SWNOVELXO Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The relentless drip… drip… drip from the bathroom faucet hammered against the silence, echoing the blue numbers burning in the corner of Ace's vision: 17:45… 17:44… Each drop felt like a countdown to the real deadline: $24.49 owed to Big Mike by Noon. His resources mocked him: $100 (System Funds), $0 (Cash), 1 Dead Phone, 1 Basic Haggling Skill (Lv.1) buzzing faintly in his mind, 1 Motel Room that smelled faintly of sour defeat.
The hollow victory from completing the System's task tasted like grit scraped from the stained carpet he sat on. He had won technically, yet he was still broke, still trapped, still weak. The feeling curdled in his gut, a cold sludge replacing the earlier numbness. Not good enough. The thought sliced through the fog, sharp and clear. I can't just sit here waiting for the next task. The System plays by rules. I need to learn them. Use them.
Cleverness. Creativity. Toughness. They weren't just words anymore; they were the only tools left in his broken toolbox. He needed them now.
Priority One: The Dead Phone. My lifeline to the System's money to anything is severed. Without power, I'm blind. I push myself off the scratchy carpet. his muscles groaning from the cold and exhaustion that had seeped deep into his bones during the night in the alley and the tense hours since. The peeling wallpaper seemed to press closer in the dim light.
He scanned the tiny space. Sagging bed. Wobbly nightstand. Flickering lamp. Tiny bathroom. Think. Resources. Ingenuity. He claimed the words as his own.
The bathroom. He pushed open the door. The dripping faucet over the stained sink was a maddening metronome. But beside it… a small, grimy electric kettle. Cheap white plastic, yellowed with age. An idea sparked, dangerous and fragile. Heat. Power.
He grabbed the kettle, his fingers encountering a layer of greasy dust. He filled it under the tap, flinching as the water ran rust-brown for a few seconds before clearing. Good enough. He jammed the plug into the socket near the sink. A tiny, stubborn red light glowed. It worked. A thin wire of hope sparked down his spine.
He pulled the cold, dead phone from his pocket. He need to open it. Expose the battery. Maybe… just maybe… if I can trickle some charge directly…? He remembered a YouTube video Ben watched once about heating a dead cell to revive it. It has high risk and it could fry the battery—or worse.
But what choice is there? $100 was worthless dust if he couldn't touch it.
He needed tools. His fingers probed the phone's sealed edge. No screws. Damn it. He scanned the bathroom again. Nothing. Then, his eyes caught the cheap metal towel rack screwed to the wall. One screw was loose, its Phillips head protruding slightly.
Yes. He gripped the screw head with his thumbnail and forefinger, ignoring the bite into his soft nail bed. Toughness meant enduring. He twisted hard, pain lanced up his finger. He gritted his teeth, bearing down. The screw resisted, then grudgingly turned. Slowly. Agonizingly. His thumbnail screamed, threatening to tear. Finally, it came free. A tiny, sharp sliver of metal rested in his palm.
Not perfect but it's fine for now
He went back to the phone and pushed the screw's tip into the gap where the screen meets the case, right by the charging port. He tried prying it loose—gently at first, then harder. The plastic creaked under the strain. He shifted the angle carefully, using the hard porcelain edge of the sink as leverage. Creativity was finding advantage. He applied slow, steady pressure, his breath held.
Pop! A tiny section gave way. He slid the screw along the seam, feeling the delicate plastic yield with more pops. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's chill. His fingers ached. Finally, the back casing popped off, exposing the phone's delicate inner workings—tiny circuits and fragile parts laid bare.
The kettle clicked off. Steam billowed from the spout in a thick, hot plume that filled the air like a mini cloud.
He held the exposed phone near the rising steam, careful not to let condensation drip directly onto the circuitry. The heat washed over the battery and board. He needed warmth to coax a flicker of charge, a ghost of life. It was a desperate gamble. Steam equaled moisture. Moisture meant short circuits. Death.
Cleverness was weighing terrible odds. Maybe 10% chance. But 100% doom if he did nothing. He held the phone steady, letting the warm, damp air bathe the components. Ten seconds. Twenty. The heat radiating onto his hand became uncomfortable, bordering on painful. He pulled back, quickly wiping beads of moisture off the logic board with the less-stained edge of his shirt – the one Leo's juice hadn't splashed.
Now. The moment. He found the tiny, fragile connector for the battery. With trembling but precise fingers, he pressed it firmly back onto its contact points. Secure. He held his breath. Pressed the power button.
Nothing.
Damn it! Cold disappointment washed over him, colder than the alley wind. Stupid risk. He pressed again, holding it longer.
A flicker. The ghostly outline of the battery icon – 0% – appeared for a fractured second on the cracked screen. Then darkness.
