Chapter 2: FIRST DAY ON THE JOB
Morning came grey and cold through the basement windows.
I woke stiff, sore, and surprisingly well-rested. The drop cloth nest had done its job. More importantly, no cops had kicked in the door and no fellow squatters had stumbled on my hiding spot.
Small victories.
My stomach growled. First priority: food. Second priority: understand this System before it threw me into the deep end.
"System, show me my status."
[HOST: MARCUS COLE]
[LEVEL: 1]
[EXP: 0/1,000]
[VP: 0]
[VEN: 100/100]
[STATS:] [STR: 10 | AGI: 10 | VIT: 10 | END: 10] [INT: 12 | WIS: 10 | WIL: 12 | CHA: 10]
[SKILLS:] [TELEKINESIS (STAGE 1) — ACTIVE]
[INVENTORY: EMPTY]
Average across the board, except slightly higher intelligence and willpower. Made sense—those were probably carried over from my original self. A lifetime of spreadsheets and stubborn arguments with bureaucrats had to count for something.
"Explain VP."
[VENGEANCE POINTS. PRIMARY CURRENCY. EARNED THROUGH MISSION COMPLETION, TARGET ELIMINATION, AND BONUS OBJECTIVES. USED TO PURCHASE SKILLS, EQUIPMENT, SERVICES, AND INFORMATION FROM THE SYSTEM SHOP. SHOP ACCESS UNLOCKS AT LEVEL 7.]
Seven levels before I could buy anything. That meant grinding.
"And VEN?"
[VENGEANCE ENERGY. POOL OF POWER DRAWN FROM FOR ACTIVE ABILITIES. REGENERATES NATURALLY (1 + WIS/50 PER MINUTE). CURRENT REGENERATION RATE: 1.2 VEN/MINUTE. DEPLETION TO ZERO PREVENTS SKILL USE. OVERDRAFT INTO NEGATIVE VALUES COSTS HP INSTEAD.]
Mental mana, essentially. Use too much, start bleeding from the eyes. Noted.
I spent the next hour going through every menu, every submenu, every tooltip the System offered. The interface responded to mental commands—I could summon it, dismiss it, navigate through it all without moving my lips. Invisible to everyone else.
Key takeaways:
Missions were assigned by the System based on "karmic debt"—people who'd done terrible things and gotten away with it. Each mission had a threat rank (F through SS), a time limit, and optional bonus objectives. Completing missions earned EXP, VP, and sometimes skill rewards.
Stats could be trained through physical activity or improved through level-ups. Each level granted 5 free stat points. The caps were low for now—100 maximum—but something called "Awakening" could push them higher.
Telekinesis was my only ability, and it was pathetic. Stage 1 meant 50 kg max weight, 10 meter range, and accuracy roughly equivalent to throwing darts while drunk. I could push, pull, and lift—but fine manipulation was beyond me. No Magneto-style bullet manipulation. Not yet.
The System Shop was locked until Level 7, but I could see the preview: weapons, armor, skills, identity documents, even medical treatment. All purchasable with VP.
Identity documents. That caught my attention. The original Marcus Cole was a nobody—no family, no job listed, no digital footprint I could find in his wallet. But staying off the grid in modern America was nearly impossible. Eventually I'd need papers, a cover story, a way to exist legally.
That would take VP. VP required missions. Missions required not dying.
The circle completed itself.
[MISSION NOTIFICATION]
The alert flashed red in my vision. I straightened, suddenly very awake.
[F-RANK MISSION ASSIGNED]
[TARGET: GERALD WHITMORE]
[CRIME: SYSTEMATIC DOMESTIC ABUSE (8 YEARS). SUSPECTED HUMAN TRAFFICKING CONNECTIONS. TWO PREVIOUS VICTIMS HOSPITALIZED. CURRENT VICTIM: ANNA WHITMORE (WIFE). POLICE REPORTS FILED, CHARGES DROPPED DUE TO VICTIM COERCION/RECANTATION.]
