"I'm sorry, Mr. Vance, but we're looking for someone who... fits the culture."
Mark sat stiffly in the uncomfortable plastic chair, his hands clasped tight in his lap to hide the fraying cuffs of his dress shirt. Across the desk, the hiring manager, a man named Mr. Henderson (no relation to his landlord, though they shared the same sneer), didn't even look up from his tablet.
"My resume shows I have the technical skills," Mark said, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach. "I graduated in the top ten percent of my class. I handled the logistics for—"
"It's not about the grades, Mark," Henderson interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes drifted down to Mark's shoes—scuffed leather that had been polished so many times the finish was cracking. Then his gaze moved to Mark's suit jacket, which was a size too big and clearly synthetic. "Client-facing roles require a certain... polish. A presentation of success. You understand."
Mark understood. He understood perfectly. They didn't want a worker; they wanted a mannequin.
"I can buy a new suit with my first paycheck," Mark offered, hating the desperation that leaked into his tone.
Henderson chuckled dryly, standing up to signal the end of the meeting. "We aren't a charity, son. We don't pay you to get ready. We pay you to be ready. Good luck out there."
Five minutes later, Mark was standing on the scorching pavement of 5th Avenue, the humidity hitting him like a physical blow.
He loosened his tie, feeling the sweat already prickling down his back. That was the third rejection this week. The feedback was always the same: You look poor. It was a vicious cycle. He couldn't get a job because he had no money for clothes, and he had no money for clothes because he couldn't get a job.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—a "low battery" warning. Or maybe another bill collector.
Mark walked three blocks to the city park, his feet aching in the cheap shoes. He collapsed onto a wooden bench, ignoring the pigeon droppings near the edge, and pulled out his phone. He opened his banking app. He held his breath, praying a miracle had occurred—maybe a refund, maybe a forgotten deposit.
[Account Balance: $12.50]
He exhaled, leaning his head back. The number stared back at him, unblinking and cruel.
Twelve dollars and fifty cents.
That wasn't just 'broke.' That was 'dangerous.' His rent was three months overdue. His landlord had stopped sending angry texts days ago, which meant eviction papers were being typed up right now. He had half a loaf of bread in his apartment and a jar of peanut butter that was mostly scraped clean.
He was twenty-four years old. He was supposed to be starting his life. Instead, he was drowning in the shallow end of the economy.
"What am I going to do?" he whispered to the humid air.
The businessman on the next bench over, eating a gourmet deli sandwich, glanced at Mark with mild annoyance, then shifted away. Mark felt a surge of shame burn his cheeks. He was invisible. He was a ghost haunting the cracks of the city.
Suddenly, a sharp pain spiked behind his eyes.
Mark gasped, pressing the palms of his hands against his temples. It wasn't a normal headache. It felt like a railroad spike being driven into his frontal lobe. A high-pitched electronic whine filled his ears, drowning out the traffic noise.
Stroke, Mark thought, panic flaring. I'm having a stroke. Great. I can't afford the ambulance.
Then, the world flickered.
It wasn't a hallucination. The air in front of him literally distorted, like heat rising off asphalt. Pixels of blue light coalesced, swirling together until they formed a crisp, semi-transparent rectangle floating about two feet in front of his face.
Mark blinked, waving his hand through it. His fingers passed through the light like smoke, but the text remained sharp.
[System Booting...]
[Bio-Metric Scan: Complete.]
[Host Identity: Mark Vance.]
[Status: Economically Critical.]
[Welcome, Host.]
Mark looked around wildly. The couple walking their dog didn't react. The businessman was still chewing his sandwich. Nobody else could see the glowing blue window hovering in the middle of the park.
I finally cracked, Mark thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. Stress. Malnutrition. This is it. The mental break.
The text on the screen scrolled with mechanical precision, ignoring his internal panic.
[System: Wealth Labor System (ver 1.0)]
[Core Philosophy: Value is generated through Labor. The humbler the task, the greater the yield.]
[Current Balance: $0.00 (System Account)]
A soft chime, like the notification sound of a high-end phone, rang directly in his brain.
[Daily Task Generated]
[Mission: Environmental Cleanup]
[Objective: Recycle 100 Plastic Bottles within the designated zone.]
[Reward: $100.00 per unit.]
[Time Limit: 59:59]
[Penalty for Failure: System Uninstallation.]
Mark stared. He read it twice. He read it a third time.
"$100 per unit?" he muttered.
The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. A plastic bottle was worth five cents at a recycling center. Maybe ten if you were in a good state. But this hallucination was offering him a hundred dollars? For trash?
But the timer in the corner of the screen was ticking down. 59:45... 59:44…
He looked at the trash can bolted to the pavement five feet away. It was overflowing. A crushed Mountain Dew bottle sat right on top of the pile, baking in the sun, surrounded by wasps.
Mark hesitated. He was wearing a suit. It was a cheap suit, yes, but it was the only one he owned. If he started digging through trash in a public park, he would officially cross the line. He wouldn't just be 'struggling' anymore; he would be one of them—the people society stepped over.
But I have $12.50, a cold voice in his head reminded him. I don't have the luxury of dignity.
If there was even a one-in-a-million chance this wasn't a hallucination…
Mark stood up. His legs felt shaky. He walked to the bin, took a deep breath, and reached out. He pinched the sticky green bottle between two fingers.
Ding!
A notification popped up in the corner of his vision, bright and gold.
