Chapter 5: Ctrl + Cash
Two weeks of freelancing later, Aria had finally stopped flinching every time he checked his bank balance.
It wasn't impressive—not yet—but it no longer gave him heart palpitations. Thanks to his "miraculous tech sense," which had popped into existence the moment Bri muttered "You're, like, really good at this computer stuff," Aria had become a teenage tech whisperer. He fixed everything from clunky desktops to suspiciously sticky laptops, mostly for cash-strapped students and overworked uncles running side hustles out of their basements.
He worked out of the library, cafés, and occasionally the back of a bodega when someone whispered, "My cousin's hard drive died, but the FBI can't see it, ya feel me?"
Aria nodded every time. He absolutely did not feel them.
Still, the gigs paid. Barely. It was enough for groceries, a cheap hoodie to replace the ketchup-stained one, and to keep his flip phone loaded with prepaid minutes. Not glamorous, but better than eating instant noodles cold while pretending it was "sushi."
He kept his body busy, too. Morning runs in the neighborhood park, shadowboxing in abandoned corners of the gym, and occasionally sparring with Zeke behind the school after class. "You're scary fast for a nerd," Zeke had said once, panting after a light match.
Aria had bowed mock-formally and muttered, "Just anime cardio."
But today was different.
Today, he was desperate.
The freelance market had dried up that week—college kids were back in class, and nobody wanted to spend cash unless their computer actually burst into flames.
So Aria found himself browsing Craigslist in a café, sipping watery coffee and frowning at posts that read like scams but felt like destiny.
> "Need a whiz kid to help update my bakery's website—cash under the table."
"Perfect," Aria muttered, clicking on it.
Five hours and one very tense meeting with a paranoid baker later, he'd rebuilt her whole homepage, showed her how to run promos, and somehow also repaired her broken receipt printer.
"You're a total lifesaver," she said, handing over $150 in crumpled bills. Then she added with a grin, "And you've got great fingers for this stuff. Ever think about piano?"
Aria blinked.
And blinked again.
Because in that moment, something shifted—not in his mind, but in his hands.
He felt it—an unfamiliar awareness of each tendon, joint, and movement. He flexed his fingers and instantly knew how to apply pressure with perfect precision, how to stretch to reach keys he'd never touched, how to glide like he'd been playing Chopin since birth.
"…What the hell?" he whispered, hiding his hands under the table like they'd grown extra joints.
It was happening again.
Just like with the tech thing.
This wasn't just skills anymore—this felt different. His fingers were longer, slightly leaner, his wrists more flexible. She complimented my hands, he realized, stomach sinking.
"Oh no."
Was he about to morph into some weird Frankenstein of everyone's throwaway flattery?
The cafeteria was alive with the usual chaos—teenagers yelling across tables, someone trying to trade a pudding cup for fries, and the unmistakable scent of something vaguely resembling chicken curry wafting through the air.
Aria sat sandwiched between Zeke and Bri, doing his best to mind his own business while stabbing at his lunch with the grace of a malfunctioning robot.
"So," Bri said, licking ranch off her fry, "you've definitely trained in martial arts, right?"
Zeke smirked. "Nah, he's too quiet to be a street fighter. I'm going with... secret ninja. One hundred percent."
Liyana leaned across the table, squinting at Aria. "He does have the mysterious transfer student vibe. And those dead-inside eyes? Peak anime protagonist."
"I'm just trying to eat my tater tots," Aria said flatly.
Bri grinned. "Exactly what a ninja would say."
"You people are ridiculous."
"Come on," Zeke teased, nudging his elbow. "You moved like bam in gym. Fluid. Catlike. That dodge roll? That was shinobi level."
"Seriously," Bri added, eyes twinkling, "if you told me you trained with a martial arts master in the mountains and could vanish into a puff of smoke, I'd believe you."
Liyana snapped her fingers. "I knew it. Aria's probably got a stash of throwing stars and smoke bombs under his bed."
"Right," Aria said dryly. "And I teleport to school every morning on a hawk."
They all burst into laughter, but as the moment passed and the teasing faded into new lunch chatter, Aria froze.
Because something had shifted.
In his mind, in his body, like a lever quietly flipping in the background.
His sense of space had changed. The cafeteria suddenly felt sharper—every chair scrape, every laugh, every flicker of movement pinged in his awareness like radar. His posture corrected itself instinctively, like his body just knew how to sit with perfect balance.
And then there was the backpack.