[MISSION: DELIVER RETRIBUTION]
[TIME LIMIT: 7 DAYS]
[REWARDS: 500 EXP | 100 VP | SKILL: BASIC COMBAT (PASSIVE)]
[BONUS OBJECTIVES: CLASSIFIED UNTIL DISCOVERED]
A wife-beater who'd put two women in the hospital and was suspected of trafficking. The cops knew. Everyone knew. But he kept walking free because his victims were too scared to testify.
Classic.
I didn't hesitate for even a second.
"Accept mission."
[MISSION ACCEPTED]
[INTEL PACKAGE DOWNLOADING...]
Information flooded into my consciousness—address, daily schedule, physical description, known associates. The System had done its homework. Gerald Whitmore was a forty-three-year-old middle manager at a logistics company. Lived in a fourth-floor walk-up six blocks from here. Wife Anna, twenty-nine, former waitress, now unemployed. No children.
He left for work at 8 AM. Came home around 7 PM. The beatings usually started after his third beer, around 9 PM.
Tonight was Thursday. Good night for it.
But first—training.
I spent three dollars from Marcus Cole's wallet on a bodega coffee and a stale croissant. The coffee was terrible. The croissant was worse. Best meal I'd ever had.
Then I went hunting for a training ground.
Four blocks west, I found one: an abandoned gym in a building marked for demolition. The equipment was rusted, the mirrors cracked, but the space was private. Perfect.
I started with weights. Not lifting them—moving them.
A ten-pound dumbbell first. I focused, reached with that mental muscle, and pushed. The dumbbell scraped across the floor. Lifted an inch. Trembled.
[VEN: 92/100]
Again. And again. Each time, the movement became slightly more controlled. Less shaking. More direction.
After an hour, I could reliably lift ten pounds and move it in straight lines. After two hours, I could make it curve.
[VEN: 34/100]
My head pounded. Nose bleeding slightly. The mental strain was like running a marathon, except the exhaustion was behind my eyes instead of in my legs. I sat down on a bench, wiped my nose, and waited for VEN to regenerate.
While waiting, I practiced something else: weapons.
In the gym's back room, I found a box of old kitchen knives someone had dumped. I took the sharpest one—a six-inch chef's knife—and weighed it in my hand. Then I set up a target: a stack of cardboard boxes against the far wall.
First throw: missed by three feet.
Second throw: hit the wall, bounced off.
Third throw: barely clipped the edge of the boxes.
This isn't working.
I retrieved the knife, returned to my starting position, and tried something different. Instead of throwing it manually, I held the knife flat on my palm and pushed it with TK.
The knife shot forward—too fast, too uncontrolled. It buried itself in the wall two feet left of the target.
Better. But not good enough.
I spent the next three hours refining the technique. Push speed. Spin control. Trajectory adjustment. By late afternoon, I could reliably send the knife into a target from ten meters away, three times out of five.
[VEN: 67/100]
[SKILL PROFICIENCY: TELEKINESIS (STAGE 1) — 12% → 18%]
Progress. Slow, painful progress. But progress.
Night fell. I returned to my basement hideout, ate another bodega sandwich (questionable meat, limp lettuce, somehow delicious), and studied the mission intel again.
Gerald Whitmore. Fourth floor. Alone with his wife. Armed with—according to the System's notes—a .38 revolver kept in the couch cushions.
I couldn't fight a gun. Not yet. But I didn't have to. I had telekinesis.
The plan crystallized. Simple. Brutal. Effective.
Wait until late. Enter the apartment. Disarm him before he can react. Then... deliver retribution.
The last part should have bothered me more. It didn't. Maybe that made me a monster. Maybe the System chose me because it knew I was already broken in the right ways.
Or maybe some people just need killing.
I lay on my drop cloth nest, knife tucked under the fabric beside me, and stared at the pipes crossing the basement ceiling. In a few hours, I was going to take a life.
Tomorrow, I'd either be a murderer or a corpse.
The pipes dripped water. Somewhere above, footsteps crossed a floor. The city hummed its endless song of sirens and traffic and human chaos.
Marcus Cole closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it would be time to work.
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