I slip through the back entrance of the small data center just after midnight, the stale hum of cooling fans a soft accompaniment to my racing thoughts. My coat's torn sleeve still tingles from yesterday's escape, but I've patched it with a scrap of fabric so it won't hang me up again. Tonight's target is bigger than grain traders or market stalls—it's the central exchange's public ticker, the bright panels that flash stock prices across the city skyline.
Inside, the room is packed with terminals and cable racks, each line humming with real-time data. The night guard slumps behind a reinforced glass window, half-asleep. I press my back to the wall, duck low, and slip a small transmitter beneath the guard's desk. It will freeze surveillance for a precious thirty seconds, long enough for me to upload my code and vanish.
I kneel before the main console, heart thundering in my ears. My hands find the familiar grooves of the data-tap, and I jam it into the USB port. Lines of green text spill across the screen, and I breathe a silent prayer to Iris's ghost in my mind—teach me mercy, teach me vengeance. I paste the final snippet of code: a directive that, at 4:07 AM, the exchange will report a ten-percent plunge in the publicly traded shares of Marlowe Holdings—Angelica's family's corporation. The crash won't ruin the entire company, but it will send shock-waves through her world.
My finger hovers over "execute." For a heartbeat, I recall the children I fed, Mama's hopeful eyes, the life I'm clawing toward. Then bitterness floods in: every high tower, every polished floor, every privilege denied to me. I press Enter.
The console blinks:
> UPLOAD SUCCESSFUL. SCHEDULED EXECUTION: 04:07:00.
My chest tightens. Already I can hear distant city clocks near midnight bridge—it's close. I smash the tap free, sweep my coat over the console, and sprint for the exit. Behind me, the guard stirs, then drifts back to sleep.
---
At precisely 4:07 AM, twelve city-wide ticker panels flicker to life at once: Marlowe Holdings –10 %. Traders scream into their comlinks; an automated sell-off triggers panic. Neon signs atop banking towers stutter and reboot. Even from my perch in the Gray District, I see the glow shift from green to angry red. A chill wind sweeps through the alleys, and I know I've struck a blow that will echo far beyond my reach.
By sunrise, rumors swirl through the gray streets. A whisper reaches me as I fetch water at the cistern: "They say the Gray Phantom did it again." I grip my bucket tighter and force myself not to smile—there's work to do.
---
Later, I trail Angelica to the public announcement area outside her family's corporate office. News vans cluster like vultures, and her classmates in crisp uniforms stand in stunned silence. She steps forward as the board flashes corrective data: shares rebounded slightly, but millions were erased in minutes. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, and when they settle on me, the hurt is raw and unmistakable.
"You did this," she spits, voice shaking. "You ruined them."
I swallow, tasting bile. My journal thumps against my ribs—inside are the cold calculations that made this possible. "I showed you what power looks like," I say softly, but she hears only anger. A cameraman shoves a mic toward me; I lift my chin, letting the lens catch my face in silhouette. The flash blinds me for a moment, then I turn and walk away, footsteps echoing against the marble façade.
---
Back in our tenement, I slam the door and lean against the cold wood, breathing hard. Mama sits at the table, hands folded on her lap.
"They'll come for you," she murmurs.
I shake my head. "Let them come." My voice is steadier than I feel. "This is bigger than us now."
She reaches out, eyes brimming. "I'm terrified."
I step closer, place my hand over hers. "You don't have to be. Not anymore." I think of the children, the families who will see cheaper grain this week, the tiny victories stacked against the towering injustice of our world. A spark of something new warms my chest—hope, perhaps, or something like it.
---
That night, I write until my candle gutter dims. My hand moves frantically across the page:
> Day 33: Biggest strike yet—Marlowe crash at 4:07 AM. Estimated siphon: 2 million credits rerouted to slum relief fund. Angelica's betrayal confirmed—public fallout guaranteed. My debts repaid:
• 3 coins for water and rice for ten families
• 5 coins for tutoring supplies
• 2 coins for emergency medicine for Mama
Vengeance level: established. Mercy level: pending.
Next steps: prepare for retaliation. They will seek me. I must be ready—stronger, smarter, faster.
I close the journal and slide it into my pocket, feeling its weight like iron. Outside, a distant siren wails—no longer a signal of helplessness, but a clarion call. The Gray Phantom has come into being, and the city will never be the same.
As I lie down on the hard floorboards, I let myself dream again: the gleam of a diamond pen in a penthouse office, the whisper of Iris's avatar, the promise of power unfettered. Tomorrow, the next phase begins—and I will meet it head-on. The ashes of my past are cold no more.