Steven glanced around. The street was dead—nobody walking, no flashing lights. The building's entrance was a black void. Whoever owned the car was probably inside, clueless.
"I could do it," he whispered, fingers twitching. "Hop in, peel out, deal with the fallout later."
Then his brain caught up, sharp and cold. Steal it? Then what? He didn't know any shady dealers, had no clue how to unload a car this loud without paperwork. New York cops weren't exactly eating donuts all night. A Rolls-Royce tearing through Manhattan? Every precinct would be on him before he hit a red light. Caught in an hour, maybe two if he got lucky. Then what? A cell? Or worse, if the owner had connections?
"Nope," he muttered, stepping back. "Way too stupid." He wasn't some mastermind pulling off a movie heist. He was just Steven—broke, tired, with a backpack and a half-eaten protein bar.
But those keys… they were right there. He didn't need the car—just them. He'd seen online once, maybe some car geek's Reddit thread, that Rolls-Royce keys could fetch two grand on the black market. Two grand could keep him alive.
[Ding!]
[Suggestion: Low-risk option detected. Success chance: 69%. Detection chance: 22%. Recommendation: Investigate vehicle without taking it.]
Steven grinned faintly. "Way ahead of you, system." He checked the street again—still empty. One quick breath, and he moved, leaning through the open window. His hand closed around the keys—cold, heavy, that "RR" logo etched deep. He froze, ears straining. No sirens, no beeps. Just the faint buzz of the city.
He circled to the trunk, heart thumping like a drum. The key slid in, and the lock popped with a clean, heavy click. He lifted the lid, half-expecting a gym bag or a coat—something he could pawn to sweeten the deal.
Instead, a pistol stared back at him.
Not some rinky-dink piece—a sleek, matte-black handgun, nestled on a folded towel beside a loaded magazine. The bullets caught the streetlight, glinting like they were daring him. "Oh, hell no," he breathed.
Every nerve screamed to slam the trunk and bolt. A loaded gun in a Rolls-Royce? That was big-league trouble—mob stuff, maybe worse. But he stopped, hand hovering. No money, no place to crash, and a survival chance the system kept spitting out like a bad report card—20%, 25% at best. A gun… that could tilt the odds.
[Ding!]
[Alert: High-value item detected. Complication chance: 75%. Recommendation: Leave now.]
"Yeah, no shit," he muttered, but his hand didn't budge. "My whole life's a complication." He grabbed the pistol, then the magazine, shoving both into his backpack. The keys stayed in his pocket—two grand was still two grand, chaos or not.
He eased the trunk shut, the sound sharper than he liked in the quiet.
Footsteps clicked from the building. Someone was coming. Steven slipped behind a dumpster, crouching low. A guy in a sharp suit stepped out, phone to his ear. "It's done," he said, voice clipped. "Package is secure. Tell him we're moving tonight."
The man glanced at the car, then stopped, patting his jacket. His frown said it all—keys were gone.
"Gotta move," Steven whispered, melting into the alley's shadows.
[Ding!]
[Event Resolved: Items acquired (Keys, Pistol, Magazine). Survival chance, next 48 hours: 50%. New Skill: Opportunistic Scavenging (Beginner). Proficiency: 15%.]
"Better than nothing," he said under his breath, vanishing into the dark.
[Ding!]
[New Member "---" Joined!]