It felt… different. He reached down absently to adjust it, then blinked. Something solid and unfamiliar was nestled in the side pocket.
He opened it slowly, hiding the movement under the table.
His fingers wrapped around cold metal.
He pulled out a matte black object the size of his palm.
A shuriken.
A real, gleaming, deadly throwing star.
He gawked at it, nearly choking on his soda. "What the—"
"Dude?" Zeke leaned closer. "You good?"
Aria shoved it back into the bag like it was radioactive. "Yeah. Fine. Just, uh… remembered I left the oven on."
"You don't have an oven," Bri said with a raised eyebrow.
"Exactly," he said.
There was a moment of silence. Then the group laughed again, shaking their heads.
Liyana just looked at him for a beat too long. "Weirdo."
Aria didn't answer.
Because in the back of his mind, a new instinct unfurled—how to breathe silently through the nose, how to feel airflow in a room, how to judge the weight of a projectile in his hand.
The others went back to arguing about who would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse.
Aria stared at his tray.
I just got ninja powers from a cafeteria joke.
He shook his head, muttering, "This is getting out of hand."
And from deep in his backpack, the throwing star glinted like it agreed.
The streets of Queens were quieter than usual. Streetlights buzzed above, casting long shadows across cracked sidewalks and overflowing trash bins. Aria adjusted the strap of his backpack and kept walking, the chill air slipping through his thrift-store hoodie.
He'd just wrapped up a freelance job helping a small business owner sort out some network issues. Decent money for an hour of work, and enough to eat for the next few days without touching the emergency stash.
He turned the corner into a narrower street—a shortcut. He knew it was a bad idea the moment he stepped in.
Three silhouettes peeled off from the side of a bodega. They weren't loud, but they weren't subtle either. One of them slapped a bat against his palm in the kind of rhythm that said "we've done this before."
Aria stopped walking. His heart picked up speed, but his hands stayed loose at his sides. The middle guy—short, wide-shouldered, probably the one who thought he was in charge—stepped forward.
"Yo. Lemme hold that bag, bro."
Aria didn't answer.
He wasn't looking for trouble, but after everything these last couple of weeks—dodging rent, stacking freelance gigs, discovering he could somehow learn things just from compliments—he didn't exactly feel helpless anymore.
The leader moved in, hand already reaching.
Aria twisted.
It was fast—clean, like muscle memory. He shifted his weight, turned with the grab, and let the guy's momentum slide past. The dude stumbled forward and nearly hit the pavement.
The other two hesitated, caught off-guard by how natural it looked. One came in quick with a right hook.
Aria ducked under it, pivoted, and tapped the guy's knee with the edge of his shoe just enough to buckle it. Then a palm to the chest sent him backward.
That left one.
They locked eyes.
The last guy—thin, hoodie half-zipped—hesitated just long enough to reconsider his life choices. "Man, what the hell…" he muttered before backing off, dragging his groaning friend with him.
Aria stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, blood warm. He hadn't even pulled the throwing star that had appeared in his sock drawer two days ago. Not that he was planning to. It was just… nice to have options.
He exhaled and adjusted his bag. His legs felt solid. His body? Tuned.
Still him. Still broke. Still tired.
But not helpless.
He turned back down the street without looking over his shoulder. And as he walked away, he couldn't help muttering to himself:
"Okay. That was either very cool… or very stupid."
The morning crowd in Queens was the usual mix of groggy commuters, honking traffic, and corner-store radios blasting reggaeton. Aria stuck to the side streets, hood up, headphones in—but the music wasn't playing. He was listening.
No bat-wielding punks in sight.
Yet.
He ducked into the bodega like a man on a secret mission. Not that it helped. Samir, the owner, clocked him the moment he stepped through the door.
"You alive," Samir said without looking up from the register. "That's a win."
"Barely," Aria muttered, walking straight to the noodle aisle.
Samir leaned on the counter. "You made noise last night. Those punks you scrapped? Word is they're part of the River Street Crew."
Aria paused mid-reach. "They got a name? Great. Gangs with names are always a bad sign."
"They've been hassling small businesses around here for months," Samir said. "Kids mostly, but stupid and mean is still dangerous."
He lowered his voice. "You humiliated 'em. Don't expect flowers."
Aria tossed a pack of noodles into his basket. "I didn't humiliate them. I defended myself. Which apparently is now a crime if someone else looks stupid doing it."
Samir gave a half-smile. "Look, I ain't judging. Just—keep your head down."
No problem, Aria thought. That's the plan.
