The dawn of Week 6 marked not just a new cycle of rent looming in the distance, but with the cool, clear-headed reality of having options. Over seven thousand dollars sat nested in Theo’s bank account, a number that still felt slightly unreal, a testament to two frantic, high-stakes bike sales. It was enough, however, for a tactical adjustment. Survival was secured. Now, sustainability was key.
This shift manifested later that morning under the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent glare of a large suburban supermarket. Theo pushed a cart, its wire frame cool beneath his grip, deliberately bypassing the familiar, depressing aisles stacked high with instant ramen, questionable canned meats, and ghostly white bread that tasted vaguely of cardboard. Today was an investment in the primary operational asset: himself. He paused by the vibrant, almost offensively healthy-looking produce section, a territory usually navigated with ruthless cost-per-calorie efficiency. He picked up a head of crisp iceberg lettuce, its leaves cool and slightly damp. He selected firm, red tomatoes, a pungent brown onion, green bell peppers that squeaked faintly when he handled them.
Then, the avocados, near-black, promising creamy richness within. He picked up two, testing their ripeness, glancing at the bold price sticker. $5.99 for three? His internal calculator screamed inefficiency. "Avocados," he thought, a flicker of dry, sarcastic humour crossing his mind. "The official fruit of 'I've made it' just enough to be mocked for it online. Maybe soon I'll even reach the mythical 'regularly afford avocado toast' level of success. Though with prices going up on everything lately, probably not."
The thought sobered him slightly. While his buffer was good, reckless spending wasn't part of the plan. Still, this wasn't reckless. It was necessary. He added the avocados to the cart alongside actual chicken breasts, wincing slightly at the per-pound cost compared to ground beef. Eggs, whose price also seemed to have stealthily inflated, and whole-grain bread that looked dense and potentially nutritious. "Even bumping the weekly budget to $500 might not go as far as I thought," he conceded grimly, the reality of inflation hitting even his upgraded budget. It only strengthened his resolve. "Need to make it big. Seriously rich. Enough that this feels like pocket change." His internal analyst justified the expense: "Increased allocation to personal overhead justified by projected long-term performance requirements. Can't build an empire fuelled by ramen and anxiety. Need sustainable fuel for the long haul. Consider this an investment in primary asset maintenance, me." He even grabbed a bag of dark roast whole bean coffee, the rich aroma a small but significant rebellion against the instant sludge he normally endured.
The following days settled into a new, more structured rhythm. The hostile shriek of his alarm clock was replaced by the slightly less offensive mechanical whir of the cheap coffee grinder, filling the small apartment with an unfamiliar, welcoming aroma. He attempted cooking actual meals, the results were occasionally edible, sometimes bordering on disastrous (a pan of scorched chicken served as a humbling reminder he wasn't a chef), but always an improvement over processed junk. The steady income from the bike sales had bought him this. The ability to invest in his own physical well-being, to plan beyond the next rent payment. But the core of his days, the real focus, shifted intensely towards research for the next hustle.
His laptop (already enhanced to +1) became the humming centre of his universe, screen glowing late into the night, surrounded by a growing wall of discarded coffee cups, scribbled notes, and the occasional cannibalized electronic part. His small apartment transformed into a low-budget R&D facility, dedicated to finding the next evolution beyond flipping bikes. He systematically explored avenues where his +1 power could offer a significant, profitable edge, while constantly weighing risk, scalability, and the absolute necessity of anonymity.
He revisited the online store concept first, sketching out potential brand names, bland, forgettable entities designed to be burned after use. "Apex Enhancements," "TierOne Goods," "PlusUltra Provisions." But the fantasy evaporated quickly under pragmatic scrutiny. "Pointless," he scoffed internally, dragging the file to the virtual trash bin. "The constraint isn't the sales channel, it's the production capacity. Ten f***ing items per day. Can't build an empire on artisanal quantities selling random enhanced junk, the profit margin would be rubbish. Plus, a dedicated brand, payment processing... it builds a traceable history. Need disposable fronts, maximum anonymity." Idea discarded, at least for the moment.
