Chapter 1: The Five-Cent Humiliation

Chapter 1: The Five-Cent Humiliation

The biting November wind whipped around the corner, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust. Leo Vance hunched deeper into his worn work jacket, the coarse fabric doing little to stop the chill from seeping into his bones. Every muscle ached with the kind of deep, grinding exhaustion that came from twelve hours of hauling scaffolding on a high-rise construction site. It was a job that paid the bills, just barely, but it was a universe away from the climate-controlled office where he once managed multi-million dollar logistics projects.

His only thought was of home. Of his ten-year-old daughter, Lily, who would have left a plate of dinner for him in the microwave, covered carefully with plastic wrap. He pictured her small, determined face as she did it, a miniature adult taking care of her worn-out dad. The image was the only thing that propelled him through the day, and it was the only thing that mattered now as he waited for the last bus of the night.

Finally, the lumbering form of the 44B city bus groaned to a stop in front of him, its hydraulic doors hissing open like a weary sigh. Leo was the only one waiting at this desolate stop. He climbed the steps, the familiar smell of stale air and damp wool washing over him.

Seated behind the fare box was a man who seemed molded from cheap plastic and sour milk. Bartholomew ‘Bart’ Higgins was a fixture on this late-night route, a portly man in an ill-fitting transit uniform that strained at the buttons over his gut. His small, beady eyes, nested in a sallow face, held a perpetual look of smug disdain. He ruled his tiny, mobile kingdom with an iron fist, and his only joy seemed to be found in the discomfort of others.

Leo nodded wearily and reached into his pocket, his calloused fingers fumbling for the loose change he’d meticulously counted out that morning. The fare was two dollars and seventy-five cents. He dropped the coins into the slot, the metallic clatter echoing in the near-empty bus.

One… two… two-fifty… two-seventy.

He froze. His pocket was empty. He patted his other pockets, a knot of cold dread tightening in his stomach. Nothing. He was five cents short.

“Problem?” Bartholomew’s voice was a greasy drawl, oozing with manufactured patience.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Leo said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “I seem to be a nickel short. I could have sworn I had it.”

Bartholomew leaned back in his squeaking chair, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his lips. This was his favorite part of the job. “A nickel short is a nickel short. Rules are rules.”

“Please,” Leo said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He hated begging. “It’s the last bus. My daughter’s waiting for me. I live three miles from here.”

“Not my problem,” the fare collector said, his eyes glinting. He gestured a thumb toward the door. “You can’t pay the full fare, you can’t ride the bus. City ordinance 34B, paragraph six.”

Leo’s exhaustion was rapidly being replaced by a hot, simmering anger. “It’s five cents. I can pay you double tomorrow.”

Bartholomew chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. “Hear that, folks?” he called out to the handful of other passengers, who were all pretending to be engrossed in their phones or the grimy windows. “This guy wants credit. Like this is some kind of charity service.”

Shame, hot and sharp, pricked at Leo’s skin. He felt their eyes on him now, a mix of pity and annoyance. He had been a man who commanded boardrooms, who managed teams of professionals, who could solve complex logistical nightmares with a single phone call. Now he was being publicly humiliated over a nickel.

Just then, a young woman in the front seat looked up. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and was dressed in a stylish but practical coat. “Here,” she said, holding out a coin between her fingers. “I’ve got it.”

Leo felt a surge of gratitude, but before he could thank her, Bartholomew held up a fleshy hand.

“Nope,” he declared, his voice ringing with authority. “No helping. He needs to learn responsibility. If you can’t manage your own money, you don’t deserve to ride.”

The collector’s words struck Leo harder than a physical blow. Can’t manage your own money. The phrase echoed with the ghosts of his past failures—the sabotaged company, the lost savings, the descent from a comfortable middle-class life to this nightly scramble for survival.

Bartholomew’s smug gaze met his. “Get off my bus.”

The words were an order. Final. Absolute. Defeated, Leo turned and stepped back onto the cold pavement. The bus doors hissed shut with a definitive pneumatic sigh, sealing him out. He stood there, motionless, as the vehicle pulled away, its red taillights disappearing into the darkness like malevolent, retreating eyes.

He was alone. The wind howled, and a cold rain began to fall. The three-mile walk home stretched before him like a sentence. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The humiliation burned in his gut, a toxic acid of impotence and rage. All his pride, all his dignity, stripped away for five miserable cents.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The world felt thin, unreal. This wasn't just a bad day; it was the culmination of a thousand cuts, the final, crushing weight on a man already on his knees. This city, this life… it was designed to break people like him.

And in that moment, at the absolute nadir of his existence, something impossible happened.

A faint, electronic chime, impossibly clear over the sound of the wind, echoed in his mind. His eyes snapped open.

Floating in the air before him, shimmering with a soft blue light that only he could see, was a translucent screen. Clean, futuristic text began to type itself across the display.

[Threshold of Despair Reached. Human Dignity at Critical Low.]

[Searching for compatible host protocol…]

[Match Found. Activating System.]

Leo stared, his heart pounding against his ribs. He blinked, shook his head. Hallucination. It had to be. The stress, the exhaustion… his mind was breaking.

But the screen remained, solid and unwavering.

[Karmic Retribution System Activated]

[Welcome, User. Your suffering has been acknowledged. The scales of fate must be balanced.]

Leo could only stare, breathless. The words seemed to vibrate within him, a promise of something he had long since given up on: justice.

The screen flickered, and new text appeared, analyzing the event that had just transpired with cold, impartial logic.

[Injustice Detected: Public Humiliation via Abuse of Petty Authority.] [Severity: Minor.] [Emotional Trauma Inflicted: Moderate.] [Perpetrator Identified: Bartholomew ‘Bart’ Higgins.] [Occupation: Bus Fare Collector, Municipal Transit Authority.]

The system processed the data for a silent moment, then the final, fateful lines materialized on the screen, glowing with a brighter intensity.

[Generating First Mission…]

[Mission Accepted: The Five-Cent Humiliation.]

[Objective: The tool of his arrogance will be the instrument of his downfall.]

[Reward for Completion: To be determined.]

The rain plastered his salt-and-pepper hair to his forehead, but Leo no longer felt the cold. The burning shame in his gut was cooling, solidifying into something hard and sharp. Something methodical.

He looked down the empty road where the bus had vanished, then back at the glowing blue screen. The screen that offered not just a way home, but a way back. A way to reclaim what had been stolen from him.

The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a chilling, electric focus. His first target had been assigned. And Bartholomew Higgins was about to learn that some debts are paid with interest.