Chapter 7 : Paying Bills
The subway car rattled through the tunnel, and I counted my remaining cash for the third time. One hundred and twelve dollars. Three days of practice runs had eaten into my reserves—coffee, takeout, the occasional forgotten necessity that appeared only when I needed it.
[+15 SP — Multiple minor intrusions successful]
The notification had come yesterday, tallying up a week's worth of careful work. Combined with my earlier earnings, I was sitting at 23 SP. Not enough for anything dramatic, but progress. Real, measurable progress.
The problem was that progress didn't pay rent.
Mrs. Patterson lived in a brownstone in Park Slope that probably cost more than I'd earn in five years of freelance work. She'd been one of original Marcus's first clients—I'd found her name in email chains going back to 2012. Monthly maintenance visits, $75 each, plus whatever disasters she'd created by clicking things she shouldn't click.
"Marcus! Come in, come in." She was seventy-something, silver hair in a careful bun, wearing a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. "The internet machine is doing that thing again."
"The thing where it says no connection, or the thing where everything is slow?"
"The slow thing. And there are popups. I don't like the popups, Marcus."
I didn't like them either. Twenty minutes of diagnostic work revealed the problem: she'd installed three different "security" toolbars that were actually malware, probably from clicking links in emails promising her prizes.
"Mrs. Patterson, remember what we discussed about email attachments?"
"I know, I know. But this one said it was from Publisher's Clearing House. They owe me money, Marcus."
I cleaned the system without explaining—again—that Publisher's Clearing House didn't operate through suspicious download links. Some battles weren't worth fighting. The Wi-Fi router needed a firmware update anyway, so I handled that while she made tea in the kitchen.
"GHOST, anything useful here?"
"Negative. Residential network, minimal security value. No actionable intelligence detected."
Of course not. This was legitimate work, the kind that kept my cover solid and my bank account marginally above zero. The system didn't reward honest labor.
Mrs. Patterson emerged with tea and a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. Nobody's favorite, but I ate three anyway while she talked about her grandchildren and the state of the neighborhood. The cookies were dry and the raisins were somehow both too hard and too mushy, but they reminded me of my grandmother—my real grandmother, from the life that didn't exist anymore.
"Some things don't change across universes."
She tipped me twenty dollars on top of the usual seventy-five. I thanked her more sincerely than she probably expected and headed back into the February cold.
Derek Huang's office was in a converted warehouse in Bushwick, the kind of space that screamed "small business trying to look bigger than it is." Import company, according to the sign. Mostly electronics accessories from China—phone cases, charging cables, the disposable tech detritus of modern life.
"The popups started three days ago," Derek said. He was maybe forty, stress lines around his eyes, the kind of man who worried about spreadsheets in his sleep. "Every time we open the inventory system, bam. Ads for things I don't want to think about."
Malware again, but more sophisticated this time. Someone on the network had opened something they shouldn't have, and now the whole system was compromised. I worked methodically, cleaning infections, checking for persistence mechanisms, making sure nothing was left behind to regenerate.
"GHOST, full scan on this network."
"Scanning. Multiple vulnerabilities detected. Outdated router firmware, default credentials on network printer, unpatched operating systems on three workstations."
Standard small business disaster. I fixed what I could and made notes for what would require more time—and more money—to address properly.
Then I found something interesting.
The accounting software had been accessed remotely. Not by malware—by someone with legitimate credentials. I traced the access logs back three months and found a pattern: regular connections from an IP address that didn't match Derek's home or office, always during off-hours, always accessing financial records.
Someone was skimming.
I pulled the transaction data without leaving obvious traces. Whoever was doing this was careful but not paranoid—they'd covered their tracks in the accounting software but hadn't thought to check the network logs. The amounts were small, regular, easily overlooked. Classic embezzlement pattern.
"Host has identified financial irregularity," GHOST noted. "Estimated theft: $4,200 over three months. Perpetrator likely internal—partner or employee with system access."
Derek had a business partner. I'd seen the name on documents while cleaning the network. Raymond Chen, co-founder, handles finances.
"Should I tell him?"
The ethical answer was yes. Derek was my client. He was being stolen from. He deserved to know.
But the practical answer was more complicated. If I revealed this, how would I explain finding it? Routine malware cleanup doesn't usually involve deep-diving into accounting logs. Derek might be grateful, or he might wonder why I was snooping. Word might spread that Marcus Cole looked too closely at client data.
And there was the other consideration: information was currency. Maybe Derek's situation could be useful someday, in ways I couldn't predict.
I saved the evidence to an encrypted file on my personal drive and said nothing.
"All clean," I told Derek when I finished. "You had some nasty malware, but I got it all. I'd recommend updating your router firmware and having someone look at your network security more thoroughly."
"How much for that?"
"I can write up a quote. Probably two, three hundred for a full audit and basic hardening."
Derek nodded, distracted by his phone. "Send me the quote. I'll talk to my partner about the budget."
I bet he would.
The subway home was crowded with evening commuters, and I stood pressed against the doors watching Manhattan's lights blur past. My jacket pocket held $290 in cash—Derek had paid well, and I'd picked up a quick laptop repair for a neighbor of Mrs. Patterson's while I was in the area. Combined with the bank balance, I was stable. Not comfortable, but stable.
"GHOST, run the numbers."
"Current financial status: stable for approximately 2.3 months at present expense levels. Legitimate income averaging $2,100 monthly. Sufficient for basic operations. Insufficient for equipment upgrades or emergency reserves."
The math was simple: I could survive on freelance work, but I couldn't grow. Every piece of upgraded equipment, every tool I might need for more sophisticated operations, would require either more legitimate income or... other sources.
"Recommendation," GHOST continued. "Illegitimate revenue streams could accelerate capability development. Risk assessment: moderate at current skill level. Probability of detection increases with complexity of operations."
"Not yet."
"Query: reasoning?"
The train emerged from the tunnel onto an elevated section, and suddenly I could see the Manhattan skyline in full. The E Corp building was visible from here, its logo gleaming against the dark sky. In a few months, that building would become a symbol of everything wrong with the world. Or maybe everything right, depending on who you asked.
"I'm not ready," I said quietly, keeping my voice below the subway noise. "One mistake and I lose everything—the cover, the freedom to operate, maybe my life. I need to be better before I take real risks."
"Logical. Though I note that timeline constraints exist. May 9 approaches."
Ninety days, give or take. Ninety days until the world changed forever. And I was still at Level 1, still learning the basics, still struggling to pay rent.
"One step at a time."
I pulled out my phone and pretended to check messages while actually reviewing the day's lessons. Mrs. Patterson paid consistently but offered no operational value. Derek's situation was a potential asset, filed away. The neighbor's laptop had been nothing special.
Small steps. Boring steps. But each one took me a little further from "confused transmigrator" and a little closer to "someone who might actually matter."
The train carried me back to Brooklyn, and I didn't look at the E Corp building again.
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