He meticulously revisited the consumables idea, driven by the lingering memory of that transcendentally good steak and beer. He acquired two identical, cheap bottles of harsh red wine that tasted vaguely of rubbing alcohol and disappointment. Applying a charge to one glass (Wine. +1 Quality. Ping.), he compared. The difference was undeniable. The enhanced version was smoother, the chemical bite softened, faint fruity notes emerging where only harshness existed before. He repeated it with average coffee beans, the +1 batch yielded a brew less bitter, more aromatic when ground, the subtle flavours more distinct. It wasn’t massively better, but if he had to rate it, without enhancement being a 1/5 stars, then enhanced certainly brought it up to 3 or even 4 stars. Still not top tier 5/5 stars, which is where the juicy profit margins are at.
But the potential was intoxicating. Imagine applying this to gourmet ingredients, fine wines, aged spirits. Stuff that is already considered 5/5, suddenly became 6/5. People would be fighting themselves over it. But then came the operational reality check. He imagined rows upon rows of bottles, bags of beans, needing individual enhancement. "The sheer labour involved," he concluded, rubbing his temples after visualizing enhancing bags of coffee beans, or meticulously treating the wine bottle by bottle. "Sourcing, meticulous enhancement item by item, quality control, packaging, storage, shipping... this isn't a solo gig. This needs a facility, staff, logistics." The thought of hiring people, trusting them near his secret… it was unthinkable. "Too labour-intensive, too much infrastructure, too high a risk of exposure." Consumables: ‘Highly Scalable BUT Requires Infrastructure/Personnel/Trust’. Reluctantly parked indefinitely, or at least till he could work out the logistics around keeping his +1 powers a secret.
Midweek, needing a break from the glare of his laptop screen and the four walls closing in, Theo ventured out to "The Daily Grind," the local suburban coffee shop. Settling into a corner booth with a large black coffee, the low murmur of conversations and the clatter of ceramic mugs provided a welcome change of pace. He opened his laptop, intending to scan industry news hoping it might give him some fresh ideas. But the anxious tones from the adjacent table snagged his attention. Two middle-aged men in slightly stressed business casual attire.
"...down another thousand points this morning," one lamented, staring bleakly into his half-empty mug. "Wiped out nearly all of last year's gains. This damn tariff war came out of nowhere."
"Tell me about it," the other sighed heavily. "Thought tech was safe, but even those are tanking. Shipping costs are going insane, suppliers are spooked… My stock portfolio looks like a crime scene. And the politicians just keep throwing bombs back and forth. Nobody wins these damn things."
Theo discreetly pulled up a financial news site on his phone beneath the table. Banner headlines confirmed the turmoil: "Dow Plummets 1000 Points as Trade War Fears Ignite Global Sell-Off," "S&P 500 Enters Correction Territory." Jagged red lines dominated every chart. "Idiots," he thought, sipping his coffee, the heat doing little to counteract the chill of the news. "Playing high-stakes poker with the global economy. Slapping tariffs back and forth like spoiled children fighting over toys. It's always the regular people, the businesses caught in the crossfire, who pay the price." His analytical gaze swept over the devastated stock listings, familiar corporate names, tech darlings, industrial giants, all battered. "Everything is cheap though," the ever-present opportunist whispered in his mind. "Dirt cheap. Panic selling always creates opportunities... Could be the buying opportunity of a lifetime down the line, load up on blue chips at fire-sale prices." The thought was tantalizing, aligning perfectly with his long-term wealth ambitions. "Requires serious capital I don't have to spare right now though," reality intruded. "Focus on generating cash flow, build the war chest first. Monitor. Don't touch." He bookmarked a market tracker. As he was closing the tab, the waitress, Jess, the young college student from whom he'd ordered, came by to clear his empty cup.
"Need anything else?" she asked with a friendly, slightly tired smile.
"Just the check, thanks. Busy day?" Theo asked, nodding towards the half-empty shop.
