The sliding doors at the Bank of America North Quadrant Tower slowly shut tight, a low mechanical hum of the motors drawing them to a close, sealing him on the outside. Just one moment earlier, Theodore Sterling had been inside, a manager navigating the high-stakes politics of corporate finance, working his way up the ladder. Now, spat onto the bustling downtown sidewalk, he was just… Theo. The cardboard box digging into his hip felt heavier than its contents, a generic company mug, a slightly pathetic desk succulent he'd never watered, a framed photo of parents he barely remembered but kept for appearances, and a stack of now meaningless performance awards. Flanked by two impassive security guards who hadn't met his eyes once during the silent, humiliating march from his office, he felt stripped bare under the indifferent gaze of passersby.
The midday sun was sharp, glinting off the tall glass and steel tower behind him, a monument to the world he'd just been violently ejected from. Sacked. Not laid off, not made redundant. Fired. For cause. The irony was acid in his throat; the whispers and manoeuvres he'd so expertly deployed against rivals like Davies and Chen had been turned back on him, amplified, twisted into accusations that stuck. They'd played his game better, or perhaps just had less to lose. His carefully constructed persona, the ambitious go getter masking the terrified kid that grew up from the poor end of town, faking it till he could make it, had shattered against the unforgiving reality of corporate power. He was out. Reputation incinerated. Career trajectory, right back down to the pavement.
He forced his feet to move, ignoring the phantom weight of colleagues' stares, the imagined whispers dissecting his downfall. Each step away from the tower felt like sinking deeper into an abyss he'd spent his entire adult life clawing away from. The sharp cut of his suit, usually a source of confidence, now felt like a costume for a play that had abruptly closed. He resisted the urge to run, keeping his pace measured, his expression carefully neutral, a mask held in place by sheer, terrified willpower. He could almost feel the grime of his old life trying to reclaim him.
The subway ride was a descent into a different world. The polished marble and hushed efficiency of the financial district gave way to cracked tiles, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of stale urine and desperation. He emerged into his own neighbourhood, a sprawl of dilapidated low-rises and check-cashing joints punctuated by the rhythmic wail of distant sirens. Here, his suit did draw stares, but not of respect, just suspicion or cynical appraisal. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, the cheap cardboard box a badge of his disgrace.
His apartment door, scarred and paint-peeling, groaned open into chaos. It was a physical manifestation of the neglect that had festered beneath his polished exterior. Clothes lay in heaps, dishes with fossilized food remnants colonized the sink, and a thin layer of dust coated every surface. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and his own simmering anxiety. It was a dump. A stark, brutal contrast to the meticulous order of his desk an hour ago, and the sharp, clean lines of the man standing hesitantly in the doorway.
He dropped the box onto a chair already overflowing with discarded mail, the sound startlingly loud in the silence. Silence, except for the ever-present city hum and the rumble of a passing truck that shook the thin walls. He peeled off his suit jacket, draping it carefully over the back of the chair, a habit too ingrained to break, even now. Then, he went straight to his aging laptop, perched precariously on a stack of books. His fingers, usually nimble on the keyboard, fumbled slightly as he logged into his personal bank account.
The number glowed starkly on the screen: $2000.37
He stared, the two guards' impassive faces swimming in his vision. Just over two thousand dollars. That was it. Severance? Non-existent when fired for cause. Savings? Burned through maintaining the illusion of success, the suits, the drinks and dinners, the networking events that were supposed to solidify his climb. He'd always planned to replenish his buffer after the next promotion, the next bonus. Now…
His mind, trained in analysis and risk assessment, started running the grim numbers. Rent: $450, due in two weeks. Food, utilities, transport, basic survival… call it $300 a week, minimum. Total weekly burn: $750. He did the math, the calculation cold and brutal. $2000 / $750 = 2.66 weeks. Less than three weeks before he was completely broke. Eviction wasn't just a possibility, it was a rapidly approaching certainty. Panic, thick and suffocating, tightened its grip around his chest. He could feel the concrete floor of rock bottom rushing up to meet him. This was it. The fear that had driven him his whole life, the gnawing terror of poverty, of being looked down upon, of ending up like the ghosts haunting the street corners outside, was materializing right here in his squalid apartment. He sank onto the edge of his unmade bed, the springs groaning in protest, and buried his face in his hands. The lucky coin in his pocket felt cold and useless against his thigh.
