The relentless drip… drip… drip from the bathroom faucet hammered against the silence, echoing the blue numbers burning in the corner of Ace's vision: 17:45… 17:44… Each drop felt like a countdown to the real deadline: $24.49 owed to Big Mike by Noon. His resources mocked him: $100 (System Funds), $0 (Cash), 1 Dead Phone, 1 Basic Haggling Skill (Lv.1) buzzing faintly in his mind, 1 Motel Room that smelled faintly of sour defeat.
The hollow victory from completing the System's task tasted like grit scraped from the stained carpet he sat on. He had won technically, yet he was still broke, still trapped, still weak. The feeling curdled in his gut, a cold sludge replacing the earlier numbness. Not good enough. The thought sliced through the fog, sharp and clear. I can't just sit here waiting for the next task. The System plays by rules. I need to learn them. Use them.
Cleverness. Creativity. Toughness. They weren't just words anymore; they were the only tools left in his broken toolbox. He needed them now.
Priority One: The Dead Phone. My lifeline to the System's money to anything is severed. Without power, I'm blind. I push myself off the scratchy carpet. his muscles groaning from the cold and exhaustion that had seeped deep into his bones during the night in the alley and the tense hours since. The peeling wallpaper seemed to press closer in the dim light.
He scanned the tiny space. Sagging bed. Wobbly nightstand. Flickering lamp. Tiny bathroom. Think. Resources. Ingenuity. He claimed the words as his own.
The charger! Hope flared. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the cheap charger he'd carried since yesterday. His fingers traced the familiar cord… then froze. The USB head was bent sideways, the cheap plastic casing cracked where he'd slammed against the dumpster during his panicked scramble in the alley. Tiny copper wires poked through the split insulation like broken bones. He plugged it gingerly into the wall socket, then tried to connect it to his dead phone.
ZZZT! A tiny blue spark jumped from the exposed wires. The phone remained dark. Dead. Ruined. The spark left the smell of ozone and crushed hope in the stale air.
"Damn it!" The curse tore from his throat, raw and ragged. He threw the useless charger onto the stained carpet. Lifeline severed. Again.
No charger. No power. No hope.
The bathroom. He pushed open the door. The dripping faucet over the stained sink was a maddening metronome. But beside it… a small, grimy electric kettle. Cheap white plastic, yellowed with age. An idea sparked, dangerous and fragile. Heat. Power.
He grabbed the kettle, his fingers encountering a layer of greasy dust. He filled it under the tap, flinching as the water ran rust-brown for a few seconds before clearing. Good enough. He jammed the plug into the socket near the sink. A tiny, stubborn red light glowed. It worked. A thin wire of hope sparked down his spine.
He pulled the cold, dead phone from his pocket. He need to open it. Expose the battery. Maybe... just maybe... if I can trickle some charge directly...? He remembered a YouTube video Ben watched once about heating a dead cell to revive it. It has high risk and it could fry the battery—or worse.
But what choice is there? $100 was worthless dust if he couldn't touch it. And he had no charger left.
He needed tools. His fingers probed the phone's sealed edge. No screws. Damn it. He scanned the bathroom again. Nothing. Then, his eyes caught the cheap metal towel rack screwed to the wall. One screw was loose, its Phillips head protruding slightly.
Yes. He gripped the screw head with his thumbnail and forefinger, ignoring the bite into his soft nail bed. Toughness meant enduring. He twisted hard, pain lanced up his finger. He gritted his teeth, bearing down. The screw resisted, then grudgingly turned. Slowly. Agonizingly. His thumbnail screamed, threatening to tear. Finally, it came free. A tiny, sharp sliver of metal rested in his palm.
Not perfect but it's fine for now
He went back to the phone and pushed the screw's tip into the gap where the screen meets the case, right by the charging port. He tried prying it loose—gently at first, then harder. The plastic creaked under the strain. He shifted the angle carefully, using the hard porcelain edge of the sink as leverage. Creativity was finding advantage. He applied slow, steady pressure, his breath held.
