The light filtering from the tiny window at the far end of the narrow room woke Buck from his slumber.

  Not the surgical white of the accelerator. Not the gray blur of the alley. Real morning light, thin and patient, slipping through the narrow window and laying itself across the cracked plaster like it belongs there.

  The bed creaks as he sits up. It is narrow and unapologetic, but he can’t remember the last time he slept so solidly. His body feels… good. Sore, yes, but that soreness feels right. Aligned almost. His mind feels largely uncluttered. Clear-headed. Whatever the jump did to him, it did not linger.

  “That’s interesting,” Buck mutters.

  Sleep helps a lot when your nervous system isn’t being actively insulted, B.U.C.K. replies.

  Buck swings his legs over the side of the bed and takes inventory, the habit automatic.

  Coins: a few left from yesterday.

  Food: enough for breakfast.

  Shelter: one night paid, maybe two tolerated if he worked some for Maeve.

  Not enough.

  “Okay,” Buck says quietly. “We need income.”

  Correct, B.U.C.K. replies. Preferably something boring. Boring keeps you alive and out of people’s minds.

  Buck stands, stretches, and looks out the small window. Chimneys. Rooftops. Smoke already climbing into the morning. The city is awake and does not care if he is.

  “How much do I need,” Buck asks, “to stop scrambling.”

  The HUD eases into view along the edges of his sight, text settling into tidy columns like a financial notice nailed to a wall.

  ESTIMATED DAILY COSTS

  Food: low ??

  Lodging: moderate ??

  Clothing upkeep: low ??(but need to add more socks & underwear and another set of clothes)

  Discretion buffer: critical need ??

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  If you want stability, B.U.C.K. says, you clear five times your daily cost. That gives you margin. Margin buys choices.

  “And growth?”

  There is a pause.

  Growth requires more of a surplus, B.U.C.K. says. Surplus requires a service or passive income.

  Buck nods. “Not a job.”

  Exactly, B.U.C.K. replies. Jobs come with overseers. Services come with customers. Passive income is the gift that keeps giving.

  Buck exhales and reaches for his coat.

  “Knife sharpening it is, for now.”

  There is a brief, unmistakable beat of satisfaction.

  I knew you’d come around.

  “Don’t get smug.”

  I’ve waited thirty-two years. I’ve seen some shit. I’ve earned smug.

  Buck heads downstairs, nodding once to the woman at the counter as he slips out into the street. He moves with purpose, but not so much so that he stands out from those around him, just a man who knows what he needs and where he is going. The market is already loud, already layered with motion people peddling wares of all kinds, from food to tools and implements of all sort. The din of people shouting to be heard over all the other people shouting to be heard. Once among the stalls, he keeps his posture loose, pace unremarkable, eyes moving without lingering.

  The tool stall smells of oil and old metal. Buck picks up a whetstone from several laid out on a cloth on the ground among a random assortment of other items, turns it over in his hands.

  “How much,” he asks.

  “Three pennies,” the vendor, an older man with a slight accent says with a gruff edge.

  Buck tilts the stone so the chipped edge catches the light. “It’s well worn.”

  The vendor scowls. “It works well too.”

  “It’ll eat a blade if you rush,” Buck says calmly. “Stone and a rag. Two pennies.”

  The man hesitates, then nods in agreement.

  Buck leaves lighter in coin and heavier in purpose.

  Initial investment complete, B.U.C.K. says. Please don’t drop it in a river or a shit bucket.

  Buck makes his way towards where lots of folks are likely to be working with blades. The docks. He finds a spot nearby where some men sit eating and arguing and pretending not to watch each other, while they wait for several ships that docked late last night to need their help unloading. He sets the stone on his knee, the rag beneath it. He begins to whistle a random tune that most of these men likely will never hear in it’s original form and waits.

  It takes a little longer than he wants.

  Then a man stops. “You sharpen?”

  Buck looks up. “Two pennies.”

  “For a small knife?”, he says with a bit of incredulity.

  “For not cutting yourself,” Buck replies.

  The man snorts a wry laugh, then pulls a knife with a blade as long as the width of his hand deftly from a leather sheath at his waist and hands it over to buck hilt first.

  Buck admires the blade, running his thumb carefully along the edge, feeling the small places that catch his skin where the blade has small imperfections. Satisfied by his study of it, he begins to works slowly. Angle. Pressure. Patience. The stone sings softly under his hands as he builds a rhythm of movement. His body remembering the motion before his mind has a chance to orchestrate it.

  When he hands the knife back, the man tests it with his thumb and blinks.

  “Well I’ll be damned, sharper than new.”

  Coins change hands along with nods of approval. The man doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.

  Word spreads sideways. A nod here. A muttered comment there. By midday Buck has sharpened knives, shears, a hatchet, even a carpenter’s chisel. He charges fairly. Works carefully. Never rushes.

  Consistency is building trust, B.U.C.K. observes. Trust compounds faster than money.

  Buck eats standing up, bread and cheap cheese bought with his first earnings. He counts his coins once. Then again.

  Enough for the day. Enough for food. Enough for lodging. Enough left over to breathe.

  By late afternoon his hands ache in a way that feels earned. He packs up quietly and heads back toward the boarding house as the light softens and the city shifts gears.

  As he climbs the stairs, he pauses.

  “This works,” he says.

  For now, B.U.C.K. agrees.

  Buck unlocks his door and steps inside, setting the coins carefully on the small table.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, more to himself than to the voice.

  There is a brief silence.

  Tomorrow, B.U.C.K. replies, carefully casual, I might show you something interesting. If you’re rested.

  Buck frowns. “Show me what.”

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  Let’s call it… a surprise.

  Buck exhales, shakes his head, and sits on the bed.

  He has food.

  He has shelter.

  He has money.

  Whatever tomorrow brings, at least now he will meet it on his feet.