Days later, Isaac dragged the rake across the cracked path in Robinson Park for the third time that afternoon. The sun was low, lazy, turning everything gold and sticky. Marcus Hale had vanished into his shack again with a muttered "back's acting up" and left them alone with a pile of dead leaves and broken bottles.
Silas was sitting cross-legged on a bench ten meters away, back against the armrest, one leg dangling. He hadn't touched a tool in twenty minutes. Just watched Isaac work with that quiet, half-amused look.
"Hey princess! Moving your lazy ass?" Isaac asked without stopping.
Silas tilted his head. "Plebian work, royalty rest. It builds character."
Isaac snorted. "Builds calluses." His hands were already rough with calluses, even before the rake. But now they no longer hurt. After one last swing, the pile of leaves finally reached the teen's waist and was nowhere to be found on the path. All was clean, until tomorrow would bring a new layer of brown and dark red foliage.
The bench squeaked under their weight.
"Calluses are just medals for surviving the grind. Wear them proudly, princess.", Silas took two bottles from his pocket.
Isaac reached for one and opened it against the metallic edge. "Keep talking and I'll rake your lazy ass next." The dark liquid quenched his thirst.
The park was quiet except for distant traffic and the occasional shout from the street below.
"...Stop blocking the traffic duckface!..."
"...Order! I said order! Stay in lines!..."
"...Superman out!..."
"...Yeah. Mankind First again..."
Isaac glanced down the hill. A few people were already gathering near the gate—placards rolled under arms, voices rising. Nine to five wasn't their topic this time, nor the corrupted high places. Some people joined in groups, dressed in layers of dark clothing, hiding their faces.
Eventually, Isaac spoke. "So much hate... for being different."
"I know." Silas took a sip, finishing the drink, a small drop of water fell from the edge of the bottle. It hung in the air a moment... then vanished before touching the ground.
"Do you?"
Silas gave the smallest smile.
Isaac shook his head.
His eyes drifted back down.
The protest group grew louder. Someone threw a brick peeled from the repaired ground. Glass shattered somewhere near the entrance. Gone was the bright 'W' food shop. Many broke into the building, hammering the cash registers, stepping over the sign 'Wayne Family Burger', feeding on half-cooked fries or mashed up burger while others climbed the fire escape to the roof.
Isaac stared at the sound. He wondered a moment if the so called heaven city, Metropolis, truly was different. His nose twitched. The smoke was thin, but not odorless. It carried the scent of disaster.
"The Old Blood... what does it even mean? Your old pal in red can't stop with the 'May the old blood bless you'."
Silas got up. "Don't mind them. One day you'll know."
Isaac laughed once—short, dry. "Still avoiding it, Silas."
In his gaze, judgment condemned those below. Then he put his arm around Isaac's neck and whispered. "Indeed, Batman.", dragging him near the trash bin.
Isaac froze for half a second, then barked a surprised laugh. At the same time they threw their empty bottles but Silas's entered the trash can faster.
Isaac grabbed the rake from the ground. They couldn't leave their tool in the wild.
"One day."
Silas nodded once. Followed by a light cough to make his voice sound older 'May the old blood bless you' he imitated someone they both knew while one hand slowly drew a triangle in the air.
Isaac gritted his teeth, but his body didn't lie and shook strongly.
Silas didn't bother, he laughed with full lungs. Isaac shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
Neither moved faster. The shift ended in twenty minutes anyway. Isaac felt ready. His back didn't hurt anymore. He could run with no problem. He could focus on finding Frank. He had already searched online through articles, old forums, messages and posts from the inactive account with no real trace.
He needed a better plan. And something to protect him from bullets. Because Frank wasn't going to laugh when he found him.
Blue light bore through Isaac's face. He navigated through sharp images, frozen in perfect clarity. Too clean, too proper, nothing was like in his memories. The wide barrel, about 18.5 millimeters in diameter, didn't fit. It was bigger. Dangerous. And yet, everything matched.