Jess sighed, wiping down the table. "Not really, that's the problem. It's been kinda slow all week. Mr. Henderson, the owner, he's stressing. Costs are up on everything, beans, milk, even the darn cups, but he says if he raises the price of a latte by fifty cents, he'll lose half his regulars to the big Starbucks down the block." She lowered her voice slightly. "Honestly? It feels like small places like this are getting squeezed harder than ever. It’s tough making ends meet, even working part-time here."
"Sounds rough," Theo said, genuinely meaning it this time, the abstract news headlines suddenly given a human face. He paid, leaving a slightly larger tip than usual. Small business viability... even worse than I thought, he analysed as he walked out. Squeezed margins, price wars, external shocks... definitely not the sector to bet on.
Back in his apartment 'lab,' the research continued, sometimes leading his thoughts down treacherous, hypothetical paths. His research, scraping the edges of grey markets and supply chains, inevitably led his thoughts, however briefly, towards the truly illicit. Drugs. The idea emerged like a noxious fume during a late-night session exploring chemical compounds. Could he take cheap, impure street drugs, meth cut with who-knows-what, poorly synthesized fentanyl analogues and apply his +1? Purity? Potency? Safety? He shuddered at the last one. But the potential profit… He glanced at dark web market listings anonymously, the prices per gram starkly illustrating the potential return. It would be insanely lucrative, potentially catapulting his capital into the stratosphere almost overnight. "Imagine," a dark corner of his mind whispered, "turning fifty bucks worth of street-grade garbage into something fetching thousands… Could be careful. Small batches. Anonymous drops. Just for a little while, build the war chest..." The rationalization felt slick, easy, seductive in its promise of rapid wealth.
But the counter-arguments crashed in, cold and sharp, a visceral recoil this time. The potential for mass harm felt fundamentally different, sickeningly real. Unleashing potentially purer, more potent versions of dangerous substances onto the street? He pictured overdoses, grieving families, the hollowed-out lives he saw reflected in the eyes of addicts near his building. It felt like actively manufacturing misery on an industrial scale, a foundation too rotten to build anything upon, even for him. And the danger… it was absolute. "Get mixed up in that world," his pragmatic survival instinct screamed red alert, overriding the greed. "You're not dealing with marketplace lowballers. You're dealing with cartels, violent gangs. They don't send lawyers; they send enforcers with tools designed to inflict maximum pain. Get discovered? You become their property." The image was vivid: chained, terrified, forced to enhance batch after batch until he was no longer useful, then discarded. "No f*ing way." The internal debate, though momentarily intense due to the sheer scale of potential profit, concluded swiftly and decisively. Too dangerous, too damaging. Boundary confirmed.
He pivoted back to tangible goods with renewed focus, relieved to be considering less existentially terrifying options. High-performance gear? Enhancing running shoes, climbing equipment? "Possible," he conceded after an afternoon of research. "Similar enthusiast overlap as bikes. But maybe too niche, and demonstrating +1 durability isn't as easy as letting someone ride a faster bike." Backup option, maybe.
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Then he returned to computer components. This felt increasingly like the sweet spot. It resonated with his analytical mind, the world of benchmarks, clock speeds, thermal dynamics. He spent hours immersed in overclocking forums, GPU architecture databases, RAM timing guides. He learned about the 'silicon lottery,' the inherent randomness in manufacturing creating performance variations that enthusiasts paid huge premiums to overcome. His +1 power could theoretically eliminate that randomness, guaranteeing top-tier performance from mid-tier hardware. He pictured buying a batch of sought-after graphics cards, applying a +1 ('Stability/Efficiency'), rigorously testing each one to verify its enhanced overclocking headroom, then selling them online as 'Premium Binned' or 'Golden Samples' for a significant markup. "High value per item, check. Tech-savvy market understands performance metrics, check. Plausible deniability ('expert tuning', 'premium binning verification'), check. Relatively easy anonymous online sales, check." He started compiling lists of target components, specific GPU models known for variance, certain CPU generations, high-speed RAM kits. He used another +1 charge enhancing the old SSD from his junk pile (SSD. +1 Speed/Durability. Ping.) and saw a more noticeable improvement in boot times and file transfers on his aging laptop. "Data supports hypothesis," he typed into his coded notes file. "+1 demonstrably improves performance on solid-state storage. Next step: acquire target GPU/CPU for testing." This felt solid. Promising.