The first week was a descent into inertia. Time blurred into a meaningless cycle of waking late, staring at the peeling ceiling paint, forcing down cheap instant noodles or greasy takeout, and falling back into restless, nightmare-ridden sleep. The sirens outside became the soundtrack to his slow internal destruction. His phone remained silent. No calls. No texts. Not even a pity-laden email from the colleagues who had shared coffee and strained smiles with him just days before. The silence hammered home the truth, his connections were purely functional, severed the moment his utility expired. He was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
He tried, once, to browse online job boards. Financial Analyst. Risk Manager. Fraud Investigator. The titles mocked him. Who would hire him now? A quick search for his own name brought up sanitized corporate profiles, not yet updated, but he knew the real story was already spreading through the industry grapevine. Theo Sterling? Heard he got caught with his hand in the till. Or worse, whispers that twisted his ambition into something criminal. His meticulously crafted reputation was now a lead weight chained to his ankle. He slammed the laptop shut, the click echoing the finality of the tower door.
The days bled together. Pizza boxes formed leaning towers on the coffee table. The air grew thick and stale. He stopped shaving, stopped changing clothes, let the meticulous facade crumble into grime that matched his surroundings. He was becoming part of the decay. The financial deadline loomed, a black hole pulling him closer. Rent was due tomorrow. Tomorrow. He had $1835.09 left after a week of bare minimum survival. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
He found himself pacing the small apartment, back and forth, trapped like a caged animal. His fingers tapped incessantly against his thigh, a frantic rhythm mirroring the frantic calculations in his head. Sell the laptop? $300, maybe. The suit? $150 if he was lucky. Pennies against the avalanche. The pressure built, a physical weight crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. The edges of his vision started to prickle. The sirens outside seemed to crescendo, drilling directly into his skull. The floor tilted. The peeling paint on the walls swam. No… not again… not like when Mom and Dad… The thought fragmented as the world dissolved. A strangled gasp escaped him as everything went black.
He surfaced slowly, painfully, like a diver ascending too fast from crushing depths. His cheek was pressed against the cool, gritty laminate floor. His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. Sunlight streamed through the grimy window, indicating hours had passed. He pushed himself up, groaning, limbs stiff and unresponsive. Disorientation warred with a strange, lingering sensation, a faint, internal hum, like the ghost of a plucked string vibrating just below the threshold of hearing.
He stumbled towards the sink, desperate for water. His hand reached for a cheap, thin glass tumbler sitting precariously on the edge of the counter, a survivor of countless near-misses. As his fingers closed around the cool glass, the hum intensified for a fraction of a second, a distinct ping resonating through his bones. He barely registered it, his thirst overriding everything else. He filled the glass, gulped down the lukewarm tap water, and in his haste, knocked the tumbler against the faucet.
He flinched, anticipating the shatter, the spray of cheap glass. But it only emitted a solid clink. Confused, he looked closer. The glass felt… different. He tapped it with a fingernail. The sound was clearer, higher-pitched, less fragile. He remembered countless identical glasses breaking from lesser impacts. On a bizarre impulse, fuelled by the lingering strangeness of the blackout and the odd hum, he held the glass a foot above the counter and let go.
It landed with a decisive thud. Intact. Not a crack, not a chip.
He stared at it, his analytical mind, buried under layers of despair, slowly flickering to life. That wasn't normal. That glass should have shattered. He picked it up, turned it over, examining it minutely. It looked the same basic shape, but it felt fundamentally better. Sturdier, yes, but also clearer, cleaner somehow. More… itself, like it has been upgraded.
He remembered the ping. The hum.
Could it be…? No. Ridiculous. Stress-induced hallucination. Sleep deprivation.
But the evidence was right there in his hand.
His eyes scanned the cluttered kitchen. What else? He grabbed a cheap teaspoon, bent and flimsy from countless encounters with hard ice cream. He held it, focused, tried to replicate the intent he'd felt, however unconsciously, with the glass, a fleeting wish for it to be less pathetic. Stronger.
Ping.
The hum resonated again, clearer this time, like a tuning fork struck inside his own head. The spoon felt subtly heavier, more rigid in his grasp, yes, but the cheap metallic sheen also seemed a fraction brighter, the balance in his hand felt improved. He tried bending it. It resisted far more than it should have, requiring significant effort before finally yielding with a groan of stressed metal, bending at a sharper angle than its untreated brethren ever could. It wasn't just stronger; it was overall improved.