Pop! A tiny section gave way. He slid the screw along the seam, feeling the delicate plastic yield with more pops. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's chill. His fingers ached. Finally, the back casing lifted off, exposing the phone's delicate inner workings—tiny circuits and fragile parts laid bare.
The kettle clicked off. Steam billowed from the spout in a thick, hot plume that filled the air like a mini cloud.
He held the exposed phone near the rising steam, careful not to let condensation drip directly onto the circuitry. The heat washed over the battery and board.
He hoped the warmth would give the phone just enough power to turn on, but it was a risky move. Steam brought moisture, and moisture could cause short circuits, which would destroy the phone.
Cleverness was weighing terrible odds. Maybe 10% chance. But 100% doom if he did nothing. He held the phone steady, letting the warm, damp air bathe the components. Ten seconds. Twenty. The heat radiating onto his hand became uncomfortable, bordering on painful. He pulled back, quickly wiping beads of moisture off the logic board with the less-stained edge of his shirt – the one Leo's juice hadn't splashed.
Now. The moment. He found the tiny, fragile connector for the battery. With trembling but precise fingers, he pressed it firmly back onto its contact points. Secure. He held his breath. Pressed the power button.
Nothing.
Damn it! Cold disappointment washed over him, colder than the alley wind. Stupid risk. He pressed again, holding it longer.
A flicker. For just a moment, the battery icon appeared—0%—before the screen went dark again.
So close! The heat had nudged it. Just not enough. He needed more. Direct heat was suicide. Back to the steam. He moved the phone over the kettle again, using the softer steam rising from the reheating water. He carefully focused the heat on the battery.
Thirty seconds. The heat on his fingers intensified, becoming a sharp sting. He pulled away, wiped the board frantically. and reconnected everything then pressed the power button.
The screen flickered… stuttered… and glowed! The manufacturer logo appeared, fragmented by the spiderweb cracks. Then… the home screen! Battery: 1%. A thin, desperate red bar.
YES! A fierce, silent roar filled his chest. It worked!
His cleverness, born from desperation. His creativity, made from scraps. His toughness, earned through the sting of heat and torn skin.
He didn't hesitate. He stared at the broken charger lying uselessly on the floor.
The spark. The smell of ozone. It was beyond repair. Then his eyes shifted to the kettle, still plugged in near the sink, its red light now off. The kettle's cable was grimy but intact, connected to the wall's power.
A wild, risky idea hit him. The broken charger, the kettle's cable—they weren't separate problems. They could be part of a solution.
He quickly yanked the kettle's plug from the wall. Grabbing the ruined charger, he ignored the sharp pain in his thumb and ripped the mangled USB head off. Inside, a mess of wires—red, black, green, and white—were exposed. Power and ground. He just needed those.
With determined fingers, he pulled off the damaged insulation, isolating the red and black wires.
Next, he turned to the kettle's cable. It was thick and greasy, but he found a weak spot near the plug. He used his teeth to tear it open, exposing the brown, blue, and green-yellow wires. Brown was live. Blue was neutral. That could work.
His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the wild plan he was trying to make work. He twisted the red phone wire to the brown kettle wire. The black phone wire to the blue kettle wire. He grabbed a piece of old, brittle duct tape from the edge of the sink, and wrapped it around the joins. It wasn't pretty, but it was something—desperation had made it a quick fix.
He plugged the makeshift cable into the wall socket. It hummed faintly, the wires vibrating, but there were no sparks, no fire. The air smelled of hot plastic, but it seemed stable.
His heart was pounding. He connected the patched-together charger to his fragile phone, his fingers crossed.
The charging symbol flickered... then stayed on. 1%... 2%... The numbers climbed slowly, painfully, but they climbed. He crouched by the socket, watching the taped wires carefully, ready to pull the plug at the first sign of danger.
