Saturday morning's soft light seeped through the basement window, nudging Charlie awake on his narrow bed. No alarm today—his internal clock, honed by months of discipline, sufficed, though a dull ache in his ribs from Friday's grind at Iron Will Fight Club reminded him of his progress: 119/1,000 hits toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star, a fresh MMA 1 Star earned. He stretched, wincing slightly, but pride flared—each bruise a badge, each skill a step toward something greater. Curiosity tugged him upstairs, skipping his usual three-mile run.
The kitchen hummed with the warm scent of coffee and toast, a faint radio murmur blending with his parents' voices. Marge stood by the counter, her factory apron swapped for a cozy weekend sweater, frowning at her phone. Harold sat at the table, his sales clipboard pushed aside, scrolling his screen with a grumble. Charlie leaned against the doorway, voice rough from sleep. "What's got you two so hooked?"
Marge looked up, eyes brightening. "Oh, Charlie, you need to see this app—it's everywhere." She held up her phone, the screen glowing with a sleek interface, a spinning logo: NexGuard. "It's called NexGuard, made by this genius, Elliot Hayes. Blocks hackers, stops cheats in games, apps, everything." Harold snorted, eyes glued to his phone, brow creased. "Yeah, and my phone company sold my number to some marketing outfit. Getting calls about promotions I didn't ask for! Hell, I'm calling them now!" He jabbed his screen, muttering complaints, as Marge shook her head, amused.
Charlie raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to glance at Marge's screen. The app's design was sharp—graphs tracking data, alerts flashing "Threats Blocked," a chat window labeled "Hayes AI Assistant." Anti-cheat, anti-hacker… like a fight I'd take, he thought. He pulled his patched-up phone—upgraded with System cash—and searched "Elliot Hayes NexGuard." Articles flooded the screen, and he skimmed a 2025 tech blog:
Elliot Hayes, 33, a Black innovator from Chicago, reshaped cybersecurity with NexGuard, an AI-powered app on over 2 billion devices worldwide. Launched last year, it fuses ironclad anti-hacker defenses—blocking malware, phishing, spyware—with cutting-edge anti-cheat systems for games, detecting aimbots and wallhacks instantly. Self-taught from Englewood's tough streets, Hayes exposed a major data breach at 33, earning the title "Digital Guardian." NexGuard's AI outpaces threats, dominating smartphones to pro esports. "Fairness is worth fighting for," Hayes said in a rare interview.
Charlie frowned, his Better Genes-sharpened mind dissecting the timeline. Data breach exposed and an app on 2 billion devices in months? Super genius… or something else? He glanced at Marge, swiping through the app's chat with its AI, then at Harold, voice rising on his call: "Stop selling my data!" Charlie pocketed his phone, curious but wary, not fully sold. Elliot Hayes… maybe too good to be true.
He grabbed a banana, peeling it as his mind shifted to Bobby's party—8 PM, the note's promise to "bury the hatchet." Never been to one, he thought, nerves and curiosity bubbling. His closet was a mess of gym gear and oversized tees, unfit for a party. Time to fix that. He checked his System cash—$10,900, solid after Friday's cauliflower dish. "Heading out," he called, Marge nodding absently, Harold still arguing on his call. Charlie slipped on his sneakers and stepped into Maplewood's crisp morning.
The town's main strip was a ten-minute walk past quiet lawns and corner stores. Charlie aimed for Threadline, a clothing shop nestled between a diner and a pawn shop, its window flashing "Weekend Sale" in neon. The bell jingled as he entered, the air cool with a cedar scent from polished racks. Shelves brimmed with jeans, shirts, and jackets, pop music humming low. A clerk—mid-20s, nose ring, dyed blue hair—glanced up from her phone. "Need help?" she asked, half-interested. Charlie shook his head, weaving through aisles, fingers brushing cotton, denim, and a leather jacket too pricey for today. Something clean, not flashy, he thought, picturing Bobby's house. His old self—soft, invisible—would've grabbed baggy cover; now, leaner, he wanted clothes to match. He pulled a black button-up, slim fit, sleeves rollable—sharp but not try-hard. Next, dark jeans—cut to show his frame without hugging loose skin. A black leather belt with a silver buckle tied it together. In the mirror, he sized up the stack: Looks like me, but… better.
