Day 60 – Hour 013 “The Evaluation”

Day 60 – Hour 013

"The Evaluation"

The socks sat on the corner of the table. Folded, dry, and colorless, as if they had never held the heat of another man's step. Nemi stared at them for a long while without moving, without even breathing too deeply. His legs ached, his chest still tight from the last sprint. His brain hadn't caught up. His body had.

He was home.

The narrow walls of his apartment pressed in slightly more than usual. He hadn't noticed the weight of silence in the room until he sat down. The cushions were still cool. The air was dry. It was as if the space had waited for him, untouched, unaware of the decision he had just made.

He didn't move for a while. Didn't text. Didn't eat. Just stared at those socks like they were the remnants of a crime scene.

There had been a moment—right before he reached for them—when he'd paused. A real, deliberate pause. The subject was lying unconscious, still breathing, his body curled against the bottom edge of a wall, as if he had slumped there on purpose. The thugs had already disappeared. Nemi had looked around. Checked the alleys. Measured the angles.

No witnesses.

No questions.

But the hesitation had come anyway, whispering suggestions.

"Move the body. Check his pulse. Help him up. Get him out of sight."

Instead, Nemi had taken the socks, rolled them like he'd done it before, tucked them into the inner lining of his shirt, and walked away.

Now, hours later, he still wasn't sure what part of him had made the call. The strategist? The coward? The obedient follower? Or simply the boy who had run out of options long ago and learned that choices were made from necessity, not principle.

He sighed and reached for the phone.

Text to 3334444:Task complete. Socks retrieved. Subject left breathing.

The message sent with a dull click. He leaned back and waited. If they'd been watching — and by now, he was sure they had — there would be no surprises on their end. He wondered if they'd care at all about the man's condition. If they had chosen him. If they had promised him something too.

Less than a minute passed before the screen lit up with the Club's signature formatting.

[{The $100 Club}[Confirmation received.][You have completed the task in 7 hours.]

Scoring Breakdown:

Speed: 10/10

Tactics: 4/10

Conviction: 10/10

Money Saved: 10/10

Hired Help: 10/10

Investigative Skills: 7/10

Overall Percentile: 99%

Bonus Reward for Outstanding Performance: Will be delivered to you.

Bonus for Fastest Time Completion: One question answered unequivocally.

You may submit your question now.]

Nemi blinked.

They'd tracked every angle. Judged every move. Somehow, they knew how long it had taken him, how little he had spent, that he hadn't enlisted a single ally — or more accurately, that the thugs who had done the job for him hadn't been orchestrated by him. And yet, they'd counted that anyway. Hired help. Ten out of ten.

That made his stomach twist slightly. He hadn't even thought of that part. Did that mean they were pleased? Or just documenting the facts?

He didn't reply right away.

Instead, he stood up, walked to the sink, and rinsed his face with cold water. The mirror on the wall stared back — a hollow-eyed boy wrapped in a man's sense of purpose. He dried off, went back to the phone, and sat cross-legged in front of it.

One question. Any question. And it would be answered — unequivocally.

He could ask who ran the Club. He could ask what the next test would be. He could ask why he had been chosen.

But all of those felt like the wrong moves. Like picking the low fruit on a tree he hadn't learned to climb yet.

He stared at the screen.

Then he typed slowly, deliberately:

Text to 3334444: Do you care who I become?

He pressed send.

The answer came back exactly eight seconds later:

{The $100 Club} [Only if you're useful.]

Nemi set the phone down.

For a long time, he didn't move. His legs were stiff, his muscles sore. But none of that weighed as heavily as the answer.

Not a yes. Not a no. Just a truth that made everything that came before — the stolen socks, the bruised man, the money, the assignments, the tests — feel like the first pages of a longer book he hadn't started reading until now.

He looked at the socks again.

Then got up, walked to the sink, and burned them. Slowly, carefully. One thread at a time.