The woman's laughter cut through the sound of the rain just as James's muddy fingers froze, centimeters away from the one-credit coin.
At that exact moment, a spray of muddy water shot out from under the wheels of a passing car, tracing a perfect arc before landing squarely on the woman's expensive heel.
Thud.
It was as if time slowed for a moment.
The woman's cheerful laughter died instantly. The condescending smile on her face was replaced by pure rage as her eyebrows knitted together.
But James's brows furrowed not with anger, but with shock.
It was real.
The absurd prophecy from that annoying voice in his head had come true, precisely and without a second's delay.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
And if this was real... then the quest was real, too. And so were the 100 Credits.
A lump formed in James's throat. His gaze shifted from the woman staring at her shoe in disgust, to the sleeve of his own soaking-wet jacket.
The woman's patience had run out.
She spun on James furiously. "What are you staring at, you bum? Your very presence brings bad luck! Do you have any idea how much these shoes cost?"
Her friends joined in. "Don't bother, what would he know," one said, while the other pulled out her phone, ready to film James's pathetic state.
Every word was like a whip against James's pride. The emotional part of his mind screamed at him: Get up. Walk away. Don't sell your dignity for this money.
But the logical part, in a stronger, more desperate voice, whispered back: Don't be a fool. This is your only chance. Your only chance to pay the rent, to eat a hot meal for a week.
In the midst of this internal war, the cheerful voice of the system chimed in again.
"Host, be advised! The window of opportunity is closing!"
[Target's anger will shift to another subject in 30 seconds.]
[Time remaining to accept the quest: 29… 28… 27…]
It was a countdown. A cruel, digital countdown.
James's heart began to hammer against his ribs. He closed his eyes. He saw the face of his OniCorp Housing manager, his empty refrigerator, the suffocating feeling of despair.
Then he opened them.
Ignoring the mocking stares of the woman and her friends, he spoke in a trembling voice. The first words barely escaped his lips.
"I…" he said, swallowing hard. "I can clean it."
The woman paused, then let out a sharp laugh, as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard. "What did you say?"
James forced himself to form the hardest sentence of his life. He looked her directly in the eye and spoke more clearly:
"Your shoes," he said. "For 100 Credits… I can polish them with my jacket."
A frozen silence fell over the street. It felt as if even the rain had stopped.
Then, a derisive snort escaped the woman's lips, which quickly blossomed into an uncontrolled laugh. She turned to her friends.
"Did you hear him?" she said, tears of mirth in her eyes. "This poor Uncontracted wants to polish my shoes... for money! With that bum's jacket!"
The group burst into laughter as if they'd heard the funniest joke in the world. The red recording light of the phone aimed at James's face was immortalizing his shame.
The woman turned back to James, a predatory smile on her face. It was clear she was enjoying this immensely.
"Alright, why not?" she said. "I'm feeling generous today. But first, do it properly."
With the air of a queen, she extended her muddy shoe a step forward, placing it directly in front of James.
Ice flowed through James's veins. He knew he had just crossed a point of no return.
Slowly, as if every movement weighed a thousand kilos, he knelt. He blocked out the laughter, the falling rain, everything. He closed his eyes.
And he wiped the rough, wet sleeve of his jacket against the smooth, expensive leather of her shoe.
With every single wipe, one word, one vow, echoed in his mind: Remember. Never forget this moment.
A few seconds later, the stain on the shoe was completely gone.
"Not bad," the woman said with an indifferent tone. She pulled a crisp, new 100-Credit bill from her wallet. But instead of handing it to James, she nudged it with her fingertip, pushing it down into the muddy puddle beside him.
The bill hit the puddle with a soft plop, its edges immediately darkening as it sank.
"Here you go," she said. "Consider it a handout."
With one final burst of laughter, she and her friends turned their backs and walked toward their luxury car, gleaming under the rain.
James remained on his knees for a few seconds, unmoving. He was alone. There was only the rain, his shame, and the wet banknote at the bottom of the puddle.
With trembling fingers, he reached into the water and retrieved the 100 Credits. At that exact moment, the cheerful voice appeared in his mind.
[Quest Complete!]
[Reward: 100 Credits successfully obtained!]
[Secret Achievement Unlocked: Bootlicker (Tier-F)]
He watched the car's red tail lights shrink in the rain-swept street until they vanished completely. Only then did he move. The wet bill in his palm felt heavier now, weighed down by the cold raindrops. This was the piece of paper he had just sold his soul for. But it was also the paper that would let him survive.
He rose slowly. As he walked home, he saw neither the people nor the buildings around him. All he could feel was the damp 100-Credit bill clutched tightly in his palm and the cold that had seeped into his bones.
He paused in front of a small noodle shop on the corner, its window steamy. The smell of hot broth wafted out, making his stomach clench with hunger. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in days.
He hesitated for a moment. This money was for the rent. But a logical voice whispered in the corner of his mind: A dead man can't pay his rent.
He went inside. He ordered the cheapest bowl and placed the wet bill on the counter. The vendor glanced at the state of the money and James's miserable appearance, but handed back the change without a word.
James sat at a small table in the corner with the steaming bowl in his hands. As he brought the first spoonful of hot broth to his lips, he felt his eyes sting. This wasn't just soup. It was the taste of his honor. Bitter, salty, sweet, and a little sour.
When he finished his meal and left the shop, the rain had lightened. His mind was clearer now.
He arrived at his tiny, rundown apartment in the OniCorp-owned Sector 7 tenements, took off his wet jacket, and threw it on the floor. He would never wear that jacket again.
He sat on his bed and counted the remaining money. 92 Credits. It would barely cover a fraction of his rent to OniCorp. This wasn't a victory. It was just a defeat, postponed.
He closed his eyes and focused on the bright blue interface in his mind.
Alright, you useless pile of junk… he thought, not with a sliver of hope this time, but with cold calculation. What else have you got for me?
James stared at the absurd skill in his mind: [Temporarily Shoo Pigeons (Tier-F)].
The look of despair on his face slowly faded.
It was replaced by something he had never had before. Something dangerous and calculating.
Perhaps… he thought. Perhaps even the most useless piece of trash could become a weapon against them in the right hands.