Okay. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of his hangover. This wasn't a hallucination. Something had happened during the blackout. Something had changed him. He possessed an ability to… enhance things. To give them a "+1" to their overall quality.
He needed to test this. Systematically. Methodically. But carefully. Like when you are auditing a potentially fraudulent account, you needed to check everything to find all the clues and details.
He rummaged through a drawer filled with office supplies scavenged from his former job. Two identical, dirt-cheap blue ballpoint pens. Perfect. He placed them side-by-side on the counter, alongside a scrap piece of paper.
He picked up the first pen. Focused. Enhance. +1. He poured his intention into it, willing it to become fundamentally better.
Ping. The familiar resonance, leaving a faint tingling in his fingertips.
He set it down next to its twin. Now for the test. First, durability. He grasped the untreated pen firmly and snapped it. It broke easily with a dry crackle of cheap plastic. He then took the treated pen. He applied the same pressure. It flexed, creaked, but held. He increased the pressure, his knuckles whitening. The plastic groaned in protest, resisting far beyond its normal tolerance before finally succumbing with a much louder, more abrupt SNAP. Confirmation on durability.
But was that all? He took the largest piece of the broken enhanced pen, the part still holding the ballpoint tip. He uncapped the untreated pen. He wrote his name on the scrap paper: Theodore Sterling. The ink flow was inconsistent, slightly scratchy. Standard cheap pen performance.
He then picked up the broken piece of the enhanced pen and wrote his name again just below the first signature. The difference was immediate and undeniable. The ballpoint glided across the paper with surprising smoothness. The ink flowed consistently, laying down a cleaner, sharper line. It wasn't just harder to break, it wrote better. It was better, holistically, like it was an upgraded version, like it was a +1.
Enhancement confirmed: +1 to overall object quality and function.
He looked at the broken pieces of the enhanced pen. Could he enhance it again? Make it +2? He picked up the largest fragment, focused again. Enhance further. +2 Quality.
Nothing. No hum. No tingle. No change in the feel of the plastic or the writing tip.
He tried again, concentrating harder. Still nothing.
Limitation confirmed: One +1 enhancement per object. Interesting. A fundamental rule.
What about the type of enhancement? It seemed general. The glass was tougher and clearer. The spoon stronger and brighter. The pen more durable and smoother writing. It wasn't targeted; it was an overall upgrade.
His mind raced, cataloguing, analysing. What couldn't it affect? He tried enhancing the grimy countertop. Nothing. The stream of water from the tap. Nothing. The air in the room. Nothing. Rule: Affects discrete, tangible objects. What about size? He looked at the flimsy apartment door. Could he make the entire door stronger, fit better, maybe even look a bit less weathered? He reached out, touched the cheap wood, and focused. +1 Overall Quality.
Ping. A deeper resonance this time, a hum that seemed to vibrate through the entire doorframe for a fleeting moment. He pushed on the door. It felt… solid. Less rattly in its frame. The cheap wood grain seemed slightly richer, the handle mechanism smoother. The effect seemed consistent, regardless of size. No apparent size limitation. This was potentially huge.
How many times could he do this? He started grabbing random objects, testing his hypothesis, focusing on a general "+1" each time. Keys (+1, more durable, feel slightly smoother). A ceramic plate (better chip resistance, glaze seems brighter). A worn-out shoe (improved sole grip, feels slightly more supportive). His lucky coin again (+1… something indefinable, feels weightier, design clearer). A book (book cover feels harder, pages feel crisper). A fork (improved durability, better balance). He counted each ping, each tangible confirmation. One, two, three… eight, nine, ten.
He grabbed an old, cracked phone charger. Focused. +1.
Nothing.
He tried again, concentrating fiercely, willing it. Still nothing. The faint background hum within him was gone. It felt… depleted, but not gone, like a power that has been used too much and needed a break. He was freaked out that he might have wasted his powers, but this innate feeling that it was slowly recharging gave him a little comfort.
Ten. He replayed the sequence in his head. Glass, spoon, pen, door, keys, plate, shoe, coin, book, fork. That was ten successful enhancements. Constraint: Limited uses per period. Ten uses per day? Most likely. A recharge mechanic? He'd know at some point, most likely tomorrow.
