Avalon was open, and the books were bleeding.
John Cruz sat in the corner of the third-floor workshop, hunched over a spreadsheet with two fingers pressed against his temple. A breeze slipped through the cracked window, tugging at a receipt that fluttered like a wounded bird.
He'd just tallied the totals from the past month.
Shelving, refrigeration units, lighting, wiring, permits, packaging, inventory, signage, hardware, software…
And it all added up to one alarming truth:
His bank account was nearly half gone.
The original inheritance—over $180,000—had carried him far, but not far enough. With renovations complete and inventory stocked, he had roughly $89,000 left.
It sounded like a fortune. But John had lived long enough to know the math of life was rarely kind. Rent, resupplies, utilities, taxes. Without a steady income, Avalon would bleed that account dry in under a year.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back.
He didn't regret any of it.
But he needed to move fast if he wanted to keep Avalon alive.
The idea came from the television.
Downstairs in the bodega, the wall-mounted TV—a used flatscreen Lorna had sourced through a local pawn shop—blared a loud commercial full of cheerleaders, confetti, and over-the-top patriotism.
"Super Bowl XXXVI—This Sunday! Rams vs. Patriots!"
The graphics danced across the screen. Odds. Matchups. Halftime show acts. The works.
And something clicked in John's head.
A memory—not from this life, but from a former one. A life of late-night forums, sports analytics, fantasy leagues, and an obsession with statistics. He remembered a discussion thread. Vivid.
The 2002 Super Bowl. The Rams were heavy favorites. But the Patriots—led by a relatively unknown quarterback named Tom Brady—won in a stunning upset.
Final score: 20–17.
John stared at the screen, mind racing.
He could make back what he spent.
Maybe more.
That afternoon, he left Lorna in charge—"Don't sell anything stupid," he said—and made his way to a betting lounge on the west side of Manhattan.
It wasn't shady. He'd done his research. The place had a legit license, and the sports bar it was housed in was a favorite among Wall Street bros and cab drivers alike.
He stepped through the heavy doors into a world of neon, noise, and stale beer.
The air buzzed with pre-game tension.
Big screens covered every wall. People shouted over each other, arguing stats, teasing spreads, talking trash.
John kept his hood up and moved quietly to the betting counter.
"You know what you're doing?" the woman at the desk asked, raising an eyebrow.
John handed over his ID. "Yes."
"Straight win or point spread?"
"Straight. I'm betting the Patriots to win."
She blinked.
"Big risk. They're 14-point underdogs."
"I know."
She typed it in.
"How much?"
John hesitated.
Then said, "Forty-five thousand."
The room didn't go silent, but the woman behind the counter stopped mid-keystroke.
"You sure?"
He didn't flinch. "Yes."
She handed him a printed ticket and receipt.
And just like that, half of what remained of his financial cushion was riding on a memory.
The game roared.
The Patriots surged.
People screamed and spilled drinks.
But John watched it all like a warrior before a fight—steady, focused, detached.
That's when he noticed the man in the booth beside him.
Older. Faded leather jacket. Bloodshot eyes. Cheap drink. And posture far too straight for a man that lost so much.
"You're not cheering," the man muttered.
"Neither are you," John said.
The man raised his glass. "Yeah, well. I bet on the wrong horse."
He extended a calloused hand.
"Robert Diamond. Bob. Once upon a time, I was supposed to be the next big thing. Hollywood stuntman. Martial artist. Kung fu back when it was all the rage."
John accepted the shake. "John. Bodega guy."
Bob blinked. "You own a bodega?"
"Kind of. Corner of 9th Avenue. Just finished turning it into something new."
He paused. Then added, almost offhand, "It's called Avalon."
Bob raised a brow.
"Named it after the isle from the old myths. Place where warriors went to heal. It's bright. Clean. Real coffee. No crap. No clutter."
"You run it yourself?"
John nodded. "Most days. Got a kid helping. We keep it peaceful."
Bob chuckled. "That's rare. Especially in a city that eats peace like popcorn."
The Patriots won.
John pocketed over $130,000.
Bob slumped further into his drink, sighing at the wreckage of his wallet.
John hesitated.
Then said, "Come on. One drink. My treat."
"You're toasting with the guy who just got crushed?"
"Feels like the right time to meet people," John said. "Even the losing kind."
Bob laughed—a raw, honest thing—and stood.
"Only if the scotch is decent."
They went to a quieter Irish bar. No TVs. No football noise.
John ordered a bottle.
They talked. Or rather, Bob did.
"Used to run with a group once. Guys who weren't quite cops. Weren't quite heroes. Just guys who didn't like seeing bullies win."
John listened.
Bob was vague. Slippery.
But his presence didn't lie.
Fighter.
Survivor.
Like him.
As they left, Bob pulled his collar up against the cold.
"You said Avalon?"
John nodded. "Yeah. If you ever need a place to cool off. Or a strong cup of coffee. We don't judge."
Bob gave him a long look.
"Been a while since anyone offered me something that wasn't pity."
John shrugged. "I'm just trying to keep the lights on."
"You might be doing more than that."
They parted.
John turned the corner toward home.
And passed a flickering billboard above the skyline:
"Heroes Live Among Us."
Are You One of Them?
The wind howled, but Avalon stayed warm in his mind.