The bell above the door gave a sad, rusted tink.
The 24-hour greasy spoon diner smelled of burnt coffee grounds, bleach, and old bacon grease.
Jack slid into a vinyl booth in the back corner.
The red leather cushion was cracked, dry foam leaking out from the side, but to his aching ribs, it felt like luxury.
A tired waitress in her mid-forties shuffled over, dropping a smudged plastic menu onto the Formica table.
She took one look at Jack's torn hoodie, wet hair, and scraped knuckles, but didn't even bat an eye.
This was Hell's Kitchen. Broken people walked in every twenty minutes.
"Coffee?" she asked, her voice dry as dirt.
"Black," Jack said softly.
He offered a polite, gentle smile—the kind that looked utterly harmless.
"And a double cheeseburger. Well done. Extra pickles."
"Five minutes," she grunted, turning back toward the counter.
Jack leaned back, resting his hands flat on the table.
He quietly activated his inner view.
[ System Status ]
Host Synchronization: 1.0%
Passive Traits: Poker Face (Tier 1), Basic Instincts of Chaos, Street Brawling (Rudimentary)
Current Funds: $197.00
System Points: 0
One percent, Jack thought, staring at his reflection in the dark window pane beside him.
His eyes looked slightly paler than before, the edges of his irises holding a faint, icy glint under the dim overhead bulb.
The Poker Face trait was already working.
Despite his body aching from the alley brawl, his facial muscles felt relaxed, perfectly under control.
He didn't look jittery. He looked like a calm, quiet stranger having a late-night snack.
Clack.
The waitress dropped a heavy ceramic mug of steaming black coffee in front of him.
"Food's coming up," she muttered.
"Thank you," Jack replied pleasantly.
He pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slid it onto the table.
"Keep the change."
The waitress paused. Her tired eyes blinked, taking in the twenty for a four-dollar cup of coffee.
Her posture softened instantly.
"Need anything else, sweetie? Extra napkins?"
"Just a copy of today's newspaper, if you have one lying around," Jack said with a faint smile.
"Sure thing."
Two minutes later, Jack was chewing into a greasy, hot burger while flipping through a damp copy of the Daily Bugle.
The headlines were full of the usual New York noise:
STARK INDUSTRIES UNVEILS NEW CLEAN ENERGY GRID IN MIDTOWN IS THE "DEVIL OF HELL'S KITCHEN" JUST A VIGILANTE TERRORIST? POLICE INVESTIGATE MYSTERY NIGHTCLUB ROBBERY IN MANHATTAN
Jack took a slow sip of his bitter coffee, his eyes skimming over the local crime reports.
Tony Stark is active. Daredevil is pounding thugs three blocks away from here. And S.H.I.E.L.D. is quietly monitoring the city from the clouds.
He was at the very bottom of the food chain.
A nameless ghost with $193 left in his pocket and a 1.0% Joker template.
If I start pulling loud stunts now, S.H.I.E.L.D. or Daredevil will drop me in a cell before sunrise, Jack reasoned, taking another bite of his burger.
I need a base. A clean set of clothes. And a way to turn small, chaos-seeded events into template gains without drawing the heavy hitters.
Suddenly, a quiet purple prompt flickered at the bottom of his vision:
[ Daily Micro-Task Available ]
Objective: Cause a minor, non-violent psychological disturbance to a local authority figure or criminal associate within 12 hours.
Reward: +0.1% Synchronization, $50 System Cash.
Jack let out a low, amused hum into his coffee mug.
"Zero point one percent," he murmured under his breath, his lips curving upward.
"A slow burn indeed. But every fire starts with a single match."
Jack finished his burger, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and stepped back out onto 8th Avenue.
The rain had softened into a thin, cold mist.
It was 3:15 AM.
He pulled his hood low over his face and began walking south. He needed a place to sleep—somewhere cheap, quiet, and far away from the 22nd Street Boys.
Four blocks down, he found what he was looking for: The Starlight Motel.