[Count: 1/100]
[Pending Payout: $100.00]
Mark froze. The number felt... heavy. Real. A strange electric thrill shot down his spine, sharper than the headache had been. He looked at the bin again. He saw a water bottle buried under a greasy fast-food wrapper.
He didn't hesitate this time. He shoved his hand into the trash, grabbing the plastic.
Ding! [Count: 2/100]
[Pending Payout: $200.00]
Mark's breath hitched. He looked around the park. Suddenly, the landscape changed. He didn't see a dirty, litter-filled park. He saw a field of diamonds.
He moved.
He forgot the suit. He forgot the sweat trickling down his back or the smell of old ketchup. Mark grabbed a discarded shopping bag from the ground and started hunting. He went to the next bin, digging deep. Soda bottles, water bottles, juice containers.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The chime became a rhythm, a drumbeat driving him forward.
[Count: 15/100... Pending: $1,500]
[Count: 40/100... Pending: $4,000]
People started to stare. A mother pulled her child closer as Mark dove halfway into a recycling bin near the fountain, his dress shoes slipping on the wet pavement. He emerged with three empty Gatorade bottles like he had just pulled Excalibur from the stone.
He didn't care. Let them stare. They saw a crazy man playing in the garbage. Mark saw his rent being paid. He saw a steak dinner. He saw a new suit.
[Count: 85/100]
"Keep going," Mark whispered, his voice raspy. "Faster."
He was circling back toward the main path, his bag bulging with plastic, when a voice cut through the humid air.
"Mark?"
Mark froze. He was bent over, reaching for a muddy Coke bottle half-hidden in the grass. He knew that voice. It was a voice that used to whisper I love you before it started whispering You're not enough.
He slowly straightened up, wiping a smudge of dirt from his cheek with his sleeve.
Standing on the path were two people.
One was Sarah. She looked incredible—better than she had six months ago when she dumped him. She was wearing a floral summer dress that probably cost more than Mark's entire month's budget. Her hair was perfect, her skin glowing.
Next to her was a guy. Tall, polo shirt, boat shoes, holding a car key fob for a BMW. He had the relaxed, easy posture of someone who had never checked a bank account balance in fear.
Sarah stared at the bulging bag of trash in Mark's hand, then at his dirty suit jacket. Her expression shifted from surprise to a painful, cringe worthy pity.
"Oh my god," she breathed, her hand going to her mouth. "Mark... are you... are you collecting cans?"
Mark stood straight. The old Mark would have withered. The old Mark would have dropped the bag, made up a lie about losing a bet, or just run away.
But the System screen was hovering right next to Sarah's head, glowing with a soft, reassuring blue light.
[Count: 85/100]
[Pending Payout: $8,500.00]
"I'm working," Mark said simply. His voice was calm.
Sarah grimaced, stepping a little closer but keeping a safe distance, as if poverty were contagious. "Mark, I know the breakup was hard, and the job market is tough, but... look at you. You're digging in the garbage in a suit. Do you need help? Do you want me to... I don't know, buy you a sandwich?"
"I'm fine, Sarah," Mark said.
The guy next to her chuckled. It was a dry, arrogant sound. "Babe, don't make him feel worse. It's depressing. Let the man work his territory."
The guy reached into his pocket, pulled out a shiny quarter, and flicked it through the air toward Mark.
"Here, buddy," the guy said, flashing a blindingly white smile. "For a hot meal. Don't spend it all in one place."
Mark's hand moved instinctively. He caught the coin out of the air with a snap.
He looked at the quarter in his palm. George Washington stared back at him.
Ding!
[External Charity Received: $0.25]
[Total Balance: $12.75]
Mark looked up at them. He searched for the anger he should be feeling. He searched for the humiliation. But he couldn't find it. It was buried under $8,500 of pending funds.
He looked at the BMW guy, then at Sarah. He smiled. It wasn't a forced smile; it was the genuine, relaxed smile of a man who held a winning lottery ticket.
"Thanks," Mark said, pocketing the quarter. "Every bit counts."
He turned his back on them. He spotted a cluster of water bottles near a park bench—the remnants of a family picnic.
"Unbelievable," he heard Sarah whisper as they walked off, the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement fading away. "He really has no shame left."
Mark ignored her. He picked up the bottles.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
[Count: 98... 99... 100/100]
[Mission Complete.]
Mark dropped the heavy bag into the main recycling dumpster outside the park gates. He dusted off his hands, ruining the handkerchief in his pocket.
The blue screen pulsed with a brilliant golden light, expanding to fill his vision.
[Calculating Rewards...]
[Performance Rating: A (Efficiency High, Shame Low)]
[Transferring Funds...]
Mark held his breath. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. His thumb shook slightly as he unlocked it.
Bzzzt.
A notification from his bank app slid onto the screen, pushing aside the low battery warning.
Deposit Received: $10,000.00
Current Balance: $10,012.75
Mark stared at the number. The commas. The zeros. He refreshed the page. The number stayed. He pinched his arm, hard. It hurt.
He wasn't hallucinating.
The heat of the city suddenly didn't feel so oppressive. The smell of the trash faded away. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face, mirrored in the reflection of his cracked phone screen.
He looked back toward the gleaming glass towers of the financial district, where he had been rejected just an hour ago. The world hadn't changed—it was still cold, expensive, and cruel. But for the first time in his life, Mark had a weapon.
He tapped the screen off and put the phone back in his pocket.
"Time to pay the rent," he said.