The pump‑action mechanism would deliver a harsh, mechanical clack‑clack. One classmate gone. Just like that. A sound that carried not only weight and warning, but the cries of helplessness. The smile, the gesture, and farewell were done at the same time ammunition brought life to cold steel.
Only the sound of mouse clicks and quick typing filled the room.
He couldn't let fate decide his survival.
He had to prepare.
Small birdshot pellets and other light ammunition should be stopped by an NIJ Level II ballistic vest. That Level II bulletproof vest would resist 9mm and .357 magnum which punched harder than a pellet of 3mm. But for a heavier attack, the slug projectile at 18mm would leave him dead for sure.
The multilayer ceramic plate was his best bet. Light, easily hidden under a hood with great protection according to review and demo videos. However it only resisted one shot perfectly, anything more was like being naked. Another minus was the cost. Seven hundred dollars, which he didn't have.
Isaac glanced over his right side.
Filling half of his bookcase was Marvel comics, one per Christmas, each one a quiet gift from Andrew. Isaac paused a moment, throat tightening. He couldn't think about that. Not now. He forced his gaze to the far end of the bookcase, on a nearly empty cube. Dust had settled thick over three game cartridges and a paint chipped Nintendo DS. Maybe one five zero dollars. Not nearly enough.
His laptop was worthless to any shop. Too old, with a broken battery and RGB lines bleeding across the screen. Non‑resellable. The rest of his setup might fetch something. The red headset, the mouse and the Bluetooth speaker, five years old but still functional. 80 dollars. The small desk lamp, another thirty dollars.
Study books and furniture stayed. They weren't his to sell.
Isaac pushed back from the chair. The wheels squeaked against the worn floorboards.
He crossed the room, skirting the blank wall where a poster used to hang, and opened the wardrobe. Empty clothes hangers rattled softly. Tucked in the back, an out-of-tune guitar, once a promise he'd made to a girl, back when he still believed he could learn to play something worth hearing. He lifted it carefully. It felt lighter than it should have, almost weightless in his hands. A thin, hairline crack ran from headstock to bridge, faint but visible under the dim light. Maybe two hundred dollars on a good day. Maybe less.
He set it down gently, fingers lingering on the strings. They didn't hum. They just lay there, silent and out of tune. Like everything else he'd left behind.
His hands moved on their own, grabbing pants, thrown into a bag. Oversized t-shirt, same fate. Repeat. Sweater, socks, it didn't matter. The bag was full, his wardrobe almost empty. A vibration tickled in his pocket. Fingers hovering over, sixty two dollars had just hit his bank account.
Craigslist.
Too slow, not enough profit either.
Better to sell in person. Less trace. Less chance of questions. He knew a place. Old pawn shop on Kane Street, the one with the flickering neon sign that never quite said "Open."
Tomorrow after the park.
He closed the wardrobe. The guitar stayed inside, silent.
As he walked past a red car parked a few meters away, Isaac pushed the pawn shop door open, the bag slung over his shoulder. Dust motes drifted in the light filtering through the grimy windows. Behind the counter, the shop owner looked up from his papers, startled.
"Oh... Back so soon? Hope you didn't forget our little chat last time, kid."
"No. I didn't forget."
Two weeks ago, they had agreed on five hundred eighty dollars for the items Isaac brought in. A bit lower than online resale, but immediate cash, and maybe even a discount on the bulletproof vest in the back room. Both thought they'd win that day.
A smile brightened the owner's face. "Not bad." He removed today's papers, some trinkets needing a new layer of paint and a wood hammer from the counter, leaving only two lamps.
Isaac put the bag on the clear area.
"Here's everything... Hoping for four sixty."
"Let me take a look."
The owner adjusted his glasses and angled the lamp so no shadow touched the counter.
"Scratched DS, common games... forty for the console, five bucks each game. Worn red headset, twenty. Got anything that isn't ancient?" He didn't wait for an answer. The smile on his face wasn't warm.