The neon sign buzzed loudly, half the letters dead, casting a harsh pink light over a rusted metal door.
Jack pushed the door open, stepping into the tiny, air-conditioned lobby.
Behind a sheet of bulletproof glass sat a bald, middle-aged clerk with a thick mustache. He was fast asleep, a small portable television on his desk buzzing with late-night infomercials.
Jack didn't knock on the glass.
Instead, he stood quietly in front of the window, using his newly unlocked Poker Face trait to observe the man.
He noticed the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the shelf behind the desk.
He noticed the small, unauthorized betting slip tucked under the clerk's keyboard—a local illegal sports book.
System micro-task, Jack thought, a subtle, sharp spark dancing in his eyes.
Cause a minor psychological disturbance to a local authority figure or criminal associate.
A small-time illegal gambler working a night shift fit the bill perfectly.
Jack reached out and tapped a single coin against the bulletproof glass.
TAP.
The clerk jolted awake, wiping drool from his chin. He scowled through the glass, taking in Jack's wet hoodie and calm posture.
"What?" the clerk barked into the crack of the intercom. "Forty bucks a night. Cash upfront. No refunds, no questions."
Jack didn't reach for his cash right away.
He slowly leaned closer to the glass, resting his forearms against the small metal tray.
His expression remained perfectly neutral, but his eyes locked onto the clerk's with a cold, unnerving intensity.
"Forty bucks is fair," Jack said, his voice smooth and dangerously relaxed.
"Though... if I were you, Eddie, I'd be far more concerned about the 4th race at Belmont tomorrow."
The clerk froze.
His hand, which had been reaching for a room key, stopped dead in mid-air.
"How... how do you know my name?" the clerk stammered, his eyes darting to his shirt—he wasn't wearing a name tag. "And what the hell are you talking about?"
Jack tilted his head slightly, giving a tiny, effortless smile.
"The odds on the third horse are rigged," Jack lied smoothly, his tone so confident it sounded like absolute gospel.
"Your bookie in Queens knows it. If you drop your three hundred dollars on that ticket tomorrow... you won't just lose your savings. You'll owe people who don't ask nicely."
The clerk's face drained of color.
His heart throbbed against his ribs. The betting slip under his keyboard was indeed for three hundred dollars—his entire month's side money.
How could a random kid walking in at three in the morning know the exact dollar amount and the location of his bookie?
Poker Face allowed Jack to read the subtle twitch in the clerk's jaw, confirming every blind guess he tossed out.
"W-Who sent you?" the clerk whispered, his voice trembling through the speaker. "Did Sal send you?"
Jack didn't answer.
He simply pulled two crisp hundred-dollar bills from his hoodie, slid them through the metal slot, and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the counter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Room key, please," Jack said softly. "And let's keep the change. For your upcoming financial... restructuring."
The clerk hastily grabbed a key from the wall and shoved it through the slot like it was burning his hand.
"Room 104," the clerk breathed out, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "End of the hall."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Eddie," Jack murmured.
He picked up the key, turned around, and walked down the dimly lit hallway.
Behind him, the clerk frantically grabbed his phone, his hands shaking so violently he could barely dial his bookie to cancel the bet.
A subtle violet light flickered across Jack's eyes.
[ Daily Micro-Task Completed! ]
[ Rewards Issued: ]
Synchronization: +0.1% (Current: 1.1%)
System Cash: $50 (Deposited)
Jack unlocked the door to Room 104.
The room smelled of stale tobacco and cheap detergent, but the bed was dry, and the lock on the heavy wooden door was solid.
He kicked off his wet shoes, threw his damp hoodie over a chair, and sank onto the edge of the mattress.
His current total cash stood at $203.
His synchronization was at 1.1%.
He pulled out the rusty folding knife he had taken from the alley thug, flipping it open and watching the dim light reflect off the steel blade.
"One point one percent," Jack whispered to the empty room, his smile slowly expanding across his face in the dark.
"Tomorrow, we buy a proper coat."
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