The metallic scent of fresh rain mixed with the stench of rotting takeout grease.
New York City. Late summer.
Jack sat on an overturned plastic milk crate, his back resting against the damp, sun-baked red bricks of a narrow alleyway in Hell's Kitchen.
His skull throbbed with a rhythmic, splitting ache, like a rusted nail being driven into his left temple every time he took a breath.
He slowly held up his hands.
They were pale, calloused, and trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the raw, unrefined adrenaline pulsing through his veins.
A pale violet, translucent interface flickered silently into view.
[ System Initializing... ]
[ Host Synchronization: 0.8% ]
[ Unlocked Traits: ]
Basic Instincts of Chaos (Passive)
Street Brawling (Rudimentary)
Minor Spatial Awareness
[ Current Task: ]
Objective: Survive your first night in Hell's Kitchen and secure basic shelter.
Reward: +0.2% Synchronization, $150 System Cash.
"Point eight percent..." Jack whispered.
His voice was dry and raspy, like paper rubbing together.
He wanted to laugh, but all that escaped his throat was a quiet, harsh cough that rattled his lungs.
"They couldn't even round it up to one percent. Stingy bastard of a system."
He leaned his head back against the brick wall, closing his eyes to digest the memories flooding his mind.
He wasn't in a comic book world with bright colors and grand hero entrances. This was the dirt, the rain, and the blood on the asphalt.
At 0.8%, he had no superhuman strength. No gadgets. No hidden millions.
He was just a broke guy in a dirty hoodie, starving and freezing in a back alley.
Splash. Splash.
Heavy, cheap rubber boots splashed through the rainwater at the mouth of the alley.
Jack didn't jump up. He didn't draw a weapon.
He simply tilted his chin, his eyes locking onto two dark outlines stepping out of the flickering yellow streetlight.
One was tall, wearing a faded leather vest over ink-covered arms.
The other was shorter, holding a heavy wooden baseball bat wrapped in duct tape.
"Hey. Homeless," the tall one barked, his accent thick with local dockworker grit. "You're in 22nd Street Boys territory. You sleep here, you pay the toll."
Jack remained seated on his milk crate.
He didn't panic. He didn't show anger.
Instead, his lips twitched, slowly pulling up into a wide, eerily still smile.
"The toll?" Jack asked smoothly. "And what is the going rate for six square feet of wet concrete these days?"
The short guy stepped forward, tapping the bat against his palm.
"Ten bucks. Or whatever you got in those pockets."
Jack slid his hands into his hoodie pocket.
He pulled out three dirty copper pennies, letting them glint under the dim alley light.
"I have three cents," Jack said pleasantly.
He tilted his head to the side, his eyes wide and vacant.
"And a very short patience span. Would you gentlemen like to negotiate?"
The short guy scowled.
"Is this idiot laughing at us?"
"Looks like it," the tall one growled, pulling a rusty folding knife from his belt.
Click.
The small blade locked into place.
"Let's teach him some manners."
Jack didn't flinch.
At 0.8% template, his muscles were weak, but his mind was already calculating every micro-movement.
He saw the heavy lean on the short guy's right heel.
He saw the tall guy's unstable grip on the knife.
And right beside his left elbow... he felt the loose, jutting edge of a chipped red brick.
"Alright," Jack sighed softly, slowly standing up with his hands raised. "No need for violence. The three cents are yours."
Then, he flicked the first penny straight into the short guy's eyes.
CLINK!
The heavy copper coin hit the short guy square between the eyes.
"Argh! You crazy bastard!"
The short guy stumbled back two steps, his left hand clapping over his nose while his baseball bat swung wildly at empty air.
That split second of broken focus was all Jack needed.
He didn't pull off any cinematic martial arts flip.
Instead, Jack yanked the loose brick from the wall, stepped inside the tall guy's reach, and drove the rough edge straight into the man's exposed knee.
CRACK.
"AAAAAGH!"
The bone gave way with a sickening pop.
The tall man dropped to the wet pavement like a sack of lead, his folding knife clattering into a nearby mud puddle.
Jack didn't give him a second glance.
He stepped over the screaming man, leaning down close to the short guy who was still clutching his bloody nose.
"Rule number one," Jack whispered softly into his ear.
His voice was terrifyingly calm, completely detached from the violent chaos around them.
"Never bring a baseball bat to a brick fight."
The short guy froze.
He stared into Jack's eyes. There was no rage in them. No fear. Just a hollow, amused spark of pure madness.
The thug dropped his bat, grabbed his screaming buddy under the shoulders, and began dragging him backward out of the alley as fast as his boots could scramble.
"You're insane!" the thug shrieked, tears mixing with the blood on his face. "You're a f*ing psychopath!"
Jack didn't chase them.
He just stood there in the drizzling rain, watching them haul themselves out onto the main street.
"Come back soon!" Jack called out with a warm, friendly wave. "The conversation was lovely!"
When the sound of their frantic footsteps faded, Jack let out a long, heavy breath.
His legs felt like lead. His knuckles were scraped raw, and his heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird.
At 0.8%, he was still painfully human. That short scuffle had completely drained his tiny energy pool.
He looked down at the puddle.
Beside the dropped folding knife lay a worn leather wallet that had slipped from the tall thug's pocket.
Jack picked up both items.
He wiped the knife on his jeans, clicked it shut, and slid it into his pocket. Then he opened the wallet.
Forty-seven dollars in crumpled bills. A subway card. And a half-eaten pack of mint gum.
A quiet purple prompt floated in front of his eyes.
[ Task Completed! ]
[ Rewards Issued: ]
Synchronization: +0.2% (Current: 1.0%)
System Cash: $150 (Deposited)
[ Milestone Reached (1.0%): ]
Unlocked Trait: Poker Face (Tier 1) — Enhances emotional control and micro-expression reading during psychological pressure.
Jack felt a wave of cold clarity wash over his brain.
The splitting headache in his temple smoothed out into a calm, steady hum. His breathing settled, and the overwhelming noise of the city transformed into clear, readable rhythm.
He slid the cash into his hoodie—a total of $197.
"One percent," Jack muttered, pulling his hood over his head as he walked out toward the flickering neon lights of 8th Avenue.
"Not enough to beat an Avenger. But just enough to get a hot diner meal and a bed for the night."
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