Isaac clenched his fist. If he were rich, none of this would be so old and beat-up.
"Kid, I buy and sell, but your stuff's gotta have some quality. I still gotta pay rent. Beat‑up Bluetooth speaker, fifteen dollars. Slightly better... Almost not dented desk lamp? Ten. And the guitar with a crack... thirty five."
Isaac's throat tightened.
He let the owner finish his calculations, but every number was wrong. None of it matched what they'd agreed on.
"Last time, you said two hundred for the guitar. Thirty bucks to repair it, then good. Right?"
The owner laughed dryly.
"I can give you... one hundred thirty. Take it or leave it."
Isaac froze, doing the math in his head. That was barely a fourth of what he expected.
"I... I can't. That's..." He hesitated, feeling the familiar rush of frustration, the bargain slipping away.
"Kid, look around. Things don't move like they used to. I barely sold one plate set yesterday. I'm giving you a fair deal. You'll take it or not."
A professional smile remained on the owner's mouth. It didn't move an inch when Isaac shook his head. The owner leaned back on his chair. Today's news spoke about some shooting at the mall when the mayor was giving a speech for stricter enforcement against gang activity. The owner put the paper tall, hiding Isaac from view. He was more interested in the news photo, displaying the mayor's secretary.
Isaac packed everything back up and tried other pawn shops.
Everywhere he went, the owners looked at him like they already knew him, even when he stepped inside for the first time. Each time, his steps held more deception. Different face, different place and yet, same gestures, same inspection, same prices that never went up.
His shoulders tightened, pulling his neck upward. The bag wasn't that heavy.
By the time he left the last shop, barely a meter away from its open windows, he heard a muffled, concealed laughter behind him.
He turned.
That owner was watching him walk away.
After each item was put up for sale online, a buyer offered to meet for all of them. Luck finally stood by Isaac's side, he thought. What a surprise. So, Isaac waited in a narrow alley behind the old laundromat on Kane Street. The buyer had promised to cash, bypassing the ten percent website fee.
The single working bulb buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across wet brick. His bag sat at his feet, only the guitar wrapped in an old sweatshirt was resting in one hand. The other one checked his messages. It started with questions about the clothing sizes, then photos and a final agreement.
'22:00 sharp. Cash 400. Bring everything.'
'Here since 10 mins btw.'
'Almost there'
Reading the last message and the 22:27 glowing on his phone, Isaac let out a short sigh and crossed his arms. He called the buyer. No response. When he put the guitar back in the bag, he heard footsteps echoing from the dark end of the alley. At least he came, Isaac thought. A skinny guy in a gray hoodie stepped into the light. Hood up, face half-hidden, hands jammed in pockets.
"You Mathias ?" the guy asked, voice low.
Isaac nodded once. Fake name, fake address, second hand sim card and a vpn were used to register his account for many resale websites. Not the best anonymity identity but at least it would be enough for this still technically legal.
"Show the money first."
The buyer pulled out a crumpled stack of bills.
Isaac's hand reached for it, but the buyer didn't let go. Isaac frowned.
"What are you playing at?"
"Nothing. But I can only offer three eighty."
"You think I do charity?"
The skinny guy swallows hard, glancing around the dim alley. He avoided eye contact. "Look, I'm not trying to play you. I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"Sounds like an excuse."
"It's not. I've been helping out my neighbor. A single mom can't take care of two kids. They got hit hard last week. I gave them what I could. I'm not asking for a discount because I'm cheap. I'm asking because I'm trying not to turn my back on people who actually need help."
Isaac exhaled. Remembered the homeless man he'd passed on the way here. Not a single penny in the tattered hat. And, when leaving home, he met his first-floor neighbor, a woman holding a grocery bag going home with heavy steps, bruised‑faced.
Twenty dollars wasn't a lot. He could make it back another way.
"...Fine. 380. But don't expect me to get sentimental again."
"I won't. And thanks."