Ten uses per day. Enhance overall quality (+1). Once per object. No size limit. Affects tangible objects.
The analytical part of his brain was buzzing, cataloguing the rules of this impossible new reality. But the desperate, cornered part screamed a single question: How do I make MONEY with this?
Job hunting was suicide. Selling his few possessions was a drop in the ocean. He needed income, fast. Rent was due tomorrow. He needed a miracle. And maybe, just maybe, this bizarre, inexplicable power was that miracle.
Ten uses. That was the bottleneck. He couldn't mass-enhance cheap junk; the volume wasn't there. He needed something where a single +1 enhancement added significant value. Something people would pay a premium for because it was demonstrably better overall, even if they couldn't explain why.
His eyes fell on the knife block again. Knives. Chefs, home cooks, butchers – they valued sharpness, edge retention, durability, balance, feel. What if he could take decent, but not exorbitant, knives and give them a +1 to everything? Make them perform like blades costing exponentially more?
The idea slammed into him with the force of revelation. Find a baseline knife that was good-but-not-great. Apply the +1. The result should be a genuinely superior product across the board. Low enough cost base, high value-add potential. Fits within the daily use limit. It was risky. Untested on anything meant for sale. But it was something. A tangible plan, the first one he'd had since the world fell out from under him.
A frantic energy surged through him, displacing the lethargy of the past week. He checked his wallet. $47 cash, plus the dwindling balance in his account. He grabbed his keys and the least offensive jacket he owned, leaving the suit jacket draped like a forgotten ghost.
He bypassed the dollar stores this time. He needed a better baseline product if the +1 was going to elevate it to something truly sellable at a premium. He headed to a mid-range kitchen supply outlet, the kind that catered to serious home cooks and small restaurants. The air smelled faintly of metal and cleaning products.
He found them: solid, workmanlike butcher knives. Full tang, decent steel, comfortable grip, but lacking the finesse and premium finish of high-end brands. Good potential for enhancement. The price tag made him gulp: $25 each. Ten of them would cost $250. A significant chunk of his remaining capital. More than an eighth of everything he had left. This wasn't just dipping a toe in, it was a substantial bet. His hand hesitated over the knives, the fear of failure warring with the desperate need for this to work. No choice, he told himself grimly. Gotta risk it to fix this. He gathered ten knives, the weight of the investment heavy in his hands, and took them to the counter. He paid with his debit card, watching the numbers drain with a sickening lurch in his stomach. Carrying the heavier, more substantial bag out of the store, he felt the thrill of the gamble mixed with pure, unadulterated terror.
Back in the apartment, the energy was manic. He cleared the cluttered kitchen counter with a sweep of his arm, sending junk mail and old wrappers scattering to the floor. He unwrapped the knives, laying them out in a precise row. They looked much more professional than the dollar-store versions he'd initially considered. Solid, waiting. Ten potential lifelines, purchased at a steep price.
He took a deep breath, centering himself. He needed focus. He picked up the first knife. He channeled the memory of the ping, the feeling of internal resonance. He focused on the entire object – blade, tang, handle. Enhance +1.
Nothing.
In his excitement, he forgot he had already enhanced 10 items earlier and found that he could not enhance any further. He could feel the powers recharging, but he didn't know when he could use it again. He hypothesized, or perhaps fantasised that it would be daily. He hoped and waited till the clock struck pass 12 midnight. Fearing that he might be wrong, his hands shook as he impatiently tried again. He picked up the first knife and focused. Enhance +1.
Nothing.
Fearing the worst, he panicked and tried again. Still nothing. Had he wasted his powers on enhancing essentially ten useless items. However, the feeling of something being recharged was still there, a warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach. His mind raced into action, pondering the possibilities. Perhaps daily means 24 hours. In the absence of anything else that could be done, Theo decided to wait and keep trying every hour.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then exactly after 24 hours had passed on when he first enhanced the kettle.
Ping.
Success! It recharged as soon as the timer hit 24 hours. The hum surged, stronger this time, seeming to soak into the metal and wood composite. He felt a distinct tingling feedback, a sense of the knife settling into a new state of being. He held it. The balance felt subtly improved. The edge looked impossibly keen, catching the light with mirror-like sharpness. The grip felt more secure. He waited and then continued.