But as he walked back outside, he could feel the eyes. Not from Samir. Not from anyone he could see. Just that subtle, crawling awareness that someone was tracking his steps.
---
That Evening (Back Alley Shortcut)
Queens at night was a different beast. Quieter. Shadows stretched longer. Sound carried.
Aria had one ear out for trouble as he walked home, backpack slung tight, and a screwdriver poking out of his front pocket like a makeshift weapon. Not that he needed it.
He'd been training. Every day.
Pushups in stairwells. Shadowboxing behind dumpsters. Practicing rolls on dirty rooftops that definitely weren't OSHA compliant. It wasn't glamorous, but it helped burn the nervous energy—and keep his reflexes sharp.
That "ninja" comment still weirded him out, but it worked. He moved quieter now. Felt lighter. More aware.
It wasn't magic. Just… a shift. Like muscle memory he never earned but now owned.
Then came the click.
Footsteps behind him. Three sets.
He didn't turn around.
Instead, he kept walking, casually shifted his weight, and glanced at the window glass ahead to catch a reflection. Two guys from last night. A third, bigger one trailing.
He exhaled slowly.
"Yo, hoodie boy," one called out. "Got a minute?"
Aria stopped at the alley's mouth, turned slightly.
"Sorry. No interviews."
Wrong move.
The big one rushed in first, swinging low. Aria dodged to the side instinctively, using the guy's momentum to shove him against the wall. The smaller one lunged next—Aria ducked under, swept his leg, and the kid hit the pavement with a loud oof.
He was ready for the third.
But the third wasn't moving. Just standing there.
Smiling.
"Relax, man," the guy said. "We ain't here to kill you."
Aria narrowed his eyes.
"We just wanna talk. Boss wants a word."
Boss?
"Not interested," Aria said quickly, backing away.
"We're not asking," the guy replied, still calm.
Aria sprinted.
Not because he couldn't take them.
But because this wasn't about winning a fight anymore.
It was the start of something bigger.
Aria didn't run like an athlete.
He ran like a man who'd just realized the bodega across the street was not giving out free pizza slices, and now he had to commit to the sprint like his life depended on it.
Because, well… it kind of did.
He zipped around corners, ducked under scaffolding, and vaulted over a tipped trash can like he'd trained for this exact escape—which, weirdly enough, he kind of had. The ninja compliment from Bri the other day hadn't just made him faster—he knew where to step, how to breathe, when to pivot. It was like instinct had downloaded a cheat code.
He didn't stop until the battered red brick building of St. Maria's Shelter came into view. The busted "R" in the flickering sign above made it look like ST. MA IA'S, which made it sound more like a low-budget space station than a community home, but whatever. Home was home.
Aria slipped through the front doors, slowed his breathing just enough to avoid looking suspicious, and casually strolled into the common area.
"Back from your modeling gig already?" Denise called, squinting at him from behind the front desk. "You smell like New York's armpit."
"Ah, yes," Aria replied, voice even, "Eau de Q-train, now with extra panic."
She raised a brow. "What?"
"Nothing."
He shuffled toward the shared rec room where a handful of shelter regulars were watching daytime TV and arguing about whether Judge Judy could legally throw a gavel at someone.
Roy grunted from the couch. "You good, kid? You look like someone just tried to sell you a haunted microwave."
"Not haunted," Aria said, "just overpriced." He dropped onto the armrest and grabbed a warm soda off the table. "Freelance hustle. Things got... brisk."
"Dude, it's October," muttered Marcus without looking up from his crossword.
"Exactly," Aria said. "Brisk."
No one questioned him further. No one asked why his hoodie had a fresh tear at the side or why he kept glancing out the window.
Safe.
Invisible.
He sipped his off-brand cola and let the buzz of the shelter muffle the memory of the thug's face—how that guy had snarled at him like he already owned him.
Aria hated that look. He wasn't letting himself get pulled into some turf-war nonsense. No way. Not until he had at least three more skills unlocked, a backup plan, and possibly a legal throwing star license.
The others went back to their own chaos—Uno games, laundry folding, arguing about canned tuna—and Aria leaned back on the couch.
His thoughts drifted.
"If only someone would say, 'Wow, you're so good with weapons,'" he mused silently, "or maybe, 'You'd be amazing with a katana'… something cool, y'know? Even a 'dude, you'd rock a crossbow' would do it. But nooooo. Throwing stars. Freakin' throwing stars."
He sighed.
Then, under his breath:
"…What I'd give for someone to say I'm a natural with a flamethrower."