Ari chose work the way he chose everything else now: for function. He did not look for stability or advancement. He looked for access.
Jobs that required uniforms and silence. Jobs that involved keys, codes, schedules. Jobs that placed him inside spaces others assumed were neutral—unthreatening, forgettable.
He started with night cleaning.
The work was physical but controlled, repetitive enough to dull the noise without exhausting him. He learned which doors stayed unlocked after hours, which alarms were temperamental, which buildings emptied completely by midnight.
He learned how people forgot the presence of someone who wore the right colors and moved without hesitation.
"Just do your route and don't make trouble," his supervisor said on the first night.
Ari nodded. He never made trouble.
He learned to enter rooms as if he belonged there. To carry himself with quiet confidence. To pass security desks without comment. To exist in the background of other people's assumptions.
Access accumulated quickly.
From cleaning, he moved into maintenance shifts—temporary contracts that handed him tools and permissions without scrutiny. He fixed locks he didn't break. He replaced fixtures. He learned the architecture of places that were not meant to be examined closely.
Hospitals. Schools. Offices.
The spaces fascinated him—not emotionally, but structurally. He noted blind spots. He noted routines. He noted how people behaved when they believed they were alone.
The noise inside him rose and fell, responsive now to opportunity. The fantasies adjusted accordingly, sharpening with real-world details. Not anticipation—calculation.
Ari did not rush. He understood timing mattered.
One evening, assigned to a late shift in an office building, he worked floor by floor as lights clicked off behind him. By the time he reached the upper levels, the building was empty, silent in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental.
He paused in a hallway, listening. The silence was clean. Not perfect—but promising.
Ari resumed his work with steady hands. He took note of exits, stairwells, security schedules. The knowledge layered itself neatly, without excitement or dread.
This, he realized, was how opportunity formed.
Not in dramatic moments. Not in impulse. In quiet preparation.
By the time his shift ended, the noise had retreated to a low, patient thrum. Ari stepped outside into the cool night air, feeling focused rather than relieved.
Access did not bring silence. But it brought options. And options felt closer to control than anything he'd known before.
As he walked back to his room, Ari considered the path opening in front of him—not as destiny, not as desire, but as alignment. His needs and the world's gaps were beginning to overlap.
He did not smile. He did not hurry.
Opportunity, he understood, rewarded those who waited inside it.
And for the first time since leaving home, Ari felt something settle firmly into place—not freedom, not relief, but readiness.
The pressure would return.
When it did, he would have somewhere to put it.
Soon.