Cash and Plan

Adam had memorized the directions Frank gave him, or atleast, the gist of them. It wasn't too far-just a few blocks. One of them cuts across an alley that, on paper, probably shaved five minutes off his walk. So he took it.

He was halfway through the alley when two figures stepped out from the other end. One leaned against a dumpster, arms crossed, chewing on something. The other stood closer and pulled something shiny out of his pocket.

"Yo," the guy on the right, leaning against the dumpster called out. "You got the time?"

Adam didn't stop walking, but his posture shifted slightly, tension sliding into his shoulders. "Don't have a watch."

The guy on the left stepped forward. "Then how about your wallet?" His voice had an edge, and now the blade in his hand was visible.

 Adam stopped. He didn't raise his hands or step back. Just stared at them for a second, brain processing routes, distance, timing. The alley was narrow, maybe fifteen feet across. No one else in sight. A shout might not carry far enough, and these two didn't look like they'd bolt just because someone screamed.

The guy on the right crossed his arms. "Empty your pockets. Nice and slow."

Adam didn't answer. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet tattered, stuffed with bills folded tight and dropped it on the cracked pavement between them. He let it fall just a bit off-center, near his foot.

"Fine," Adam said. "Take it."

The guy on the right bent toward the wallet to pick it up.

Adam shifted his stance subtly.

And when the man bent down, Adam's leg came up fast, the heel of his boot slamming under the man's chin with a crack that echoed through the alley. The man's head snapped back, and he crumpled onto the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

The one with the knife flinched, surprised. "What the..."

He lunged, blade out.

Adam sidestepped, pivoted, grabbed the man's wrist mid-swing and twisted hard. The man yelped, the knife clattered to the pavement. Before he could react, Adam drove his elbow into the guy's chest, spun the handle of the fallen knife into his own hand, and cracked it clean across the attacker's temple with a sharp thud.

The man dropped instantly.

Silence filled the alley for a beat. One groaned. The other didn't.

Adam took a breath and checked the fallen knife, a dull edge, lightweight, but solid enough. He tossed it into a storm drain and grabbed his wallet from the ground, checking the cash. Still there. Still breathing.

He exhaled once and muttered, "Thanks for the cardio."

And kept walking.

________________________________________________________________________

When Adam finally reached the address Frank gave him. He saw a small, fading motel on 46th and 10th, it looked... functional. The neon VACANCY sign buzzed weakly in the window, casting a soft red glow onto the sidewalk. One of the letters flickered, half-dead.

He stepped inside.

A tiny fan whirred lazily behind the front desk, trying and failing to cut through the musty heat. Behind the counter sat a man in his sixties, watching a muted Yankees game. A small black-and-white monitor sat next to the television, split into four grainy feeds: the parking lot, the main hallway, the front entrance, and what looked like the pool.

Behind the counter was a stocky man in his sixties, graying at the temples, reading a newspaper that might've been yesterday's. He didn't look up when Adam walked in.

Adam approached the desk and cleared his throat. "Uh… Stan sent me. Said to mention his name."

That got the man's attention. He looked up over the paper, squinting.

"Stan from the diner?"

Adam nodded. "Yeah. Said you might have a room."

Murphy eyed him for a beat, then folded the newspaper and set it aside. "He say how long you're stayin'?"

"A week, maybe more. Depends how things go."

"Cash?" The man asked.

Adam nodded, pulling out his wallet. He thumbed through what he had. "How much for the week?"

Murphy scratched his jaw. "For Stan's people? Let's say two-ten, up front. You don't trash the place, I won't chase you out."

Adam counted it out — three fifties, six tens, some fives. That left him with a little breathing room. Not much, but enough.

"Done."

Murphy took the bills, handed him a key. "Room 107. Down the hall, second on the left. Don't change the locks. Don't lose the key."

Adam nodded and walked to his room. The motel room was small, maybe the size of a bedroom back home, wherever home even was now. A bed, a desk with a wobbly leg, a chipped dresser, and a bathroom that smelled faintly of bleach and mildew. But the door locked, and the curtains were thick enough to block out the world. That was enough.

Adam shut the door behind him and leaned back against it for a moment, exhaling like he'd been holding the day in his lungs. The fight. The walk. The room key still warm in his palm. He tossed it on the dresser and sank onto the bed, springs creaking beneath him.

For a long moment, he just stared at the ceiling.

