Day 000 – Hour 06: Change
I'd stumbled into something I probably shouldn't have. That much was clear.
And now I had a choice.
I could sit on the cash and coast for a few weeks — food in my belly, roof over my head, quiet for once. Or I could follow the instructions. Say the line. Start whatever this was.
I already knew what I'd do.
My shoes were on before the thought even finished forming. The door clicked behind me a moment later. I caught a glimpse of the soles — cracked, stained, soft at the heel — and let out a half-sigh that didn't reach my lungs.
Pretending I had a conscience was easier than admitting I didn't need one right now.
As I locked the door from the outside, the shop's name finally clicked.
Polito's wasn't a real shop. It was a counter. A place buried in the back of another place. People from outside the neighborhood wouldn't find it on their best day.
And Polito wasn't even her name.
That's just what we called her.
"This is one of those moments," I muttered. "The kind people write about after the fact."
I wasn't nervous. Not exactly.
Danger and I had been on speaking terms for years. The fear that stopped most people had worn thin with me. Maybe that made me careless. Maybe it just made me tired.
A quote drifted back from something I read long ago:"Those who resist change are the first to disappear."
If it came to that, so be it.
I took the stairs.
All ten floors. No elevator. Never had one.
The steps creaked underfoot like they knew me. By the time I reached the street, my knees reminded me why I never dreamed of moving higher up.
The roads outside weren't really roads — more like shared paths between buildings. Tight enough that even mopeds had to slow down and wait their turn.
I walked with purpose.
That's what mattered here — in the slums, people who walked slow were either drunk, lost, or targets. I tried to be none of those.
"Morning!" I called to the shopkeepers and stall vendors.
They responded with nods, familiar smiles, casual waves.
"I'm off to work," I lied, like always. "I'll see you later."
"Out early today, Nemi," a soft voice called from behind a cloth-covered stand. "Come in, take some tea with you."
It was the old woman — the one most called Grandmother, though none of us knew her name. She was kind. Too kind, really.
"Even you need to eat," she added.
She was always offering something.
Food. A seat. Advice I didn't ask for.
If she hadn't seen me, I wouldn't have stopped. But now that she had, I couldn't just walk by.
That's how it worked around here.
"I'll come by on my way back, Auntie," I said quickly. "Leaving early today, so I'll be back before you close."
She smiled and nodded. No push. No guilt.
That's how I knew she was genuine.
But even kindness has a weight, and I couldn't carry anything extra today.
Polito's was buried behind a curtain of fake merchandise and unspoken rules.
I slipped past the front customers and made my way to the back wall. There was one person ahead of me — didn't take long.
Behind the makeshift counter, she sat.
Mid-thirties maybe. Dark eyes, darker expression. Her ponytail was tight and efficient. She didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just watched me like she was waiting for a mistake.
The table was flush against the wall, save for one gap at the side for coming and going. Neat. Controlled. Watchful.
As I stepped forward, my pulse ticked upward.
Not panic. Just awareness.
The space was too small to run in. Too quiet to lie in.
I reached into my shirt — slow, steady — and pulled out the bill.
She flinched.
Just a hair. Just enough to see.
I couldn't blame her. In this part of the city, anyone reaching quickly could be reaching for a knife. And I hadn't said a word yet.
"I request change that can be traced back to me," I said.
Each word felt like a stone rolling out of my mouth.
Her eyes flicked up.
Surprise.
Not confusion — not like she didn't know what I meant. More like she hadn't expected me to be the one saying it.
Still, she didn't speak. Just took the bill from my hand, turned, and pulled an envelope from beneath the counter.
The insignia was on it — the same one from the letter. The C with the dollar mark carved into the center.
I opened it right there — not smart, but I was new at this.
Inside: nineteen fives, three ones.
$98.
I looked up at her.
Not angry. Just... annoyed.
If this was a test, she'd shaved off two dollars from the start.
She didn't explain.
Didn't smile.
Didn't blink.
Just finally said:
"It's too late to turn back now."
Quiet. Sharp.
The kind of statement that sounds casual until it echoes.
And even though she barely raised her voice, I knew what she meant.
This wasn't just change.
This was commitment.