.
Which meant, in a twisted way, he was untouchable.
As long as he had no money, no one could rob him.