Day 60 – Hour 011 The Cost of Fortune

Day 60 – Hour 011The Cost of Fortune

The subject didn't run, but he moved with urgency—a twitchy, ungrounded rhythm, like someone afraid the street might open beneath his feet. Nemi had to stay far enough back not to cast a shadow, yet close enough to respond if the chase changed direction.

The narrow alleys of the slums were unreliable paths—built by habit more than planning. Some corridors opened into wide dirt lots. Others turned into staircases that looped back into themselves. But Nemi had lived here long enough to sense which roads led forward and which led nowhere.

He ducked beneath a hanging tarp and followed the subject through an unmarked corridor of rusted tin walls and splintering wood frames. The sound of footsteps against concrete echoed strangely here. Nemi's breathing slowed. He wasn't winded. Not yet. But adrenaline had a way of lying to the body—telling it to speed up when patience was the wiser move.

The subject turned left into a bus lot no longer used for anything but scrap. Three skeletons of old minibuses sat dormant there, and broken crates made an uneven perimeter. It was just remote enough for someone to believe they were alone.

Nemi took a sharp angle around a stone pillar and crouched behind a stacked pile of wire coils. He could see everything.

The subject paced again. Nervously. He checked his wrist, though he wore no watch. He muttered under his breath, too low for Nemi to hear. Then—something shifted. Footsteps. Not his. Not Nemi's.

Three young men, probably late teens or barely twenty, slinked into the bus lot from the opposite side. Same ones from earlier. Thinner than they looked from afar, but their confidence made up for it. One had a pipe. Another toyed with a metal belt looped over his shoulder.

"Back already," one said. "Heard you got something good under that hoodie."

"Yeah," another chimed in, "you keep checking it like it's glowing."

The subject turned fast. Too fast. "Don't come near me."

"Relax, big man. Just want a look. You out here sweating like a caught rat."

"I'm warning you." His voice cracked again. "I can't be seen like this."

"Oh? Got somewhere to be?"

Nemi didn't move. He pressed into the wall, eyes tracking every inch. The subject's stance was bad—weight on the back foot, arms too high. A fighter would have already lunged. This man wasn't one.

They swarmed him.

The first blow knocked him off his feet, head bouncing once against gravel. He tried to scramble, but the belt cracked against his ribs. He shouted in pain, curling around his arms. The pipe swung but didn't hit. The third man simply watched.

"Waste of time," one spat. "He's got nothing."

The others backed off. One kicked his side for good measure, frustration more than strategy. Then they left—unhurried, like men who had proven a point.

The subject lay still.

Nemi didn't move at first.

This was luck. Unbelievable luck. The kind that didn't happen. The man was down. Unconscious or close to it. He wouldn't resist. He wouldn't remember. His socks—dirty and partially rolled down from the scuffle—were still intact.

He approached slowly, checking every shadow. No one followed. No one watched.

The man groaned once but didn't open his eyes. Nemi crouched beside him. The hoodie had been torn at the shoulder. His lip was split.

Just a few seconds. Just the socks.

Nemi reached down and began to pull them off—one at a time. They were still warm. One had a hole near the toe.

He stood with them in hand.

He didn't move right away.

There was a weight pressing on his chest that hadn't been there a moment ago. He looked down at the subject. Was it right to leave him here? Could he drag him to a wall? Could he shout for someone? Could he at least move him out of the sun?

No. Every second spent here was one more chance to be seen. One more variable in a game whose rules punished variables. The Rule Book hadn't said the subject must survive. It hadn't said the method of sock retrieval mattered. It hadn't even said not to intervene. Just "complete the task."

And that's what he had done.

He stepped away, the socks bundled in his palm like a rag. He took the side exit of the lot, turned twice, then disappeared into a street where no one would remember him.

He didn't look back.