Amidst this deep dive, the bike side-hustle required attention, serving as both cash flow and a frustrating reminder of logistical challenges. Sourcing Bike 3 mid-Week 6 was an ordeal. He spent the better part of a Tuesday driving between three different suburbs, chasing ghosts. The first lead, advertised online as "carbon road bike, minor scratches, great deal," turned out, after a forty-minute drive, to be parked behind a dilapidated shed, its frame visibly cracked near the bottom bracket, components rusted solid. The seller just shrugged with indifference. The second lead involved a thirty-minute argument via text with a seller who suddenly decided the listed price was a "typo" and demanded $500 more. The third required navigating confusing residential streets only to find the seller wasn't home, despite confirming the meeting an hour earlier. "This," Theo fumed, stuck in traffic on the way back, empty-handed and hours wasted, "is not an efficient use of time. The transaction cost, just in finding the damn things, is getting ridiculous." He finally located and purchased Bike 3 the next day ($950 Giant), the relief he felt instantly overshadowed by the memory of the wasted effort. He listed it on the dedicated cycling forum under "PrecisionCycleWorks." Selling it, however, was comparatively painless. Gary, the middle-aged buyer, knew his stuff, appreciated the bike's (enhanced) condition, haggled fairly, and the $3900 bank transaction was clean. "Okay," Theo conceded, updating his mental notes after the sale. "Forums definitely beat the general marketplace cesspool. Higher quality interaction, less bullshit haggling. Stick to this channel."
It was Thursday evening of Week 6, while comparing thermal paste application methods online, that his phone pinged. Sarah.
Sarah: Hey Theo! Hope you're having a good week! Quick question, been looking at pedal options compatible with the TCR frame, any recommendations for maximizing power transfer? Also, just wanted to say again how much I LOVE this bike! Seriously feels like magic.
Theo smiled faintly. If only she knew. He typed his reply:
Theo: Hey Sarah. Glad you're loving the bike! For pedals, check out [Brand X] or [Brand Y] road models, good platform size & stiff for power transfer. Depends on your cleat system too.
Before he could set the phone down, another message arrived.
Sarah: Ugh, sorry to bug you! Just procrastinating from work. Stuck debugging ad tracking scripts again... ?? Makes me wish I was out riding! Seriously considering a career change sometimes. Working at Meta is cool I guess, but optimizing ad revenue feels... empty? Dunno. I love coding, but I wish I could use my tech skills on something more... exciting? Something tangible maybe. Anyway, TMI probably! Haha.
Theo reread it slowly. Meta. Ad revenue. Skilled coder feeling unfulfilled. He filed the data points away. Her passion for cycling was obvious, a stark contrast to her description of her demanding tech job. "Interesting piece of info, might be useful for later," his ever scheming mind noted. "High-skill individual, potentially dissatisfied with current role... Note for future reference."
He replied briefly, professionally, before turning back to his research on graphics card binning procedures. Theo: Sounds intense! Hope the bike provides a good escape. Let me know if those pedals work out.
Week 7 rolled in, bringing with it the need to pay another week's rent and newly increased living expenses from the profits of Bike 3. The research continued its deep dive into computer components, Theo now sketching out testing protocols, researching secure shipping methods, looking into anonymous payment gateways. His kitchen counter sometimes resembled a makeshift electronics lab, littered with old parts, testing software running on his laptop, and notes filled with cryptic observations from his +1 experiments on SSDs and salvaged RAM sticks. "Results still variable on complex chips," he noted one evening, frowning at a benchmark score that hadn't improved as much as expected after enhancing an old CPU. "Need to understand how the +1 interacts with micro-architecture. Is it overall efficiency? Heat reduction? Clock stability? More controlled testing needed."
Midweek, Sarah messaged again.
