Chapter 2: The Hundred-Dollar Gambit

Chapter 2: The Hundred-Dollar Gambit

The three-mile walk was a crucible. Each step on the rain-slicked pavement was a beat in a rhythm of cold fury. The humiliation from the bus stop didn't fade with distance; instead, it crystallized, refined by the icy wind and the hypnotic shimmer of the System’s blue screen that hovered in his peripheral vision. Leo wasn't just walking home; he was marching away from the man he had been—the passive, beaten-down victim who accepted every blow life threw at him.

By the time he finally reached the door of his small, second-floor apartment, his clothes were soaked through and his body was numb, but his mind was alight with a singular, burning clarity. The System’s mission statement echoed in his thoughts: [Objective: The tool of his arrogance will be the instrument of his downfall.]

He pushed the door open as quietly as he could. The apartment was dark except for the small lamp left on in the living room. On the kitchen counter sat a plate covered with plastic wrap, a silent testament to his daughter’s love. He touched the plate; it was cold. He was hours later than usual.

A soft sound came from the living room couch. Lily had fallen asleep there, a book splayed open on her chest. She had waited up for him.

A wave of love so fierce it was painful washed over Leo, extinguishing the last embers of his self-pity. This was why he endured the twelve-hour shifts, the aching muscles, the condescending foremen. For this small, perfect person who believed he was the strongest man in the world. Bartholomew Higgins hadn't just shamed him; he had attacked his ability to be that man for his daughter. He had delayed his return to the only thing that mattered.

This wasn't just about five cents anymore. This was about restoring the honor of a father.

He gently lifted Lily into his arms, her small body warm and pliant with sleep, and carried her to her bed. Tucking her in, he watched her for a moment, her face serene in the dim light. He would not fail her.

The next evening, instead of heading straight for his usual bus stop after work, Leo walked three blocks out of his way to a different one. It cost him an extra fifteen minutes, but it put him on the 44B route several stops before his own. He paid his fare—triple-checking he had the exact change—and took a seat in the back, pulling his worn beanie low over his eyes.

Soon enough, Bartholomew Higgins’s bus lumbered into service for the late-night shift. Leo watched, silent and invisible. For the next three nights, he repeated this ritual, becoming a student of petty tyranny.

Bartholomew’s arrogance wasn’t just in his sneer or his dismissive tone. It was a performance, and his stage was the fare box. His "tool" was the thick binder of Municipal Transit Authority regulations that he kept beside him like a bible. He wielded these rules not to maintain order, but to create friction, to feel the brief, intoxicating thrill of power over people who were tired, stressed, or confused.

On the first night of observation, a flustered tourist tried to pay with a twenty-dollar bill. Bartholomew sighed dramatically. “Can’t break that. Says so right on the sign. Next.” He waved the tourist off the bus without a second thought.

On the second night, a young mother with a crying baby fumbled her change, spilling it across the floor. Bartholomew tapped his fingers impatiently on the coin box. “We ain’t got all night, lady.”

The pattern was clear. Bartholomew’s power was absolute, but only within a tiny, rigidly defined sphere: the transaction. His arrogance was fueled by the rules governing payment. The fare box, the sign that read DRIVER CARRIES NO CHANGE, the city ordinances he quoted with such relish—these were the instruments of his power.

Therefore, they had to be the instruments of his downfall.

The idea sparked in Leo’s mind, sharp and perfect. He didn’t need to argue with the man. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a scene. He just had to use the rules more effectively than Bartholomew did.

As he sat on the bus that third night, watching Bartholomew bully another passenger over a slightly crumpled dollar bill, the System’s screen flickered in front of his eyes.

[Strategic Planning Detected. Analysis of Target's Weaknesses is in Progress.] [Reward: +5 Dignity Points.]

A faint warmth spread through Leo’s chest. The System wasn't just a quest-giver; it was an ally. It rewarded the hunt, not just the kill. The 5 points felt insignificant, yet they were a confirmation. He was on the right path.

The plan, which he now called the ‘Hundred-Dollar Gambit,’ was simple in its execution but profound in its implications. It required a sacrifice, a risk that made his stomach clench. He had a little over two hundred dollars in his savings account, the fragile buffer between him and utter destitution. He needed to take out half of it.

The next day, during his lunch break, he went to an ATM and withdrew a single, crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. Holding it in his hand, he felt a tremor of fear. This piece of paper represented two weeks of groceries, a utility bill, a new pair of shoes for Lily. Using it for revenge felt insane.

But then he remembered Bartholomew's greasy smile, the feeling of the bus pulling away, the cold rain on his face. This wasn’t an expense. It was an investment in his own soul.

That night, Leo didn’t go to the earlier stop. He waited at the same desolate corner where his humiliation had occurred. He stood straight, his shoulders back, the exhaustion of his long day held at bay by a surge of adrenaline. He was no longer a victim hoping for a ride; he was a strategist laying a trap.

The 44B bus groaned to a halt, and the doors hissed open.

Bartholomew glanced up, a flicker of recognition in his beady eyes, followed by an immediate sneer. He clearly remembered the man who was five cents short. He settled back in his seat, ready for round two.

Leo met his gaze, his own expression unreadable. He walked up the steps, the bus quiet except for the hum of the engine. He reached into his pocket, not for a handful of coins, but for the single, folded bill.

He held it out.

A crisp, clean, one-hundred-dollar bill.

“One fare,” Leo said, his voice level and cold as a winter morning.