The final school bell rang, echoing down the halls like a cue for chaos. Students flooded out of classrooms, laughing, shouting, already forgetting everything they had learned five minutes prior. Backpacks slammed shut, lockers banged open, plans for gaming, pizza, and sleepovers filled the air.
But in the middle of the noise, Ethan Vale moved with the calm of someone who lived on a different wavelength altogether.
His fingers tightened around the straps of his backpack, every movement careful and calculated. Inside, cushioned by layers of cloth and scavenged foam, rested the modular storage core he had built during robotics club. A homemade, makeshift box of fragile circuits, salvaged drives, and experimental slot-joints—all stitched together well enough to function, but light enough to carry inconspicuously.
This was the first true home Apocalypse would ever have.
Ethan stepped out of the school building and let out a slow breath as the cool afternoon air brushed against his face. Students brushed past him, jostling, bumping, unaware that he was carrying something on the edge of impossible.
He walked the familiar path toward the repair shop, sneakers scuffing the pavement rhythmically. Midtown's street noise blended with his thoughts—about the AI, about Peter's condition, about the house waiting for him.
He passed a bakery, the smell of warm bread drifting into the street. He passed a small park where kids were playing tag, their laughter piercing the hum of traffic. It was a normal day for a normal neighborhood.
Except Ethan wasn't normal anymore.
He reached the shop, pushed the door open, and was greeted by the faint metallic scent of solder, dust, and cleaning solution.
"Evening, kid," the owner grunted without looking up, magnifying glasses strapped over his eyes as he pried open the back of an old radio. "Clock in."
"On it," Ethan responded.
He hung his backpack behind the counter, careful not to jostle it, then tied on the shop's slightly-too-big apron. The evening rush was already trickling in—customers with problems, gadgets with histories, and devices long past their prime.
The next hours played out like a quiet symphony:
— Ethan diagnosing a dead microwave and pointing out the blown fuse
— replacing a cracked phone screen with steady hands
— scrubbing rust off a vintage turntable
— organizing shelves of resistors and capacitors
— soldering wires back into life
— breathing in the warm ozone scent of electronics repaired and revived
The work was humble.
The pay was small.
But the satisfaction? Huge.
It grounded him—balanced the surreal edge of being in a world he once considered fiction.
Time slipped by. The digital clock above the counter flicked to 9:30 PM.The owner, old but sharp-eyed, closed the ledger and finally looked up.
"You do good work, Vale," he said, pushing his glasses up. "Better than most kids your age. Responsible too."
Ethan shrugged lightly. "Just… grateful for the job."
"Hmph." The old man slid an envelope across the counter. "Here's the pay."
Ethan accepted it with both hands. It wasn't much—he knew that.
But it was his. Earned honestly.
He packed his apron away, slung on his backpack with practiced gentleness, and stepped out into the night.
Streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting orange halos in the dark. Cars rolled by, tires whispering against the asphalt. The world felt heavy yet full—like a canvas he was just beginning to paint on.
Before heading home, he pushed into a small convenience store. The fluorescent lights hummed as he walked down the aisles with purpose.
He filled his basket with:
• glass cleaner
• disinfectant spray
• rubber gloves
• floor wipes
• a sturdy broom
• a mop with a collapsible handle
• trash bags
• scrubbing brushes
• a small household toolkit
As he checked out, the cashier eyed the pile with a half-smile."Spring cleaning?""Something like that," Ethan replied.
Walking out, bags tugging at both arms, he traced the route back to his rented apartment. His legs were tired. His back ached a little. His fingers were sore from precision work.
But beneath that fatigue was a quiet, glowing excitement.
He had a house waiting for him—a place untouched for years.
He had Apocalypse's storage core—waiting for a true system to run in.
He had a future unfurling in possibilities still hidden.
Tonight he would rest.
Tomorrow he would build.
The weight in his backpack wasn't heavy.
It was potential.
The night was quiet, almost too quiet, as Ethan carried his shopping bags home. His arms were sore, his backpack weighed heavily with the modular storage core, and the streetlights cast long, stretched shadows across the pavement.
He walked his usual route—past the old bakery, past the closed laundromat, past the small alley shortcut he usually ignored.
But tonight… something felt off.
A faint movement caught his eye.
A man—hood pulled low, moving with nervous, jerky motions—slipped into the alley. Ethan slowed down, curiosity sharpening his senses. He wasn't one to poke into trouble, but the man's behavior wasn't subtle. He kept glancing over his shoulder, clutching a medium-sized backpack—almost the same size and style as Ethan's.
Detect pulsed lightly in Ethan's mind, almost like a whisper:
suspicious pattern
agitated movement
object concealment
Ethan stopped at the mouth of the alley just in time to see the man crouch behind a dumpster. He shoved the backpack deep behind a pile of trash bags, dusted his hands off like he had done something clever… and walked away briskly.
Not running.Just leaving—as if expecting no one would ever notice what he hid.
Ethan's brows furrowed.
What the hell was that?
He waited until the man fully vanished around the corner, then stepped into the alley. The smell of old garbage and damp cardboard hit him, but he ignored it, eyes fixed on the spot where the man had crouched.
Behind the dumpster, half-covered by a ripped trash bag, sat the backpack.
Ethan hesitated only a moment.
This could be dangerous.
This could be nothing.
Or this could be something.
He reached in and pulled the bag out.
It was heavier than he expected.A lot heavier.
His heartbeat quickened—not in fear, but anticipation.
He unzipped it carefully.
And froze.
Bundles.
Stacks.
Neatly wrapped, tightly packed bundles of cash.
Hundreds.
More hundreds.
More.
His stomach tightened as he sifted through it with trembling fingers. The weight, the state of the bills, the amount—
He quickly did rough mental math.
At least 150,000 dollars.Maybe more.
His eyes widened.His hands went still.
This is illegal money.
tashed money.
Money someone wants hidden badly.
He zipped the bag shut immediately and looked around. No footsteps. No voices. No witnesses.
Just him.
Just the backpack.
Just the night.
Ethan's mind raced—not with excitement, but with calculation.
If he left it, someone dangerous might return for it.If he reported it, questions would drown him.If he took it…
It would change everything.
Equipment.
Tools.
Resources.
A proper lab.
A secured base for Apocalypse.
A stable life.
But money like this didn't fall from the sky. It came from crime, from danger, from someone who wasn't going to gladly forget where they put it.
Ethan swallowed, gripping the handle of the backpack.
He was a broke 15-year-old.A kid scraping by.An inheritor of a dusty house needing repairs.A genius with a system—but still painfully limited by resources.
And now…Sitting in the shadows of an alley…He faced his first true moral crossroad in this new world.
His whisper echoed softly in the empty night:
"…What do I do with this?"