Day 030 Hour 06: Commitment
I'd made it four blocks without breaking stride.
The streets were still mostly empty, save for the figures of the early risers — the ones who didn't need alarms because hunger did the work. A man was hosing down the pavement outside his cart, the water mixing with old oil stains to form a slick rainbow trail. Someone's laundry whipped from a second-floor line, smacking clothespins loose. Life beginning.
But then I saw it — the shortcut.
A thin corridor between the shuttered clinic and the back wall of the old noodle shop. It ran straight to the next main road, shaving off at least ten minutes.
I stopped.
The alley was tight, dark, and mostly forgotten. No vendors passed that way. No watchful eyes. I could walk the full length and not see a single person. No one would know if I made a quick detour. No one would care.
I looked down at my feet, then back toward the alley.
And then I did the one thing I shouldn't have.
I hesitated.
Not because it was dangerous — it wasn't. Not in the usual sense. Not like it was filled with gangs or traps. But because I felt it — that little whisper in the back of my skull.
"Just a quick stop."
"You've got time."
"They'll never know."
I could swing by that guy who sells hacked SIM cards. Or see if France had a better offer on phones. Maybe get a used one — pocket the rest. Stretch the Club's money. Make it work better than they expected.
That's when it hit me.
That was the test.
Not someone stopping me. Not someone catching me. But me, telling myself a better version of disobedience.
I stood at the alley's edge, staring down that narrow path like it owed me an answer. My feet shifted. Not forward. Not back. Just shifted — the way you do when you haven't decided who you are yet.
And then I remembered the envelope.
I remembered how it always arrived without sound. Without warning. I remembered how I'd slept too deeply last night, like someone had placed a hand on my chest and whispered, "Rest now. You'll need it."
And I remembered the note: No deviations.
That wasn't a suggestion. That was do this or don't exist.
I turned away from the alley.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect for how little room there was to slip.
I took the long road. The one with too many people. The one where I'd be seen — where I could be tracked, where eyes would measure me without knowing what they were measuring.
Every step felt heavier now.
Not because I was tired, but because I had chosen something weightier than safety.
Obedience.
Not to the Club. Not exactly. But to the version of myself that didn't fold at the first excuse.
By the time the market came into view, I had stopped thinking about shortcuts.
Market had always felt temporary — more like a breath held between brick and mortar than a real store. It leaned into its own decay, held together by rusted beams and hope. But this morning, it didn't feel decayed.
It felt staged.
When I pushed open the curtain of beads at the entrance, I immediately knew something was off. The usual man — tired, friendly in a way that required no words — was gone.
Someone else stood in his place.
Tall. Hooded. Wrapped in layers of dark, nondescript fabric. I couldn't see their face, not even a glimmer of skin. Not even the hint of breathing. They didn't fidget. Didn't scan their surroundings. They just… stood.
Waiting.
As though they had been waiting for me for hours.
I stepped closer. Slowly. The air inside felt like the heat had been sucked out and replaced with stillness. A vacuum of sound and temperature. The figure turned their head toward me — smooth, deliberate — and tilted it the slightest bit. Not curiosity. Not recognition. Timing.
I reached into my pouch and pulled out the crisp $100 bill. My hand hovered between us.
"I need a sealed ledger."
There was no reaction.
No nod.
No words.
Only a soft, barely audible hum — low and flat, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It felt more like the idle hum of a machine than anything human.
Yes.
They took the bill with one gloved hand, then bent behind the counter and retrieved an envelope. Same size. Same texture. Insignia intact.
Then — and this was the part that froze me — they placed a second envelope beside it. This one filled with cash. I looked inside, already knowing what I would find.
A perfect $100.
Not in change. Not in denominations smaller than what I gave.
It was a duplicate.
Another crisp, identical $100 bill.
Serial number different.
But age, weight, smell — exactly the same.
I looked at them. Their head turned slightly, as if answering my unspoken thought.
Not confirmation.
Not explanation.
Just motion.
I took both envelopes and backed away, careful not to turn my back until I reached the curtain again. The figure never moved again. Never spoke. Not even the hum.
They had done their part.
And now it was my turn again.
Outside, the sun had begun to scatter between buildings, casting sharp light into the cracks of the pavement. I stood on the edge of the market, holding two identical bills — the one I brought, and the one I received. Both real. Both traceable.
And neither mine.
I pocketed the new bill.
Whatever this was — it was no longer a mission about survival.
It was about obedience through simulation. They weren't just telling me what to do.
They were showing me what would happen if I pretended to think for myself.