Sarah: Hey Theo! Me again :) Hope the projects are going well! Had another amazing ride this morning, think I actually *enjoyed* climbing for once, haha! Question for the bike guru: any thoughts on ceramic bearings for bottom brackets? Worth the hype or just marketing?
He quickly typed a balanced answer about ceramic bearings offering marginal gains for a high cost. Then, predictably:
Sarah: Sorry, another random thought while debugging this awful legacy ad platform... still dreaming of doing something else! Ever think about applying tech *to* cycling more? Like data analysis for training, or even custom hardware? Seems like there's so much potential, and more importantly, way more fun compared to just optimizing ad revenue streams... Anyway! Random thought - would you ever be up for grabbing a quick coffee sometime? Could pick your brain more about bike tuning, always looking for pointers! My treat!
The coffee invitation again. Direct. Friendly. Risky. Her curiosity was persistent. Her tech background was relevant. But the potential for exposure… Internal Assessment: Prospect expressing continued interest and proposing informal, in-person meeting. Potential benefits: rapport building, further assessment of skills/personality. Potential risks: probing questions leading to exposure, deviation from operational security protocols. Recommendation: Defer meeting, maintain limited digital contact. He composed his reply carefully:
Theo: Hey Sarah, ceramic bearings can be good but debated! Depends on use case. Crazy busy wrapping up a big project phase right now, coffee's tough to schedule. Maybe sometime down the line though. Will let you know. Keep crushing those climbs!
He put the phone down, the interaction leaving a complex aftertaste. Sarah was smart, driven, and clearly impressed by his work, even if she didn't know its true nature. Keeping her at arm's length felt necessary, but also, strangely, like closing a potentially valuable door. Not yet, he decided. Focus on building the foundation first.
Finding Bike 4 late in Week 7 was another frustrating slog. More calls, another long drive across town chasing a listing that sounded too good to be true (it was), more time sunk into logistics before finally securing the $1100 Specialized Tarmac. The profit margins were still excellent, but the time investment felt increasingly unsustainable as a primary strategy. He performed the enhancement ritual Saturday night, the ten familiar pings echoing in his quiet apartment, each accompanied now by the faint warmth he’d learned to perceive spreading momentarily through the component under his touch. Frame. Ping. Wheels. Ping. Ping...
That Sunday evening, after selling Bike 4 relatively smoothly via the cycling forum for $4100, Theo felt a restless energy that research alone couldn't quell. His bank account was healthy, hitting the five-figure mark for the first time since he got sacked, yet the path forward remained murky. He needed air, movement. Pulling on his worn running shoes, he headed out as dusk began to bleed purple and orange across the suburban sky.
He ran, pushing himself, the rhythmic slap of his shoes on the pavement a counterpoint to the buzz in his head. He ran through his neighbourhood, past the corner stores with their flickering neon signs, the identical rows of tired-looking apartment buildings, then pushed out towards the brighter lights of the downtown core visible in the distance. The air grew cooler, carrying the sounds of distant traffic. Muffled sirens, the growl of engines, the indistinct murmur of a city winding down. His breathing grew ragged, lungs burning with the exertion, but the physical effort felt good, clearing the mental clutter.
Then, as he ran up a small rise on the pedestrian overpass crossing the highway, he saw it, unavoidable, dominating the emerging city skyline, the Bank of America North Quadrant Tower, its familiar sleek, dark glass facade reflecting the last vestiges of daylight, seeming to pierce the darkening heavens. His old prison. His old life.
He slowed to a walk, catching his breath, hands on his knees, staring up at the imposing structure. Years. He’d poured years of his youth, his ambition, his very soul into climbing the slippery, treacherous ladder inside that tower. The brutal eighty-hour weeks that bled seamlessly into weekends, the endless spreadsheets that made his eyes ache, the sycophantic networking events fuelled by cheap wine and forced smiles, the constant, soul-crushing political games, the calculated betrayals he’d both witnessed and participated in... all culminating in that final, silent, humiliating march to the exit, security at his elbows, the weight of his termination like lead in his gut. A familiar wave of cold, impotent resentment washed over him. All that effort. All that sacrifice. For what? To be discarded like faulty software the moment it became politically expedient?