At the counter, the clerk scanned: shirt $35, jeans $50, belt $15. "Hundred even," she said, popping gum. Charlie paid with his phone—untraceable System cash. The System tracked: Purchase: $100. Balance: $10,800. He took the paper bag, crinkling softly, and stepped back into the sun.
The sun had sunk below Maplewood's skyline as Charlie reached Bobby's address, the crumpled invite burning in his pocket—8 PM, bury the hatchet. His new clothes—black button-up, dark jeans, silver-buckled belt—felt crisp, a stark contrast to his old, shapeless tees. Bobby's place wasn't a house but a mansion: three stories of sleek glass and stone, a manicured lawn, a glowing pool rippling out back, city lights framing the horizon. Music thumped through open windows, laughter and shouts spilling out, the air sharp with booze and perfume. Charlie frowned, stomach tightening. He'd never touched alcohol—never wanted to dull the edge the System gave him.
He stepped inside, the foyer swallowing him in polished marble and vaulted ceilings, a chandelier glinting above. The living room pulsed with bodies—familiar faces from college, others strangers—dancing, drinking, sprawling on leather couches. A glass door led to the pool, where some splashed under string lights, shouts echoing. Charlie's Better Genes-sharpened senses picked out details—a spilled drink, a girl's giggle, a guy stumbling. Then he saw Bobby, leaning against a kitchen island, flanked by Pete and Ray, their smirks sharp. Next to Bobby—Katie. Her blonde hair caught the light, her smile bright but guarded, her arm brushing Bobby's. Charlie's chest twinged—not pain, but close. Still stings, huh? he thought, the old crush lingering like a bruise.
Bobby's eyes locked onto him, mischief glinting. He slid his hand onto Katie's waist, deliberately, letting it drift lower, grazing her hip, nearly her backside. Charlie caught it, the twinge sharpening—a jab to his pride. Katie didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Bobby made a loud "Oh!" as if just noticing Charlie, voice cutting through the noise. "Charlie! My friend, how you doin'?" Katie's hand shot out, brushing Bobby's away fast, cheeks flushing as she glanced at Charlie, then away. Bobby sauntered over, leaving Pete, Ray, and Katie behind, leaning close, breath sour with beer. "Katie's a real hot one, right?"
Charlie's jaw tightened, memories flashing—Katie's laugh last year, her ignoring him. Fuck it. Fuck her. He met Bobby's eyes, forcing a wild, sharp grin. "Yeah, she's hot, no doubt." Bobby blinked, caught by the confidence, then grinned back, a flicker of respect breaking through. The grin faded, tone shifting. "Welcome to my first big party, Finch—my house, my rules." He clapped Charlie's shoulder, hard, but the Pain Threshold Bump dulled it to a tap. "C'mon, let's show you the place."
Pete, Ray, and Katie trailed as Bobby led the tour, voice loud over the music. "This is the den—biggest TV in town, 85 inches." A sleek screen dominated, game consoles stacked below. "Upstairs, my dad's office runs half the internet sales for three cities, rakes in millions." The hallway gleamed, abstract art screaming wealth. Out back, the pool deck stretched wide, city lights twinkling beyond a glass railing. "Best view in Maplewood," Bobby bragged, but his eyes darted nervously as Ray flicked a cigarette butt toward the water. Charlie's frown deepened—Bobby's plan was clear: flaunt wealth, twist the knife with Katie. Trying to make me jealous? Not tonight.
The tour hit a snag in the game room, a pool table and arcade machines glowing under neon signs. Pete grabbed a crystal figurine—a delicate bird, worth thousands. "Yo, this cool?" he slurred, tossing it lightly. Bobby's face paled. "Don't touch that! If it breaks, my parents—" The figurine slipped, teetering toward the floor. Charlie's Agility Spike flared—he lunged, catching it inches from the carpet, knuckles brushing the floor. Bobby exhaled, clutching his chest. "Oh, thank God, Finch. Guys, chill with touching stuff!" Pete laughed, unbothered, while Ray knocked over coasters, grinning, clearly drunk. Katie sighed, her eyes meeting Charlie's—pity, maybe regret—before she muttered, "I'm getting a drink," drifting to the pool.
