Chapter 3: BUILDING ARON DARK
The public library on Fifth Avenue opened at ten.
I walked through the entrance at 10:04, found a computer terminal in the back corner, and got to work.
[IDENTITY FABRICATION - TUTORIAL MODE]
[CURRENT IDENTITY SLOTS: 1/1]
[AVAILABLE TEMPLATES: BASIC TIER ONLY]
[COST: 500 GC]
The system interface expanded into something that looked like a character creation screen. Fields for name, birthdate, birthplace. A checkbox menu of supporting documents: birth certificate, social security card, driver's license, credit history.
Basic tier meant limited options. Name and documentation only. No deep backstory, no verifiable employment history, no family connections. A identity good enough to rent an apartment and open a bank account.
I typed the name without hesitation.
ARON DARK
Not Marcus Webb. Never again.
The first name came from nowhere—or maybe from everywhere. A name that felt right in ways I couldn't explain. The surname was calculated. Dark. Something memorable but not theatrical. Something a con man might choose if he wanted to be taken seriously.
Birthdate: March 15, 1983. Twenty-six years old, matching the body.
Birthplace: Burlington, Vermont. Small enough to avoid scrutiny, large enough to be plausible.
[CONFIRM IDENTITY CREATION: ARON MICHAEL DARK]
[COST: 500 GC]
[PROCEED? Y/N]
I selected yes.
The system pulsed. Something shifted in the digital ether—or maybe just in my perception of it. When I checked public records through the library's database, Aron Dark existed. Birth certificate filed with Vermont vital records. Social security number assigned. A ghost becoming real, one document at a time.
[IDENTITY CREATION COMPLETE]
[ARON DARK - BASIC TIER]
[DURABILITY: 5-10 USES BEFORE REFRESH REQUIRED]
[GC REMAINING: 0]
Zero balance. The identity had cost everything I'd earned from surviving interrogation.
I logged off and left the library.
The next problem was cash. Real, physical money. The kind that let you eat and travel and bribe people when necessary. Five hundred system coins translated to exactly zero dollars in the real world.
I walked south on Fifth Avenue, observing. Cataloguing. Looking for opportunity the way I used to look for fraud—patterns that didn't fit, behaviors that signaled something wrong.
The parking lot scam caught my eye on 38th Street.
Three guys running the classic con: fake attendant vests, cardboard signs with inflated rates, tourists too confused to notice they were paying triple market prices for spaces on public street. Clean operation. Low-risk. Probably pulling two or three hundred a day in pure profit.
[MARK ANALYSIS ACTIVE]
[TARGET: UNLICENSED PARKING OPERATION]
[OPERATOR COUNT: 3]
[ESTIMATED DAILY REVENUE: $280-$350]
[VULNERABILITY: GREED | FEAR OF EXPOSURE]
I approached the guy collecting money. Mid-forties, gut hanging over his belt, eyes that tracked new customers like a predator watching prey.
"Nice operation."
He looked me over. Dismissed me as harmless.
"Twenty bucks, half hour. Cash only."
"I'm not parking."
I let the silence stretch. His eyes narrowed.
"Then what do you want?"
"A conversation." I stepped closer, voice dropping. "About how the city's parking enforcement division is running a sting on unlicensed lot operations this week. They've already hit three spots in Midtown."
His face went pale.
[SILVER TONGUE: ACTIVE]
[LIE DELIVERED: FALSE AUTHORITY CLAIM]
[TARGET RESPONSE: FEAR]
"Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who knows things. Someone who can tell you which blocks are safe and which ones have undercover enforcement." I paused. "For a reasonable fee."
The negotiation took thirty minutes. By the end, I walked away with two hundred dollars cash and a promise of fifty more per week for ongoing intelligence.
"Protection money," I thought. "From criminals running a scam on other criminals."
The irony wasn't lost on me.
[MINOR CON COMPLETE]
[REWARD: +50 EXP]
[CURRENT STATUS: LEVEL 1 | EXP: 150/1000]
I found a thrift store on Seventh Avenue and spent an hour assembling a wardrobe. Navy blazer, slightly worn at the elbows but cut well enough to pass inspection. Three button-down shirts in conservative colors. Chinos that fit without looking cheap. Leather shoes that needed polish but had good bones.
The total came to forty-seven dollars. I paid cash and carried everything in a secondhand messenger bag.
By four in the afternoon, I looked like someone worth knowing.
[APPEARANCE MODIFIER: +5% SOCIAL CREDIBILITY]
The address I needed was burned into Marcus's memories: June Ellington's brownstone. The building where, according to knowledge I couldn't explain, a convicted forger named Neal Caffrey would eventually live under FBI supervision.