Had it all been a waste? Mostly, the cynic snapped back. But not entirely. He’d learned hard truths in that pressure cooker. He’d learned that corporate loyalty was a costly illusion. He’d learned that appearances were often valued more than substance. He’d learned to read the subtle currents of power, to anticipate threats, to compartmentalize ruthlessly, to strike first when necessary. Trust no one fully. Assume everyone has an angle. Leverage is everything. Protect yourself at all costs. Ugly lessons, maybe, learned in the trenches of soul-crushing middle management, but undeniably useful in the world as it was, both inside and outside those glass walls. He felt a brief, unexpected flicker thinking of a couple of the truly bright junior analysts, their enthusiasm not yet completely extinguished by the corporate machine. He hoped they got out, or at least learned the game before it broke them. Did he miss any of it? The structure? The illusion of status? The bi-weekly direct deposit that didn’t really reflect the workload? Not the crushing weight of it, no. But maybe… maybe the clarity of the climb, however rigged the game was? It was hard to admit. But the ceiling there had always felt low, predetermined. His current path, powered by his impossible secret, felt terrifyingly uncertain but limitlessly high. Getting fired had been brutal, but liberating. It had unlocked something extraordinary.
Revenge? He looked at the distant tower, imagining Davies and Chen in their comfortable offices, likely having already forgotten his name, moving on to their next target. The thought of retribution was a cold, satisfying ember deep inside. Maybe someday, he thought, a humourless smile touching his lips. When I have enough power, enough 'F** You' money, to make their downfall a footnote, a rounding error on my quarterly report. But that was a goal for a distant horizon.
He turned away from the tower, back towards his own neighbourhood, picking up his pace again, the rhythmic pounding of his feet matching the renewed focus in his mind. The reflection had clarified things. The past was prologue, fuel for the fire. His focus had to be forward. Bikes were working capital, reliable but inefficient. Computer components were the leading R&D initiative, promising but unproven at scale. The perfect business model was still out there, waiting to be discovered or engineered. The marathon continued, mile by painstaking mile, the billion-dollar finish line still impossibly distant, hidden somewhere in the haze.
Back in his apartment, the familiar clutter felt less oppressive tonight, buoyed by the tangible success of the past two weeks and the sharp focus returning. He updated his ledger, the numbers a concrete representation of progress, fuel for the next stage.
Theodore Sterling - Financial Ledger (End of Week 7)
- Starting Balance (Beginning Week 6): $7365.62 (Carried over from End of Week 5)
- Income (Weeks 6 & 7):
- Sale of Bike 3 (Gary): +$3900.00 (Week 6)
- Sale of Bike 4 (Forum Buyer): +$4100.00 (Week 7)
- Total Income: +$8000.00
- Expenses (Weeks 6 & 7):
- Rent Paid (Week 6): -$450.00
- Living Expenses (Wk 6 @ New Rate): -$500.00
- Rent Paid (Week 7): -$450.00
- Living Expenses (Wk 7 @ New Rate): -$500.00
- Coffee (Cafe): -$5.00 (Estimated)
- Bike 3 Purchase: -$950.00
- Bike 3 Sourcing Travel (Est.): -$40.00
- Bike 4 Purchase: -$1100.00
- Bike 4 Sourcing Travel (Est.): -$60.00
- Research/Experiment Materials (Est. coffee, wine, components): -$50.00
- Total Expenses: -$4105.00
- Net Change (Weeks 6 & 7): +$8000.00 (Income) - $4105.00 (Expenses) = +$3895.00
- Ending Balance (End of Sunday, Week 7): $11260.62
- Status: Very Stable. Consistent positive cashflow from side hustle maintained (>11k capital). Increased living standards slightly. Primary focus remains identifying a scalable core business. Bike model recognized as limited due to sourcing difficulties. Research identified computer components as leading candidate, but no definitive decision made. Continue current operations while intensifying research & development.