After leaving the rooftop, Joren did not return home.
One problem solved usually meant another waiting.
To prevent complications from spreading, he headed straight for Jamaica Avenue.
His destination:
OLD MAN'S TREASURES & LOANS
A pawn shop that looked ordinary enough to avoid attention — which, in New York, usually meant it wasn't.
Ding-a-ling—
The door chime rang.
Behind the counter, a bald, thick-necked man with a wrestler's build examined a gold chain through a jeweler's loupe. His forearms were inked, his knuckles scarred.
He didn't look up immediately.
When he did, his eyes lingered on Joren's school uniform.
"Kid," he said flatly, "we don't take student IDs."
"I'm looking for something."
The man lowered the loupe.
Mockery spread across his face.
"I got plenty of things. You buying, or wasting oxygen?"
Joren tapped the wooden counter once.
"A blue gemstone. Sold by a silver-haired woman. Within the past forty-eight hours."
The man's eyes flickered.
Just once.
Then the sneer returned.
"If you don't have money, get out. You're blocking business."
Joren said nothing.
Silence stretched.
The pawn broker felt it.
Something cold.
Predatory.
This boy's gaze didn't belong to a teenager.
It belonged to something that had already decided the outcome.
"What are you staring at?" he barked, slamming his palm on the counter. "You want me to call the cops?"
Joren exhaled softly.
Ugh.
Why are there always people who refuse to understand simple language?
Star Platinum appeared silently behind him.
Invisible.
Unavoidable.
It reached across the counter—
—and seized the man by the collar.
The 280-pound broker lifted clean off the floor.
"Ugh—!"
An invisible force crushed his throat.
His legs kicked wildly.
Air would not enter his lungs.
His eyes bulged in terror.
"I'll ask once more," Joren said calmly.
"Where is the gem?"
The man clawed at nothing.
His face turned purple.
With the last of his strength, he pointed toward a landscape painting behind him.
Star Platinum released him.
He collapsed hard onto the tile, coughing violently and dragging air into burning lungs.
Joren walked around the counter.
He removed the painting.
Behind it:
a wall safe.
He glanced back.
"The combination."
"…13… 13… 07…" the man wheezed, trembling.
Joren dialed.
Click.
The safe opened.
Inside, resting on black velvet, lay a perfectly cut deep-blue gemstone the size of a pigeon's egg.
Even in dim light, it shimmered with oceanic depth.
Cold.
Elegant.
Dangerous.
Joren picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
He adjusted his hat brim and turned toward the door.
"W-wait… sir…"
The broker struggled upright, face pale.
"You're just… taking it?"
Joren paused.
"What else?"
"I paid one hundred fifty thousand dollars for that stone!"
His voice cracked.
"That's my money!"
Joren looked at him without emotion.
"When you accept stolen property, you accept the risk of losing everything."
He left.
The door chime rang once more.
The broker slid down against the counter, shaking.
He did not reach for the phone.
Men like him understood survival.
Outside, night traffic hummed.
The gem pressed against Joren's palm through the fabric of his pocket.
Across the street, a silver-haired silhouette flickered across a rooftop railing.
He did not look up.
He had already retrieved what mattered.
He had been out long enough.
Home. Wash. Rest.
One nuisance per day was sufficient.
Rooftop
Felicia Hardy lay flat against the concrete, wrists bruised, ribs aching.
She watched his figure disappear into the flow of pedestrians.
He never looked back.
Never acknowledged her existence.
The humiliation burned hotter than the pain.
She was Black Cat.
A legend of Manhattan penthouses.
A ghost in museum vaults.
A nightmare whispered among private security firms.
And to him?
She wasn't even worth remembering.
Her fingers curled into fists.
Revenge flared — but she suppressed it.
Direct confrontation meant defeat.
Then she smiled slowly.
If I can't beat you…
I can ruin you.
Manhattan — Unlisted Penthouse
This was her real base.
Glass walls overlooked a glittering skyline.
Tonight, she ignored the view.
In the study, high-end monitors bathed the room in cold blue light.
Encrypted tunnels opened.
Municipal databases unraveled.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard.
71-06 Ingram Street
Property records: encrypted.
Interesting.
Three firewall layers.
State registry cross-reference.
Utility account metadata.
Thirty-seven minutes later:
JOESTAR FAMILY
Jonathan Joestar
Shirley Joestar
Joren Joestar
Felicia leaned back.
Uncommon surname.
She dug deeper.
New York Department of Education network.
Security laughable.
Midtown High School.
Grade 11.
Joren Joestar
His student ID photo filled the screen.
Expression blank.
Eyes unreadable.
The same boy.
A high school student.
That realization stung more than the rooftop fight.
She opened Midtown High's homepage.
A banner notice filled the screen:
[School closed for one week due to structural damage. Reopening date pending.]
Felicia's lips curled.
One week.
She looked from the notice to his photo.
A plan formed instantly.
You like pretending to be an ordinary student…
"So preventing you from graduating," she murmured, "might be entertaining."
She closed the hacking consoles.
Opened a blank document.
Loaded forged credential templates.
New York State transfer records.
Immunization forms.
Residency verification seals.
The cursor blinked beside NAME.
She paused.
Considering.
Selecting a new identity.
An identity that could walk into Midtown High unquestioned.
"Joren Joestar…"
Her smile sharpened.
"The game has only just begun."