The buyer let go of the stack of bills. He grabbed the bag and walked away. His steps leaned forward a little more with every meter, just short of running.
Isaac froze. The twenties felt wrong, too smooth, edges too crisp. He held one up to the dim light. The watermark was off. The security strip didn't react right.
Fake.
He looked up. The buyer was already at the end of the alley. Isaac lunged. The buyer bolted. Ten meters away separated them and the distance shortened the moment Isaac pushed more strength into his legs. He snatched the back of the hoodie. The guy twisted, elbowed wildly. Isaac took the hit to the ribs. He didn't even flinch. He yanked harder. The buyer stumbled, fell to one knee.
Isaac hit him once, open palm to the cheek. The guy yelped. Second hit, fist to the jaw. Not full strength. Just enough.
The buyer scrambled back, slipped on wet concrete, got up, and ran.
Isaac stood breathing hard. The bag lay open at his feet. Everything still inside. The fake bills scattered on the ground. He picked them up. Counted the real ones, fifty dollars exactly. The rest, counterfeit trash. He shoved the real cash in his pocket, zipped the bag, and walked back toward Kane Street.
His phone buzzed.
'Hello Mathias :) the console and game are still available?'
Few days later, most of Isaac's items were sold, bringing his personal account up to four hundred ninety two dollars. The guitar had been the most requested, but it never sold. Too damaged for some, not a collectible enough for others. At the first pawnshop, the owner took it for thirty bucks. Isaac didn't argue. Another twenty and ten bills in his pocket.
Isaac cleared his throat. He tried to calm himself, looking outside at a red car parked a few meters away near the end of the street.
"Old man, the ceramic plate in the back. You said maybe a discount last time."
The owner let out a small chuckle.
"Seven hundred, kid."
"Counting what's home, I have five twenty."
"One eighty? A quarter discount? Are you kidding me?! I'm no charity."
"I've already sold most of my bedroom and that vest hasn't budged for a month."
"I missed the part where that's my problem."
Isaac stared at him. The scar pulsed again. The glass counter shivered, just a hair. The owner didn't notice. He went back to painting the guitar, hiding the cracks. "Listen... I can pay you the five hundred now, and the rest... After a week, no five days. I can get into the docks' rings and get it."
"No installments. No trades. Cash up front or get out."
"I need that vest."
"OUT!"
Isaac's blood rushed into his muscles. He needed only a second, his fingers could slap the owner's jaw and his knee would break the older man's pancreas. One combo and the owner on the ground. Another fifteen seconds, holding that neck and everything would be free.
Isaac forced his breathing to slow. One camera sat on the wall shelf, a second one at the entrance reminded Isaac not to be impulsive. He turned and left without another word. He was barely ten steps outside when he heard it, shouts, glass breaking, muffled thuds.
He stopped. Looked back through the grimy window.
"Hey, what the hell?"
Two figures in dark hoodies had the owner pinned against the counter. One held a bat. The other emptied the register. The owner was bleeding from the mouth, pleading.
"Put the money in the bag." the taller figure shouted. His bat swang over the counter. "Hurry up!"
With haste, the shorter figure dismantled the remaining metal plates from the cash register, filling a medium size backpack.
Isaac's hand went to his pocket. His phone was there. He could call 911. Five seconds. The police station was three blocks away.
The duo sprinted away from the shop, away from the main street, passing next to Isaac.
"Hey! Stop him! He's got my money!" The owner on the ground, a mobile phone in hand, waved at Isaac. "Stop that guy!"
Isaac moved sideway, clearing the path.
"Thanks." The taller figure muttered.
That thief's hand opened the street red car's trunk. His colleague started the motor. The tires blackened the asphalt.
Isaac closed his phone when he heard a voice behind him.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" The owner pressed his back against the wall, his leg shaking. A trail of blood marked the floor from the shop entrance. "You could've taken that guy apart. Now he's going to get away with my money."
"I missed the part where that's my problem."