It was very late.
There is no true night in a Los Angeles basement—only the difference between the light being on and off. Mason made his way back to the rental that was about to see its monthly rent hike from six hundred to seven hundred dollars, he found the pipe on the ceiling dripping.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He stood at the door, key inserted into the lock, but he didn't turn it immediately. His fingers froze on the cold metal, as if he had suddenly forgotten what to do next.
Finally, the door was pushed open.
The smell of mildew, damp air, and the pungent odor of cheap disinfectant and old fabric hit him all at once. The light switched on, mercilessly illuminating the cramped space—a single bed, a folding table, a chair with peeling paint, and a small refrigerator that looked like it could break down at any moment.
Nothing had changed.
Mason stood there for a moment, then closed the door. He leaned against it, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
He didn't move right away.
The scene from the mall replayed in his mind—the two angry faces, passersby holding up phones, the security guard's low, mechanical voice.
De-escalation. Coordination. Further handling.
They sounded polite, even professional. But Mason understood perfectly what their words meant.
It meant the matter wasn't over. It meant this thing would come for him again, completely unprepared.
He slowly stood up, took off his jacket, and draped it over the back of the chair. The cuff was stiff, stained with a drink spilled on him during the shoving match at the mall, now dried into a light brown patch.
Mason couldn't be bothered to care.
He walked to the table, pulled open the drawer, and took out a small notebook from the very back. The cover was worn, still bearing the traces of a torn-off convenience store discount sticker.
He opened it. His fingers paused, then slowly turned to the back.
This page—he had looked at it countless times.
Neat handwriting listed the expenses one by one:
Back rent: $300
This month's rent: $600
Electricity: $87
Phone bill: $45
Metro pass (7 days): $31.50
Next to the total, he had drawn a clear line, the result of his careful calculations.
Loan repayment: $1000
The ink of that line was deeper than anywhere else on the page.
Mason stared at the numbers for a long time before picking up his phone.
The screen lit up. The banking app opened automatically. The balance lay at the top like something chronically malnourished, barely clinging to life.
He suddenly remembered what the woman at the mall had said to him earlier that afternoon—
"Can you afford it?"
He hadn't answered her.
Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how.
$144.50. That was all he had to live on for the next seven days.
Food. Transport. Emergencies. And now, this thing, completely beyond his control.
His phone vibrated.
Mason looked down. An unfamiliar number.
He didn't answer immediately.
The vibration stopped, then started again.
He finally pressed answer and put the phone to his ear.
"Mason Cooper?" It was the security guard's voice from before. It was lower now.
"Yes."
"Management has finalized the compensation details and is formally notifying you," the man said, pausing as if choosing his words. "Both parties have agreed not to involve the police for now, but they are demanding compensation."
Mason's fingers tightened.
"Fourteen hundred?"
Silence on the other end for two seconds.
"Yes. Seven hundred dollars each," the guard said. "For the damaged clothing and emotional distress. A total of fourteen hundred dollars."
Fourteen hundred.
The number flashed through Mason's mind, then landed back on the balance on his screen.
$1400.
"They've given a deadline," the guard continued. "Seven days. If the payment is overdue, they will formally proceed."
The meaning of "formally" needed no explanation.
Mason didn't respond immediately.
The person on the other end didn't rush him, just waited quietly.
After a long moment, Mason said in a low voice, "...Okay."
"You... try to figure something out," the guard said. It didn't sound like professional consolation, just the limited kindness one ordinary person could offer another.
The call ended.
Silence returned to the basement.
The pipe still dripped.
Mason put his phone on the table, then sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress creaked softly, as if protesting his weight.
$1,400. Seven days.
He didn't need to calculate again. The conclusion was obvious.
By conventional means—it was impossible.
Overtime? The convenience store had already cut his hours to the minimum.
Borrow money? The loan shark's calls were growing increasingly impatient.
Friends? He scrolled through his contacts but couldn't find a single person he could muster the courage to call.
Mason lowered his head, his hands hanging limp between his knees.
He didn't curse. He didn't rage.
There was only a slow, heavy pressure building in his chest, making each breath harder than the last.
Then, a slight burning sensation came from the inside of his left wrist.
Not pain, more like... a presence.
Mason raised his hand, looking at the golden symbol, now faded to almost invisible.
He remembered what happened after the snap in the mall.
And the description of this ability was utterly absurd, almost malicious:
"You can never buy genuine goods."
At the time, he thought it was ridiculous.
"What if... just what if, it's real? What if it's not just a curse?"
Then, at the very least, it meant one thing—
Perhaps the rules could be used in reverse.
Mason's gaze shifted from the pay stub on the corner of the table to the notebook, and finally settled back on that number.
For the first time, he didn't look away.
From next door came the sound of a suppressed, tearful argument, seeping through the paper-thin walls. It was his young, live-alone neighbor, Sarah, it seemed, arguing with someone on the phone again.
"...I said no! Not this month... Please, just a few more days..." The woman's voice trembled with desperation. "...I know... but I really don't have that much... Please..."
Mason instinctively held his breath. This sound of being cornered by debt was all too familiar to him. The helplessness and fear in that voice were like an icy needle, puncturing the pitifully weak spark of hope that his crazy thought had just ignited.
A few seconds later, a dull thud, as if a phone had been slammed against something, followed by the woman's sobs, no longer able to be suppressed. The crying wasn't loud, but it was as clear as a blunt knife in the dead silence of the basement, pounding against Mason's nerves.
The commotion subsided, only to be replaced by a rhythmic, wanton moaning and the violent creaking of bedsprings from the next room, interspersed with a man's heavy panting. The live-alone neighbor, the one who always wore heavy makeup, apparently had another "client" tonight. The scent of cheap perfume and something vaguely biological seemed to seep through cracks in the wall, mingling with the basement's inherent damp and mildew, making him nauseous.
In this swamp of debt, desire, and despair, the insane idea about the "rules" in Mason's mind, however, became exceptionally clear and cold, like steel hardened by fire.
He slowly stood up and walked to the only window, which faced a narrow airshaft, letting in a sliver of light. Outside, a stray cat was fighting over scraps near a dumpster, letting out a piercing shriek.
Standing on the street in the cold, damp night air, Mason lit a cigarette. The acrid smoke filled his lungs, offering a false sense of comfort. He looked at the harsh lights of the 24-hour convenience store in the distance, at the occasional luxury car carrying carefree revelers, and a sense of being utterly abandoned by the whole world washed over him.
A thick plume of smoke was exhaled, twisting and dissipating under the dim streetlight, just like his dwindling hope.
"Rules..." he muttered to the empty street, in a voice only he could hear. "If these rules are real... where can they take me?"
He stubbed the cigarette out fiercely on the lid of a water-filled trash can, producing a sharp hiss. He turned and walked back towards the door leading to the basement.
The dripping of the pipe continued.
But this time, the sound was no longer just a countdown to despair. It was more like an icy prod, urging him to do something, anything, regardless of the consequences.