The party spiraled, Bobby's control slipping. Drunk kids spilled beer on rugs, a couple sneaked into the master bedroom, others argued by the pool. Two guys—big, red-faced, wasted—cornered Bobby near the kitchen, one shoving his chest. "Stop ruinin' the party, rich boy!" Bobby squared up, fist clenched—he could scrap—but Charlie stepped in, Boxing 2 Stars humming. A quick jab snapped the guy's head back, clean and sharp. The second backed off, muttering, and Bobby stared, wide-eyed. "Damn, Finch…" he said, catching his breath.
Things broke upstairs. Bobby stormed into his parents' bedroom, finding three kids tangled on the bed, clothes half-off. "Get the hell out!" he roared, spotting a blinking security camera. "There's cameras, you fuckers!" He turned to the hall, voice cracking, stopping the music. "Everyone, FUCK OFF!" The crowd groaned, some laughing, but shuffled out. Pete and Ray lingered, but Bobby snapped, "You too!" They left, tossing cups on the floor. "Fucking bastards," Bobby spat, kicking a bottle. He grabbed Charlie's arm, pulling him aside, face flushed with exhaustion. "Listen, Finch, no hard feelings. I wanted to show you Katie's trouble, okay? She's into bad boys—the worse, the better. Ditch her." He paused, voice softening. "Hell, only you helped me tonight, 'Sludge.' Ironic, huh?"
Charlie shrugged, his wild grin softening. "Your way of showing me was nuts, Bobby. First party—honestly? Kinda sucked." Bobby barked a laugh, slumping against the wall. "Yeah, never hosting again—my parents'll rip me apart." He straightened, a thought hitting. "Saw you at Iron Will—that cross on Mike, damn. You do kickboxing? We could spar sometime."
Charlie nodded, stepping toward the door. "Yeah, maybe. Didn't know you went there." Bobby called after him, voice low. "Wait, Charlie—I'm… sorry, for everything." Charlie turned, meeting his eyes, and smiled, genuine, no edge. "No hard feelings. Just… don't pull that crap on others, okay?" Bobby rubbed his neck, sheepish. "I'll try, man." Charlie nodded, stepping off the porch into Maplewood's quiet night, the party's chaos—spilled beer, Katie's glance, Pete and Ray's mess—fading behind.
But something stopped him. The mansion's lawn was a wreck—red cups, crushed cans, cigarette butts scattered like shrapnel. Bobby'd face it alone, his parents' wrath looming. Not right, Charlie thought. He bent down, grabbing a cup, then another, stacking them in his hand. A bottle rolled nearby—he snagged it, tossing it into a trash bag by the pool. Bobby stepped out, spotting him, brows knitting. "Charlie, what're you doing?" Charlie blinked, straightening, a half-smile tugging. "Cleaning, man. You want this mess alone?" Bobby froze, eyes glinting, a shimmer of tears catching the moonlight. "Charlie, you…" His voice cracked, raw. "Fuck it… yeah, let's clean, bro." He grabbed a bag, joining in, hands shaky but moving fast—picking cups, sweeping wrappers, righting a tipped chair.
They worked in quiet rhythm, the mansion's glow softening as Maplewood slept. Charlie hauled trash to the curb, Bobby scrubbed a beer stain off the deck, muttering about his parents. By dawn, the sun's first rays crept over the city skyline, painting the pool gold. The lawn was near-pristine—bags piled, cups gone, furniture straight. Charlie wiped sweat from his brow, the last can clinking into a bin. Bobby stood by the glass doors, hands on hips, staring at the cleaned chaos. "We did it," he said, soft, almost disbelieving.
Charlie slung his bag over his shoulder, his button-up creased but intact, ready to head home. Bobby watched him step onto the street, silhouette sharp against the sunrise. Respect flickered in Bobby's eyes, heavy with regret—for the taunts, the "Sludge" days. Finch, of all people, he thought, a faint smile breaking. Charlie didn't look back, steps steady, craving sleep, the weight of a strange night lifting with each stride.