He set it aside carefully. Second knife. Enhance +1.
Ping. Again, the satisfying resonance, the feeling of improvement locking into place.
Third knife. Enhance +1.Ping.
He continued down the line, applying the general enhancement to each knife. It was draining. More so than with the cheaper items, perhaps due to the greater mass or complexity. The mental effort required intense concentration. With each ping, he felt more depleted, the internal hum fading faster.
Seventh. Enhance +1.Ping. Noticeably weaker now.
Eighth. Enhance +1.Ping. Barely a whisper.
Ninth. Enhance +1.Ping. A tiny flicker, like static discharge.
Tenth knife. He held it, summoning the last dregs of his focus, pushing the intent with sheer willpower. Enhance +1.
Ping. Faint, almost imperceptible, like the last echo in a silent room. And then… nothing. The internal hum was gone, replaced by a distinct feeling of psychic emptiness, and the slow 24 hour recharge. He tried to focus on the handle of the tenth knife, willing anything. No response. Limit reached.
He sagged against the counter, suddenly exhausted, a fine tremor in his hands. Ten knives. Ten uses. Ten significantly improved, potentially high-value products created out of thin air and a chunk of his savings.
Now came the next gamble. Selling them.
He retrieved his laptop, booted it up again. He navigated to the same online marketplace. Create listing.
He needed photos. He spent twenty minutes arranging the now subtly superior knives, trying to capture the enhanced sharpness, the slightly refined finish. They did look better than before, even if the difference was hard to photograph.
Product Title: The name came easily now, with a slightly different inflection. Not just ironic, but maybe… aspirational? Eversharp Edge - Pro Butcher Knife (+1 Enhanced Quality).
Description: He typed quickly, adapting the language. "Introducing Eversharp Edge: professional butcher knives elevated to the next level. Each knife undergoes a unique enhancement process, resulting in a +1 improvement to its overall quality. Experience unparalleled sharpness, vastly improved edge retention, superior durability, and enhanced balance and feel. This is performance that rivals blades costing hundreds more. Limited batch – experience the +1 difference." He still felt a pang of absurdity, but also a sliver of genuine belief in the enhanced product.
Price: This was even more critical now, given the higher initial cost. He needed a significant return. He'd paid $25 each. Could he justify $100? $125? He settled on $99.99. A fourfold increase minus shipping and fees, still a substantial profit. It felt audacious, almost reckless, but reflected the genuine, holistic improvement he'd imparted.
He entered the details, chose free shipping, and finally reached the confirmation page. Listing Fee: $5.00. He hesitated again, the increased stakes making the click feel even heavier. $250 already spent. $5 more disappearing now. Failure wasn't just eviction, it was utter ruin.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of the Bank of America tower flashing behind his eyelids, followed by the grime of his apartment. He took a ragged breath, touched the lucky coin in his pocket for a split second, and clicked "Publish Listing."
The confirmation screen appeared. His listing was live. Ten enhanced knives, representing a huge gamble, offered to the world. He felt hollowed out, drained by the enchantments and vibrating with a potent cocktail of fear and fragile hope. Would anyone believe the claims? Would the price scare everyone off? Had he just flushed $255 down the drain?
He pulled up his spreadsheet, the cursor blinking like a judging eye. With numb fingers, he updated the ledger.
Theodore Sterling - Financial Ledger
Starting Balance: $2000.37
Week 1 Estimated Expenses (Food/Utilities): -$165.28 (Balance: $1835.09)
Purchase: 10x Butcher Knives (@ $25): -$250.00 (Balance: $1585.09)
Online Marketplace Listing Fees: -$5.00
Current Balance:$1580.09
Status:Dire. Rent Due: Later Today / Tomorrow ($450). Available Funds After Rent: $1130.09. Runway ~1.5 weeks. Knives Listed. Outcome: Unknown.
He stared at the final number. $1580. Barely enough to cover two weeks of survival after tomorrow's rent payment. The higher knife cost had slashed his already thin safety net dramatically. His entire hope now rested on selling those ten knives, quickly, at a price that seemed almost absurd. He leaned back, the chair creaking ominously under his weight, and stared at the ceiling, the crushing weight of the gamble pressing down harder than ever. The first edge was listed. Now, the terrifying wait began.