Steven pressed against the brick wall, its grit snagging his jacket. Brooklyn thrummed—horns blaring, a guy hawking knockoff sneakers, the faint sizzle of hot dogs from a cart across the street.
His side held steady, Tsunade's salve working overtime beneath Maria's gauze, but his shirt was rough—stretched, faintly bloody. Rico wouldn't care about his sob story, but rolling up looking like he'd lost a knife fight wasn't the move.
He needed a fresh shirt, a quick cleanup, and a plan to nail this landlord meet. Two hours to burn, and the system's reward was itching at his brain.
[*Ding!*]
The screen flickered in his vision. He tensed, scanning the street to make sure no one caught him glaring at thin air. "Not now," he muttered, voice low.
[Memory Flash Drive: Select Skill for Upload. Options: Parkour, Basic Combat, Navigation.]
He rubbed his knuckles, feeling the new snap from Enhanced Reflexes—like his body was a half-step ahead of his thoughts. The flash drive was one-and-done, no takebacks. Parkour could save his ass scaling walls or weaving through chaos. Navigation? Pointless—he wasn't lost in the Sahara. Combat, though—that hit hard. Shiganshina had him shaking, fumbling the pistol like a rookie. If trouble came here—thugs, S.H.I.E.L.D., or worse—he needed to swing, not sprint.
"Basic Combat," he said, barely audible.
[*Ding!*]
[Skill Uploaded: Basic Combat (Beginner). Muscle memory updated. Proficiency: 10%.]
A jolt ran through him, muscles tightening like they'd just gotten a briefing. He shifted, feet finding balance, hands settling into loose fists. Not a black belt, but he knew how to throw a punch now, block a hit, maybe not crumple under a swing.
He tested it—a quick jab at nothing. Tight, steady, no flailing. "Solid," he muttered.
"System, keep it down," he said, swiping the screen away. He pushed off the wall, heading for Wyckoff. First, a shirt. His screamed "stab victim," and the towel bulge wasn't subtle. A block over, a thrift shop's faded sign caught his eye, its window crammed with old coats and boots.
Inside, it smelled like mothballs and stale cologne. The clerk, earbuds in, didn't blink. Steven rifled through T-shirts—tacky logos, dad jokes, nothing fancy. He grabbed a plain gray one, medium, $6. Paid with a ten, pocketed the change, and nodded at the clerk. "Bathroom?"
Guy jerked a thumb at a side door, eyes on his phone. Steven locked himself in, the mirror spiderwebbed but clear enough.
Back out, his phone read 10:20 a.m. A food truck's grill hissed nearby, onions and oil thick in the air. He dropped $7 on fries and a chicken taco, scarfing them against a mailbox.
The taco's heat bit his tongue.
[*Ding!*]
The system's chime jolted him, a fry nearly hitting the ground. He checked around—no one cared. The screen popped up, not a task. Chat panel. New message.
[5th_Hokage: Yo, Tarnished, where's my sake?]
Steven froze, taco paused mid-bite. "Shit," he muttered, wiping grease on his jeans. He'd promised Tsunade two bottles—good stuff—for the salve and scroll. Meant to handle it after Maria's patch-up, but life got messy.
He scanned the street. Bodega, vape shop, no liquor in sight.
"Alright, hold up," he sighed, typing fast.
He ditched the foil tray in a trash can and moved toward Wyckoff. Sake first.
The bodega reeked of bleach and burnt coffee. Shelves were chaos—snacks, lighters, lottery tickets. No booze.
"Hey," he said to the clerk. "Sake?"
She didn't look up. "Liquor store. Knickerbocker, two blocks."
"Of course," he muttered, stepping out. Tsunade pulled through for him—she deserved the goods, detour or not.
He jogged, light on his feet, sidestepping a skateboarder who almost flattened him.
The liquor store was a dump—flickering sign, grimy windows. Inside, bottles were stacked like a hoarder's dream, mostly bottom-shelf. He spotted two sake bottles high up, $15 each. Snagged them, slapped the cash down, and bolted, no time for change.
Clock hit 11:10 a.m. Rico's meet loomed, but this couldn't wait.
He slipped into an alley, brick walls cold, trash bags stinking by a dumpster. Quiet. Clear. He opened the chat.
Gripping the bottles, he focused on 5th_Hokage, hitting "Send to User." They vanished with a faint buzz.
[Item Sent: Sake (2 bottles, 720ml). Recipient: 5th_Hokage.]
He typed:
[Admin_Tarnished: Sake's on its way. Sorry for the wait—things got wild. Hope it hits right.]
He leaned back, the alley's chill seeping through his shirt. One less debt. Phone said 11:15. Forty-five minutes to Rico.
[*Ding!*]
He flinched, half-expecting trouble. Just a rat skittering through garbage. Then the message popped up.
[5th_Hokage: Got the sake. Nice upgrade, Tarnished—beats that weak stuff you sent first. Keep this up, and I might owe you. What went down over there?]
Steven grinned. She was poking now.
[Admin_Tarnished: Glad you're set. Just city chaos—dodging trouble. You holding up in the village?]
Sent. He shouldered his backpack and moved. The street grew livelier—less grit, more people. A diner's sign flickered ahead: Rico's spot, its "Open" light half-dead.
Phone read 11:40. Early. Good.
He stepped inside, the floor sticky, air heavy with grease. A waitress—tag said "Bev"—barely glanced up.
"Sit anywhere, hon."
He slid into a window booth, backpack close. Scanned the room—two guys at the counter, an old man with a newspaper. Quiet.
Dropped $2 for a Coke and sipped, waiting. His side twinged, but the salve held—no blood, no fever. Yet.