So close! The heat had nudged it. Just not enough. He needed more. Direct heat was suicide. Back to the steam. He repositioned the phone over the kettle, the reheating water generating a softer plume. Warming the battery directly, cautiously.
Thirty seconds. The heat on his fingers intensified, becoming a sharp sting. He pulled away, wiped the board frantically. Reconnected. Power button.
The screen flickered… stuttered… and glowed! The manufacturer logo appeared, fragmented by the spiderweb cracks. Then… the home screen! Battery: 1%. A thin, desperate red bar.
YES! A fierce, silent roar filled his chest. It worked! Cleverness, born of desperation. Creativity, forged from garbage. Toughness, paid for in stinging heat and torn skin.
He didn't hesitate. He fumbled for the cheap charger still coiled in his pocket, his burned fingers clumsy. He plugged the fragile, slightly warped phone into the wall socket. The charging symbol appeared. 1%... 2%... Slow. Agonizing. But climbing.
16:30… 16:29… The System timer pulsed. Big Mike's deadline loomed larger, darker. But he had a thread back to his lifeline. Power was returning.
At 5%, he couldn't wait. He unlocked the phone. His hands shook now, not with fear, but with focused intensity. He pulled up the System interface. It felt… sharper. More responsive. The blue text crisp.
[System Funds: $100.00 USD]
[Access Financial Interface? (Y/N)]
He jabbed 'Y'. A new screen overlaid his display with 3 options:
[Direct Transfer: Bank Account (Fee: $1.50)]
[Generate Virtual Prepaid Card (Fee: $5.00)]
[Cash Withdrawal: Designated ATM (Fee: $3.00)]
Fees. Of course. The System traded, never gave. He needed physical cash. Now. The ATM fee was the smallest toll. He selected it.
[Select Amount: $_____ ]
He needed $24.49 for Big Mike but that wasn't all. He also needed money for food to quiet the gnawing ache in his stomach and a cheap charger to protect his only means of connection—a safety buffer. He typed in $40.00. The fee was deducted immediately. That left him with $37.00 to withdraw.
[Locating Nearest Designated ATM…](Processing…)*
A map appeared on his screen: the same QuickCash ATM he had stumbled to hours before, his frozen limbs driven by desperation. It was half a mile away—the cold walk, the dark streets. But this time, he had purpose. A plan was forming in his mind, clear and determined. Not just reacting—strategizing.
[Funds Available for Withdrawal: $37.00](Access Code: 7H9J2K)*
He etched the code into his memory, 7-H-9-J-2-K. Then he unplugged the phone at 8%. It would hold for now. The casing felt warm, slightly misshapen near where the steam had concentrated. A proper fix would come later.
He stood. His body still ached – the deep throb in his hip from slamming into the counter yesterday a constant reminder, the sting in his fingers from the steam and prying. But the crushing exhaustion was replaced by a low, determined hum. Focus. He looked down at the faint, sticky outline of the juice stain on his shirt, visible in the dim light, not just a mark of shame anymore but a benchmark. A line drawn hours ago.
He opened the motel room door. The hallway air was thick with mildew and disinfectant, but it wasn't suffocating., but it wasn't suffocating. It was a path forward. He stepped out, locking the door firmly behind him. The key felt solid, real. It was his space for now.
He passed the office. Light spilled through the plexiglass. Big Mike's large silhouette was bent over the counter. Reading? Ace didn't stop. Not yet. First, secure the cash. Then, negotiation. He had a skill to test.
The cold night air hit him as he exited, sharp enough to make him gasp, but it felt bracing now, not paralyzing. He pulled the thin fabric of his shirt tighter across his chest, the movement pulling at the tender skin on his burned fingers. Toughness was embracing the discomfort. He started walking. Not the defeated shuffle of before, but a deliberate stride. His eyes scanned the pools of shadow between streetlights, not in cowering fear, but with the alertness of someone assessing terrain. His mind was clear. Calculating.
Resources: $37 cash incoming. The Basic Haggling skill humming in his mind like a newly tuned instrument, whispering nuances of tone and timing. The System's cold, transactional logic. His own desperation, refined now into a sharp edge.
Objective: Pay Big Mike. Secure the room for another night. Eat something solid. Acquire a charger. Fortify his position.
The System timer glowed: 16:00… 15:59… Wealth Consolidation. Whatever cryptic task that meant, it could wait. Right now, he had a plan. And for the first time since the door of Apartment 3B clicked shut, locking him out of his old life, it felt like the controls were in his hands. Not the System's. Not his parents'. Not the indifferent city's cold grasp.
The green glow of the QuickCash sign appeared ahead. it felt like a second chance. He strode toward it with purposeful steps, the broken phone a familiar weight in his pocket, the blue words a silent guide in his vision, and a hard-won fire kindling in his gut.