I wake before the first light again, muscles aching from yesterday's sprint. My throat is raw from shouting into my pillow, but the ache is a reminder I'm alive. I press my hand against the rough plaster of the tenement wall and steady myself as the world shifts from black to charcoal gray. Each dawn feels like a new summons.
I dress quickly in the patched coat, noting with satisfaction that the tear I hastily mended has faded into one more scar on fabric as worn as I am. In my pocket, the journal's weight grounds me—every credit logged, every slight remembered. I pause at my door, glance back at Mama's sleeping form, drawn thin by worry and illness. I lean close and brush a lock of hair from her face.
"Rest," I whisper. "I'll carry the weight today."
I slip outside. The Gray District is stirring: a cart's wheels creak, a stray dog barks at unseen shadows, and the cistern line already snakes around the courtyard. I join it without a word, determine again to earn every drop of water, every crumb of bread. When the spigot drips into my bucket, I catch a droplet on my tongue. This rust-tinged water is precious currency, and I treat it as such.
My first stop is the gulping maw of the communal archive—a rumor circulates that someone tipped a city clerk to discard old market trend reports. I slip through a side door that sticks on its hinges, and my boots echo across the tile floor. I breathe in the scent of mold and lost papers. Under an overhead lamp, I find a stack labeled "City Grain Consumption: Q2 Historical Trends." The pages are brittle but legible. I copy key figures into my journal: seasonal surpluses, price fluctuations, the algorithm that triggers automated bulk sales. If I can time the next move correctly, I can force a rapid surge and dip cycle that will funnel dividends straight into my secret account.
By the time I leave, the sun has tipped over the horizon. I tuck the papers into a water-resistant sleeve I scavenged last week, then dart back to the broker's office where I made my first real strike. The side door is ajar again—no lock this time—but my heart thunders as I slip inside. The console's screen glows with the regular hum of data. I don't need Elena's tap tonight; I type four quick commands from memory. Instantly, the grain algorithms redirect a tiny fraction of the next sale cycle into my account. It's a subtle shift, nearly imperceptible, but I know I'll see the payout by midday.
I back out, brush dust from my coat, and leave before security notices anything amiss.
At the market, Mr. Lee's stall is already bustling. He glances up, and I detect in his eyes a question. Instead of words, I slide two folded sheets across the counter—my rough sketches of the city's algorithm quirks. He peers at them, then meets my gaze.
"They'll save you time," I say, voice low.
He nods, stamps the pages with a quick flourish, and hands me a loaf of fresh bread on the house. I don't ask—gratitude and debt entangle in my chest. I wrap the loaf in paper, add it to my pouch, and move on.
By noon, the corridor outside the brokerage firm's break room lights up with notifications: "Dividend Payouts Processed – Beneficiary: Anonymous." Three hundred credits land in my hidden account, enough to feed the entire Gray District for three days. A shiver of triumph runs through me. I close my eyes, inhale the stench of repurposed coffee and tired traders, and remind myself: this is only the beginning.
The afternoon's light slants golden through broken slats as I return home, mind racing with possibilities. I calculate the credits required to rent the roof terrace above our building—a vantage point to study the city's pulse. I imagine setting up a small terminal there, running simulations in secret, then using the data to expand my reach.
In the tenement, Mama stirs in her chair, a quilt draped over her knees. She opens her eyes when she hears the lock click.
"How much?" she asks, voice hoarse.
I tip a handful of copper-colored coins onto the table. She counts them slowly: twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Her breath catches.
"I don't…" she begins, but I shake my head.
"It's enough," I insist. "For food, medicine. I'll handle the rest."
Tears glisten in her eyes. "One day you'll run out of time," she says softly.
I grip her hand, heart tightening. "Not today."
Evening closes in with quiet resolve. I light a candle and settle on the floor, journal in hand. My pen scratches across the page:
> Day 34:
• 100 credits siphoned from grain algorithms.
• 200 credits deposited to slum relief fund.
• Journal entries cross-checked with data reports.
• Mama's health stable, but deteriorating.
• New target: city water management contracts.
→ If I control water distribution, I control survival itself.
I underline the last line twice. Hunger for vengeance tastes sharper than any meal. Mercy I've tasted in fleeting moments, but vengeance is the fire that propels me forward.
A distant clang echoes through the halls—a reminder that time rarely pauses for regrets. I blow out the candle and let darkness close in. Sleep comes fitfully, filled with flickers of neon boardrooms and crystalline holograms. I see Iris's avatar materializing before me, offering a choice: mercy or power. My jaw sets. There's no turning back.
When dawn arrives again, I will awaken ready to seize the next piece of this city. I will rise beyond the tenements, beyond the cracked pavement—and stand where the powerful have stood, looking down on the world I once begged to join. And then, when they see me, they will know I am the Gray Phantom. A storm of retribution in human form.
My breath slows, heart settles, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I drift into sleep with a single thought echoing in my mind: I have nothing left to lose.