I took the subway to the Upper West Side.
June's building occupied the corner of 87th Street, four stories of pre-war elegance that spoke of old money and careful maintenance. Wrought iron railings. Window boxes with early spring flowers. A brass mailbox panel with names I didn't recognize.
One unit showed as available on the rental listings I'd checked at the library. Third floor. Above market rate for the neighborhood, which explained why it sat empty.
I climbed the front steps and rang the bell for the landlord.
The woman who answered was in her seventies. Silver hair swept back from a face that had been beautiful once and still carried echoes of it. She wore silk and pearls like armor.
[MARK ANALYSIS ACTIVE]
[SUBJECT: JUNE ELLINGTON]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: CAUTIOUS | CURIOUS]
[PRIMARY TRAIT: DISCERNING]
[BACKGROUND: FORMER SINGER | WIDOW | CRIMINAL CONNECTIONS (HISTORICAL)]
Criminal connections. The system flagged it without explanation. Something about her late husband, maybe. Something that made her dangerous and interesting in equal measure.
"Can I help you?"
Her voice carried the ghost of a jazz singer's richness.
"I'm Aron Dark. I'm inquiring about the apartment listing."
June studied me the way a jeweler studies a stone. Looking for flaws. Looking for value.
"The listing requires references."
"I'm new to the city." I let a thread of honesty enter my voice. "I can provide a bank statement and three months' rent in advance. I'm also willing to meet whatever conditions you consider appropriate."
"Three months in advance."
"To demonstrate good faith."
Her eyes narrowed. Not suspicion exactly. Interest.
"The previous tenant left under... complicated circumstances. I'm selective about who lives in my building, Mr. Dark."
"I would expect nothing less."
The silence stretched. June's gaze moved from my face to my clothes to my shoes. Reading me the way the system read her.
"Come inside."
The interior matched the exterior's elegance. High ceilings, hardwood floors, furniture that predated my birth and probably my father's. June led me to a sitting room where afternoon light fell through tall windows.
"Tea?"
"Please."
She poured from a pot already steeping. Earl Grey, perfectly brewed.
I was being tested.
"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Dark."
"I'm a consultant." The lie came smooth. "Financial analysis, primarily. I help people understand complex systems."
"What brings you to New York?"
"Opportunity." I sipped the tea. Good. Very good. "And a desire to start fresh somewhere no one knows my history."
June's expression shifted. Something like recognition.
"We all have histories we'd rather leave behind."
"Some more than others."
The words hung between us. An acknowledgment that passed without details.
"The apartment is two thousand a month." She set her cup down. "Utilities included. I don't allow loud parties, pets, or illegal activity on the premises."
[OPPORTUNITY DETECTED]
[JUNE ELLINGTON: POTENTIAL ALLY (LONG-TERM)]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: ESTABLISH TRUST THROUGH HONESTY]
The system wanted me to tell the truth. Or at least a version of it.
"Mrs. Ellington." I met her eyes. "I'm going to be honest with you. I don't have a conventional background. The references I could provide would raise more questions than they'd answer."
She waited.
"What I can promise is this: I pay my rent on time. I respect my neighbors. And if you ever need help with anything—financial matters, legal complications, problems that require discretion—I'm someone who solves problems."
June's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You're not what you appear to be, Mr. Dark."
"No one is."
"How refreshing to meet someone who admits it."
She stood. I followed.
"The apartment will be ready next week. I'll need the first three months by Friday."
We shook hands. Her grip was firm, her palm dry.
"Welcome to my building, Mr. Dark."
I left June's brownstone as the sun started its descent toward the Hudson. Six thousand dollars I didn't have, due in four days.
The evening stretched ahead. Problems to solve. Money to find. A new life taking shape one decision at a time.
I found a diner on Amsterdam Avenue and ordered coffee. Black, no sugar. The waitress brought it without comment.
My reflection wavered in the window glass. Aron Dark. Consultant. Resident of June Ellington's building.
A man who didn't exist two days ago.
I pulled out Peter Burke's business card and studied the embossed letters.
The FBI wanted more work from their cooperative witness. June wanted rent money. The system wanted experience points and progression.
All of it required the same thing: stepping deeper into a world of lies and leverage.
I pocketed the card, left exact change plus a tip, and walked out into the Manhattan evening.
Three blocks away, a man was arguing with a cab driver over a fare dispute.
Two blocks further, a woman clutched her purse as she hurried past a group of teenagers.
One block from the subway entrance, a street vendor sold knockoff watches to tourists too naive to know the difference.
The city hummed with opportunity. Every corner held a story, a mark, a chance to build something from nothing.
I descended into the station as the train approached.
Six thousand dollars. Four days.
Time to get creative.
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