He stared at the system menu until his eyes hurt, blinking through the rows of icons and new unlocks, feeling the pulse of the system quietly in his vision. Level up had unlocked new things, and he still sat on the curb outside the convenience store as the night smelled of wet concrete and old cigarettes.
[New Unlocks Available - View?]
He opened the menu and scanned rows of weapons, utilities, passives, and consumables, until one caught his eye immediately: Recovery Kit - 2,000 points. "Heals all injuries. Single use." He checked his points and saw he had more than enough, so he bought it. The cost blinked, points dropped, a soft chime sounded, and a menu confirmed the kit had been added to his inventory. He stared at it for a long second, then tapped Use.
Light washed through his vision, not bright, not dramatic, just a steady, warm glow that spread from his chest outward. Pain unwound like a twisted rope, his ribs stopped stabbing, cuts closed, and the black taste in his mouth faded. The weight lifted, his breath came easier, and it was almost painless how cleanly it healed him. He sat back on the curb and put his hands on his ribs, feeling them whole, and blinked. "Okay," he muttered to himself.
He scrolled through the rest of the unlocked items, noting the many shiny icons, the pretty names, the tools he wanted and could have used, but he didn't buy them - not yet. Points could be spent faster than he could earn them, and he made a mental note: prioritize survival, prioritize practical, not pretty. He closed the system and looked up at the sky, which was almost dawn, and his phone buzzed in his pocket. He thought about streaming again, about the pinned ape, the broken rigging, the rebar stuck like ribs in the theater, and about his hands - scarred, black with grime.
He stood and walked home slowly, barely registering his neighbor's morning shuffle, and when he opened the apartment door, the smell of old plaster and fried oil greeted him. He did a quick sweep, found everything in order, and collapsed on the bed as his thoughts slowed and he slept immediately.
---
Somewhere far from his apartment, in a government facility, fluorescent lights hummed as a woman with twin black ponytails walked down the intake corridor, carrying crates and boxes in her arms. She looked young and fierce, with the air of someone who could wear costumes for fun and work in the same breath. Each crate bore labels: Containment: Active. The handlers watched her with thin, stressed faces, shuffling papers as if trying to make the world behave. She set the crates down with a small smile, and one of the officers approached.
He was older, efficient, and his name badge read Du Pung. He took in the crates, then her, and smirked slightly. "You brought all of these yourself?" he asked. She gave a little bow of the head, mocking and polite. "Who else?" she said, expecting praise. Du Pung did not give praise; he only scanned the inventory and typed fast. He glanced at her and said her name like he knew her very well. "Ruby."
She raised a brow and answered the same. "Du Pung." She watched him write. "Heavy week," he said without looking up. "Also heavy pay," she replied. He paused, looked at her, and asked, "You want your compensation now?" She smiled and joked, "My money better be in the millions," voice light. Du Pung didn't laugh, only nodded. "Follow me," he said, and she did, walking with the ease of someone who knew the rules while officials moved around them, phones rang, people in suits talked on headsets, and the smell of coffee and sterile metal hung in the air.
Du Pung led her into a back room and locked the door behind them. "Sign here," he said, sliding a tablet across the table. She signed; he didn't look amused. He signed too, completing paperwork, signatures, and official stamps. "Good work," he said at last. She grinned. "Of course," she replied, picking up the boxes and leaving Du Pung to his forms. He watched her go, made a note on his pad, tracked the crates, and entered her name into his system with a small, private nudge, calculating her compensation. Outside the locked door, rubber boots squeaked as handlers loaded captured things into larger containment units, the facility smelling of controlled danger, while Ruby walked down the corridor, lights humming, never looking back. Du Pung folded his hands against the table and returned to reconciling numbers and lists that would not stop growing.
---
Daryl slept until sunlight hit his face and woke to the vibration of his phone. He blinked, reached for it, and checked his bank balance out of habit - the first thing he always did. His thumb hovered over the app, and when he opened it, the number made his eyes go wide: ¥84,500. He swallowed, his hands shaking. He had made that much in one night, in one stream, and he laughed a short, sharp laugh of disbelief. "Wow," he muttered, stomach twisting with unsteady joy, thinking of rent, food for the next month, and his mom's voice in his head. She'd be proud, maybe. He now had enough to pay Lina's share.
He walked across the hall and knocked on the old landlady's door. The door opened, and the old woman peered out, squinting. "Dayle-" she began, but he corrected her. "Daryl," he said. She smiled. "Yes?" he explained that he had sent money and wanted her to remind Lina when she got home from class. "She's at college today," she said. He nodded. "Okay." She disappeared briefly, returning with a small ceramic dish. "A pudding I made," she said. He accepted it with both hands. "Thanks," he said, and walked back to his apartment.
He sat at the small table, placed the pudding before him, and opened the system again to check items he could buy. Points were still showing, and he purchased a few small, practical things he had planned for earlier - items to reinforce mobility and make capture and containment more reliable, small purchases focused on survival, leaving the fancy options for later. He used his remaining points in the way he thought most useful. Then he noticed the last Wheel chance.
[Wheel - Final Free Spin Available]
His finger hovered, remembering the last time luck had given him a vacuum. Luck might give him something else. He spun. The wheel clicked, lights flashed, it slowed, and then stopped: Tether Mask. A black iron mask with a sharp chain. The description read only: "???" - no effects listed, no explanation. He turned it over in the menu, frowning, shrugged, and saved it to inventory, telling himself it was another tool and that the system would reveal its purpose when needed.
He picked up the spoon and dug into the pudding, warm and sweet, and smiled despite exhaustion. He thought about calling his mother but set the phone down. Then the notification popped up on his screen, a short line, a name he hadn't seen in a long time. He paused the spoon and read, and the room went quiet.