Steven set the mug on the counter, its warmth still lingering in his palms. "Gotta head out—don't wanna be that guy who lingers too long."
Vanessa stood, stretching slightly as she moved toward the door. "Stay sharp out there, stranger. This city's got teeth."
He paused at the threshold, glancing back with a lopsided grin. "If I ever strike it rich, I'm buying you the best sandwich in town."
She chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll believe it when I see it. Take care, Steven."
The door clicked shut, and the hallway's sterile quiet swallowed him. Sleek walls, polished floors—Vanessa's building was a far cry from the crumbling apartment he'd grown up in.
"Okay, system," he muttered, "let's see that kit."
[Ding!]
[Basic Survival Kit Retrieved. Location: Behind you.]
He turned, and there it was—a plain backpack slumped against the wall like it belonged there. "That's... unsettling," he said, slinging it over his shoulder.
Inside: a crisp $100 bill, a pocketknife that looked one step above a toy, a water bottle, a protein bar, and a burner phone still sealed in plastic. Better than nothing, he thought, zipping it up.
New York's streets hit him like a wave—April air sharp, horns blaring, sidewalks pulsing with people who didn't spare him a glance. The day blurred past. A street vendor's hot dog and soda cost him $10—highway robbery, but his stomach wasn't picky.
He stashed the remaining cash, already doing the math. Ninety bucks wouldn't last a week here. Cheap motels? Out of reach. Park benches? Too open. Alleys? He'd seen enough crime shows to know better. By nightfall, his legs ached, and the city's weight pressed harder. Sleeping rough wasn't an option—not when muggers were the least of his problems.
He wandered onto a quieter street, the city's glow casting everything in amber and shadow. Then he saw it: a Rolls-Royce, black and gleaming, parked outside a glassy office building.
The "RR" badge caught the streetlight's glare. No one around. Just the car, radiating wealth.
Steven stopped dead. "Holy shit," he whispered. His eyes traced its lines—the sleek curves, the chrome that shone like it was mocking him. Back home, the fanciest thing he'd touched was his friend's rusted Civic. This was... unreal.
He stepped closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to look like he wasn't casing the place. The building behind it screamed money—probably some tech startup or law firm with a logo that meant nothing to him. The driver's side window was down. And the keys—they were just there, dangling in the ignition.
His chest tightened. "Who the hell leaves a Rolls-Royce unlocked in New York?" he muttered. "With the keys in it?"
A stupid, dangerous thought sparked. What if I took it? A car like that could be sold for thousands—tens of thousands, maybe. Enough for a room, food, maybe even a fake ID to start over.
No money. No place to crash. A 20% shot at surviving the week. Desperation had a way of making dumb ideas sound like salvation.