Mark opened his eyes to morning light streaming through the living room window, harsh and accusatory. He'd fallen asleep on the couch still wearing yesterday's clothes. His father's car wasn't in the driveway.
The task notification hung in his vision like a guillotine blade.
[TASK TWO: Acquire Becky Moonwell's phone number]
[REWARD: $100,000 | OPTIONAL BONUS: +$5,000] [COUNTDOWN: 09:02:20]
"No way. I slept this long?" Mark shot up, pain flaring in his ribs.
He headed for the bathroom, moving faster than his bruised body wanted to.
"Try to hurry up. Time's working against you," the system voice chimed in helpfully.
"All I want you to do is shut up. I know what I'm doing." Mark turned on the shower, letting cold water shock him into full consciousness.
"If only you can make it to the school gate by one minute past eight, this task becomes significantly easier."
Mark paused, water running down his back. The system had never given him specific timing advice before.
"What time is it now?"
"Seven eleven. We need to move fast. Or are you in love with your new equipment down there? Taking inventory?"
"For Christ's sake, never comment on my body parts again." Mark jumped out of the shower and grabbed the first clothes he found.
"Seems like someone has anger issues."
But honestly, Mark was starting to enjoy the company, twisted as that was. It felt less lonely than his old life, where trust was currency and everyone wanted something. At least the system's sarcasm was honest.
He scarfed down leftover pizza straight from the fridge, not bothering to heat it up. Cold pizza and desperation, breakfast of champions. Still no sign of his father. No note, no text. Just an empty house and a ticking clock.
"Fifteen past seven. Can I walk to school and make it in time?" Mark asked, staring at the empty driveway.
"Affirmative. You're currently on schedule if you maintain pace."
Mark grabbed his backpack and headed out into the crisp morning air. He talked to the system openly as he walked, not caring who saw him gesturing at nothing. Half the world walked around talking to Bluetooth earpieces anyway.
[COUNTDOWN: 08:49:33]
"You're moving at the right pace. At precisely 08:01, getting Becky Moonwell's number will be the simplest task you've completed."
"Why? What happens at 08:01?"
"Unknown. I can calculate probabilities, not predict specific events. But statistical analysis suggests optimal conditions converge at that exact moment."
The roar of motorcycle engines cut through the morning quiet like chainsaws. Mark's stomach dropped as three identical figures on bikes circled around him, cutting off his path like wolves surrounding prey.
The Spencer brothers. Again. Because apparently the universe had decided Mark Lidorf was the official punching bag of this town.
"Look who we found," the first one said, parking directly in front of Mark and killing his engine.
The system hadn't warned him about this. Then again, the system calculated probabilities, not specific ambushes. It wasn't omniscient.
"You fool, you snitched on us," the second brother accused, climbing off his bike. They looked so similar that students had given up trying to tell them apart.
"Please, I'm sorry." Mark tried to keep his voice calm, non-threatening, submissive. Everything bullies wanted to hear. He needed to get past them without getting hurt badly enough to slow him down. "Really, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I apologize."
He knew bullies. Show weakness and they pounced.
"What happened to your face, loser?" The third brother pointed at Mark's stitches. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
"His ass got beat already. Tommy said Daniel Sterling destroyed him in the cafeteria." The first brother grinned. "Like we're about to do right now. Consider this a reminder about snitching."
The first punch caught Mark in the stomach before he could react. He doubled over and the second hit his ribs, right where Daniel had landed kicks yesterday. Pain exploded white-hot. By the time he could breathe again, the Spencers were roaring away on their bikes, laughing like this was the funniest thing they'd done all week.
Mark stayed bent over for a moment, hands on his knees, waiting for the pain to subside enough that he could move. "I really need this money," he muttered through clenched teeth. Money meant options. Money meant protection. Money meant never getting jumped on the street by trust-fund kids on motorcycles who had nothing better to do.
He checked his phone. The Spencer brothers had cost him fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes he didn't have.
He forgot about the pain and started jogging, backpack bouncing against his spine with each step. Every breath hurt. Every footfall sent shocks through his ribs. But the countdown was still running.
If there was an easier way to get this rich girl's number, he'd take it. But the system had said 08:01 was optimal timing, and Mark had learned to trust the pattern even when he didn't understand it.
He reached the gate at 08:02. One minute late. Through the entrance, he caught a glimpse of Becky Moonwell's distinctive short brunette hair disappearing into the main building. So close. One minute and he would have been here when she was.
"Hold on there, young man." The security guard called from his booth.
Mark wanted to chase after Becky, but the guard was already waddling over, taking his sweet time like he had all morning to chat about nothing.
"Your dad didn't drop you off today?"
"Wanted to walk. Get some exercise." Mark tried to move past him.
"Good for you, making progress. Building character." The guard leaned against the gate like he was settling in for a conversation. "You know, the Moonwell girl was right here just a few minutes ago. Dropped something, I think. Needed help with something but she wouldn't talk to me about it. Just picked it up herself and left. Crazy, right? Rich kids. I thought money solved everything, but she looked genuinely stressed."
Mark's heart sank like a stone. If he'd been on time, he could have offered assistance, gotten her number naturally, without force or awkwardness or whatever desperate plan he was about to cobble together.
"If you could excuse me, I've got class." Mark started moving toward the building.
"No class is better than my wisdom, son! You remember that!"
The parking lot showcased everything Mark didn't have. Mercedes with leather interiors. BMWs so new they still had dealer plates. Motorcycles that cost more than Detective Lidorf made in a year. He walked past them all, already late, already behind, already losing.
Henry caught up with him near the main entrance, slightly out of breath. "Yo, where were you? Thought you overslept or bailed. Was about to text your dad."
"Long story. Got jumped by the Spencer brothers."
"Again? Dude, you need to find a new route to school."
Mark checked the countdown again. [COUNTDOWN: 08:20:12]
Time was bleeding away like water through his fingers, and he still had no concrete plan. Just a name, a face he'd barely glimpsed, and a ticking clock that didn't care about his excuses.
He needed to beat this deadline if he was going to change anything about his situation at Conbert. A hundred thousand dollars was the difference between riding the bus and having options. Between being invisible and being noticed.
First period started in three minutes. The hunt for Becky Moonwell's phone number had officially begun.
And he was already behind.