The phone was charging. It didn't need the ruined charger after all.
16:30… 16:29… The System timer pulsed. Big Mike's deadline loomed larger, darker. But he had a thread back to his lifeline. Power was returning.
At 5%, he couldn't wait. He unlocked the phone. His hands shook now, not with fear, but with focused intensity. He pulled up the System interface. It felt… sharper. More responsive. The blue text crisp.
[System Funds: $100.00 USD]
[Access Financial Interface? (Y/N)]
He jabbed 'Y'. A new screen overlaid his display with 3 options:
[Direct Transfer: Bank Account (Fee: $1.50)]
[Generate Virtual Prepaid Card (Fee: $5.00)]
[Cash Withdrawal: Designated ATM (Fee: $3.00)]
Fees. Of course. The System traded, never gave. He needed physical cash. Now. The ATM fee was the smallest toll. He selected it.
[Select Amount: $_____ ]
He needed $24.49 for Big Mike but that wasn't all. He also needed money for food to quiet the gnawing ache in his stomach and a cheap charger to protect his only means of connection—a safety buffer. He typed in $40.00. The fee was deducted immediately. That left him with $37.00 to withdraw.
[Locating Nearest Designated ATM…](Processing…)*
A map appeared on his screen: the same QuickCash ATM he had stumbled to hours before, his frozen limbs driven by desperation. It was half a mile away—the cold walk, the dark streets. But this time, he had purpose. A plan was forming in his mind, clear and determined. Not just reacting—strategizing.
[Funds Available for Withdrawal: $37.00](Access Code: 7H9J2K)*
He etched the code into his memory, 7-H-9-J-2-K. Then he unplugged the phone at 8%. It would hold for now. The casing felt warm, slightly misshapen near where the steam had concentrated. A proper fix would come later.
He stood. His body still ached – the deep throb in his hip from slamming into the counter yesterday a constant reminder, the sting in his fingers from the steam and prying. But the crushing exhaustion was replaced by a low, determined hum. Focus. He looked down at the faint, sticky outline of the juice stain on his shirt, visible in the dim light, not just a mark of shame anymore but a benchmark. A line drawn hours ago.
He opened the motel room door. The hallway air was thick with mildew and disinfectant, but it wasn't suffocating., but it wasn't suffocating. It was a path forward. He stepped out, locking the door firmly behind him. The key felt solid, real. It was his space for now.
He passed the office. Light spilled through the plexiglass. Big Mike's large silhouette was bent over the counter. Reading? Ace didn't stop. Not yet. First, secure the cash. Then, negotiation. He had a skill to test.
The cold night air hit him as he exited, sharp enough to make him gasp, but it felt bracing now, not paralyzing. He pulled the thin fabric of his shirt tighter across his chest, the movement pulling at the tender skin on his burned fingers. Toughness was embracing the discomfort. He started walking. Not the defeated shuffle of before, but a deliberate stride. His eyes scanned the pools of shadow between streetlights, not in cowering fear, but with the alertness of someone assessing terrain. His mind was clear. Calculating.
Resources: $37 cash incoming. The Basic Haggling skill humming in his mind like a newly tuned instrument, whispering nuances of tone and timing. The System's cold, transactional logic. His own desperation, refined now into a sharp edge.
Objective: Pay Big Mike. Secure the room for another night. Eat something solid. Acquire a charger. Fortify his position.
The System timer glowed: 16:00… 15:59… Wealth Consolidation. Whatever cryptic task that meant, it could wait. Right now, he had a plan. And for the first time since the door of Apartment 3B clicked shut, locking him out of his old life, it felt like the controls were in his hands. Not the System's. Not his parents'. Not the indifferent city's cold grasp.
The green glow of the QuickCash sign appeared ahead. it felt like a second chance. He strode toward it with purposeful steps, the broken phone a familiar weight in his pocket, the blue words a silent guide in his vision, and a hard-won fire kindling in his gut.