Light pooled into the apartment like it was trying to make up for how rundown the place was—showing off every dingy patch and peeling scrap of paint. You could spot every flaw in broad daylight, which, let's be honest, wasn't doing Arjun's mood any favors. The place smelled like boiled tea leaves, comfort and struggle all in one. His mom was already up, banging around the cracked stove, hiding fits of coughing behind the clatter. Like that would fool anybody.
"You're up early, Arjun," she tossed over her shoulder, voice warm but sounding like gravel.
He faked a smile—one of those "no, really, I'm fine" ones moms never buy. Truth bomb: he was exhausted. Not the regular, need-more-sleep tired, but the "my brain ran a marathon last night and I still lost" variety. Being stuck in that delivery hub, all that sneaky corruption floating around, his boss eyeing him like lunch, and now the System in his head zapping him with new skills. Yeah. A bit much.
"Yeah, Mom," he replied, soft. "Just have some stuff to figure out."
She aimed her patented mom-laser-look at him, the kind that sees through any excuse. "Beta, don't drown in it. Life doesn't reward you for trying to untie every knot at once."
She meant well, and it landed deeper than she knew. He walked to the window, tea in hand, and let the noise below hit him. Chaos? Maybe. But maybe something else, if you tilted your head.
Vendors hollered about tomatoes and potatoes, rickshaws blared for no reason, little kids zipped around like they owned the pavement. People everywhere—moving parts bumping and shifting. Most saw madness. For Arjun, it started to feel like a code he could almost crack if he just stared long enough.
Right on cue, the System's robotic, always-too-calm voice chimed in his brain.
"Activating [Market Analysis – Beginner]. Processing inputs."
Suddenly—like someone cleaned a dirty window—he wasn't just hearing the noise, he was soaking in data. Like, real observations. There was the fruit cart guy—bananas half-ruined, sweating in the sun, priced the same as the perfect ones. Really? The guy looked bored, mostly ignored. No surprise. But those bananas? Still good if you weren't squeamish.
A tailor next; mid-meltdown, angrily negotiating deadlines. Guy's hands shook, cloth piled behind him like a fabric avalanche. Obvious overbooking. That shop was about ten customers away from full-on disaster.
Rickshaw stand: one old driver sat alone, not a customer in sight. His rickshaw? Battle scars everywhere, seat looked like roadkill. Functioned fine, but everyone's running to the shiniest ride. People, man. Fickle.
Arjun almost laughed. He wasn't suddenly a genius—he just had fresh googly eyes for the city's mess. For the first time, he started noticing what everyone else just shrugged off. Kinda wild.
The System dropped a prompt in the tone of an economics teacher who expected more out of you: "Recommendation: test theory with micro-investment. Low risk, high observation value."
Oh, sure, just reach into my vault, right? Micro-investment sounded fancy until he checked his wallet—nothing but a couple of wrinkly hundreds, about enough for dal and a maybe a treat if he stretched it. Mum's medicine was non-negotiable. Maybe being a genius could wait.
But then, those bananas. Man, they were basically haunting him. He wandered back to the vendor, eyed the saddest fruit on the pile, and asked, "Cheapest for the bruised ones?"
"Thirty rupees a kilo," the guy grunted. "No one wants."
Well, Arjun did. Two kilos into a torn shopping bag, home he went, playing mad scientist in the kitchen. He wasn't expecting magic—just didn't want food to rot. Peeled off brown bits, mashed the soft gold inside, added some sugar, and did what he could with a battered pan. Twenty minutes later, he had banana jam. Seriously—banana jam, who knew?
Mom was skeptical, but gave it a go. Her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline after the first taste. "Arjun! This…this is better than the stuff in the market," she said, half shocked, half proud.
It felt like a tiny win—a bright spot in the drudge. And you know how word gets around downstairs. He trotted out a couple of recycled jars, handed one to the chai wallah, and waited. The guy spread the jam, tasted, then beamed. Within minutes, the regular crowd at the stall was haggling to buy up the rest. By sunset, he was out of jam, and his wallet was fat with small notes. Actual profit, and not just by accident.
Back upstairs, System chimed in again, sounding awfully pleased with itself. "Experiment complete. Profit margin: 280%. Skill proficiency increased."
He hung out on the balcony, watching headlights inch along and feeling the city buzz below. The little jade fragment he kept—his "gift from the System"—glowed weakly, like it was proud too. For once, the future didn't loom like a brick wall. It looked like a road, one he could maybe navigate, potholes and all.
He squeezed that little gem in his fist, muttering, "Just the start." The System stayed quiet—silent approval, maybe.
Tomorrow would be a rinse and repeat: back to work, eyes wide open, picking up on the cracks and overlooked spots. It hit him—he didn't need luck, or some mythical superpower. He needed to see what was in front of him, and act on it. Not just for himself, but for the woman who kept everything running—even when her cough rattled the pans.
And honestly? For the first time in an age, that felt like enough. Maybe not a finish line, sure, but a true beginning. The city was still noisy, still rough, but now he felt like he had keys to doors everyone else thought were just walls. Not bad for a day that started with old tea and bruised bananas, huh?