The digital glow of the laptop screen painted Theodore Sterling's face in stark blues and whites, casting long, distorted shadows across the chaotic landscape of his apartment. Pizza boxes listed precariously on the coffee table, monuments to forgotten meals. Clothes formed geological strata on the only armchair. Yet, amidst the squalor, Theo moved with the chilling precision of a surgeon. His mouse clicked, sharp and final in the pre-dawn quiet, punctuated only by the distant, mournful cry of a passing siren, the city's perpetual, weary soundtrack.
DEACTIVATE STOREFRONT: Eversharp Edge
Are you sure? This action is permanent and all listings will be removed.
Theo didn't hesitate. His finger found the confirmation button, pressing down with decisive force. Click. Gone. The slowly building reputation, the trickle of income, the five-star ratings built on low cost knives infused with impossible power, erased with the same ruthless efficiency he'd once applied to corporate rivals.
He leaned back, the cheap office chair groaning under his weight. The decision wasn't born of panic, but cold, hard calculation, the kind honed in the unforgiving corridors of Bank of America. Eversharp Edge had served its purpose: a proof of concept, a capital-generating engine fuelled by desperation and his strange new ability. But its lifespan was inherently limited, its foundation built on sand, specifically, the ten un-enhanced knives he'd shipped out during the unexpected demand spike to get some quick profit. His need for quick cash outweighed his morals. Complaints were inevitable. Negative reviews, accusations of inconsistency, perhaps even platform suspension… they were liabilities waiting to materialize. Clinging to Eversharp would be like holding onto a ticking time bomb wrapped in butcher paper. Cut losses, ditch the evidence, move on. Standard operating procedure for a man whose career, until recently, involved navigating treacherous waters in a corporate world full of sharks.
A deeper, more primal fear cemented the decision. Anonymity was paramount. His power, this inexplicable "+1" singularity in an otherwise mundane world, was his ultimate asset, his secret weapon in the war against the poverty that haunted his past. But if word got out? If anyone knew what he could do? He envisioned greasy gangsters in tracksuits, not the polished thugs of the corporate world, kicking down his flimsy apartment door. They wouldn't offer him a partnership, they'd chain him in a basement, forcing him to enhance guns, cars, whatever illicit tools they desired, day after day, ten pings at a time, until he burned out or became disposable. The thought sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the apartment's morning chill. No, the power had to remain his alone. Untraceable. Each venture needed to be compartmentalized, disposable, leaving no trail back to Theodore Sterling, the man who could make things better.
Eversharp was dead. Long live the next hustle.
With the ghost of the knife business exorcised, a familiar, predatory energy surged through him. The $2825.62 in his account felt less like a safety net and more like seed capital. It was time to leverage the +1 more effectively. Ten uses per day. That was the iron constraint. Enhancing $25 knives yielded maybe $45 profit per charge, $450 a day max before the tedious grind of packing and shipping. Pathetic. Small-time. It wouldn't even cover the rent on a decent place, let alone build an empire. He needed higher margins, bigger ticket items where a single +1 enhancement translated into hundreds, even thousands, in added value.
The laptop screen became his hunting ground. He dove into the digital warrens of online marketplaces, eBay, specialized forums, classifieds. He scanned business news sites, looking for trends, for weaknesses, for gaps where enhanced quality could command a premium. His fingers flew across the keyboard, tapping with their characteristic impatience, his analytical mind sifting through gigabytes of data.
He considered specialized tools again, dental drills needing +1 precision, jeweler's loupes needing +1 clarity. Too niche, required expertise he didn't possess to sell convincingly. Medical devices? He saw an article on brittle catheter components, a flicker of morbid interest, then dismissed it, the regulatory hurdles and ethical implications were a minefield he wasn't ready to navigate, not to mention the astronomical start-up costs. Enhancing cheap laptops? Margins were too thin, the market saturated. Plus, explaining a sudden leap in performance on a budget machine? Too suspicious.
He needed something where performance and durability were obsessions, where enthusiasts paid premiums for incremental gains, where the enhancement would be felt, appreciated, yet plausibly deniable as mere "tuning" or "optimization."
His eyes snagged on a forum thread discussing lightweight bicycle components. Carbon fibre frames, aerodynamic wheelsets, groupsets shaving off precious grams. Riders arguing passionately over marginal gains, spending hundreds, sometimes thousands, to upgrade a single part. A world of obsessive hobbyists with disposable income.
The idea struck him like a physical blow, sharp and exhilarating. Bicycles. High-end road bikes.
Think, Theo, think. A serious amateur cyclist might drop $1,500, maybe $2,500 on a decent carbon fibre bike. It's fast, light, a significant investment. But it's not the $10,000+ machine the pros ride. There's a gap. A performance gap. What if he could take that $1,500 bike and give it a +1? Not just one part, but the whole damn thing, piece by piece?
Frame: +1 stiffness and durability, maybe even fractionally lighter or more aerodynamic in feel. Wheels: +1 strength, better rolling resistance, truer spin. Crankset: +1 efficiency, smoother power transfer. Derailleurs: +1 precision, faster shifting. Brakes: +1 stopping power, better modulation. Ten charges. Ten key components brought to a higher state of being.
The result wouldn't just be a tuned bike; it would be fundamentally better. It might feel like a $5,000 bike, maybe even approach the performance of something costing far more. And he could sell it, not as some unknown magic brand, but as a standard model that had undergone expert "professional optimization." Plausible. Lucrative.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This felt right. High value, enthusiast market, plausible deniability, and a perfect fit for his ten daily charges applied strategically. He quickly searched used marketplaces and clearance sales. He needed a good base model, something recognizable, reputable, but cheap enough to leave room for massive profit.