He thought of the two guys in the alley. How easily that could've gone wrong. If the guy with the knife had lunged faster. If his kick had been a second late. If they'd had a gun.

He ran a hand through his hair.

'I need to get out of this city. No this country. Because this wasn't just New York. This was that New York. The one where aliens drop from the sky and men in flying suits punch holes through buildings.' He thought.

Except… he didn't know what he could do yet.

He thought of money. Of what he had left, barely enough for food, let alone plans. And if he wanted a fake passport, a new identity, safe passage out of the U.S., he couldn't just throw together a name and hope no one checked it. The tech here in 2008 was behind, sure, but not that behind.

He needed a clean system. A secure laptop, isolated from any traceable network. Equipment to spoof credentials. A printer that could handle watermarks. And software that wouldn't trigger red flags. All doable—but it'd cost him.

First step: get paid. Enough to get the right setup. The rest would follow. It had to.

He didn't realize how long he'd been lying there until the light started to fade through the curtains. The city changed after dark. Louder, sharper. Less forgiving. Tomorrow, he'd be back at the diner. One day closer to building his way out.

________________________________________________________________________

Tomorrow

The shift had bled into early morning, and Adam could feel it in his bones. Not the ache of a fight, he'd walked away from that without a scratch, but the mental wear and tear of pretending everything was normal.

Stan had handed him his pay with a grunt and a nod, then motioned toward the back with a trash bag. "Don't forget the garbage."

"Yeah"

He stepped outside with the black bags and exhaled into the cold air. His muscles were sore, and his brain felt like it had been microwaved. He hadn't scrubbed this many plates in his entire life.

Adam dropped the garbage and paused, letting out a breath. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for just a second. He rubbed his temples.

When he opened his eyes, smoke drifted lazily from the barrel, curling toward him. And then something blinked into view.

A small exclamation point, faint and ghost-like, hovered just at the edge of his vision—like a heads-up display from a game. But when he turned his head, it stayed anchored in place, just above the burning barrel.

What the hell...?

He blinked, but it didn't disappear.

And then, words appeared below it.

[DRAIN SMOKE]

Adam blinked. His breath caught in his throat.

No one's out here… right?

He glanced around. The alley was empty. The diner door shut behind him. The street beyond, dead quiet.

He took a breath and thought 'Drain smoke.'

The reaction was instant.

The smoke from the barrel surged toward him, rushing into him in thick, hot tendrils. It wrapped around his arms, his chest and and vanished into his skin. There was no pain. No burning. Just a rush. Like adrenaline shot straight into his veins. The drumfire dimmed slightly, barely noticeable.

He stepped back quickly, eyes darting around. No one. Not a soul in sight.

He looked at his hands.

"…Okay."

Then, just as the last wisps entered him, another icon bloomed into view. A soft bulb-shaped symbol, this time hovering at the bottom edge of his perception.

[SMOKE POWER UNLOCKED]

Tap into instincts?

[YES] [NO]

Adam stared at it. He didn't click it.

Not out here.

What if it triggered something loud? Bright? What if he glowed? What if he couldn't control it?

He needed privacy. Somewhere enclosed. Somewhere he could deal with whatever the hell this was, without witnesses.

________________________________________________________________________

The motel room was silent, dim, and ugly in the way only cheap rooms could be. But right now, Adam didn't care. He shut the door, locked it, double-checked the curtain, and exhaled like he hadn't all morning.

He sat on the bed, the mattress squeaking under his weight, and finally turned his attention back to the bulb icon still hovering faintly where it had been.

It hadn't disappeared. It had followed him.

He focused on it.

[SMOKE POWER UNLOCKED]

Tap into instincts?

[YES] [NO]

Yes.

As soon as he thought it, the message shifted.

[INSTINCT CONNECTION STABILIZED]

Smoke Power: Basic Set Unlocked

Press YES to begin transfer.

He didn't hesitate.

Yes.

And just like that, the knowledge flowed into him.

No voice. No text.

Just sensation.

A map of movement. The feel of smoke shifting under his skin. The pressure points for a dash. The weight of a blast building in his hand. The mechanics of phase-walking through thin structures. It wasn't like learning. It was like remembering.

His powers had been… internalized?

He stood up slowly, half-expecting something to glitch or spark. Nothing. But he could still feel it, just beneath the skin. Like static, waiting.

......…