Arriving at the address, I met Louisa, a sweet woman in her forties who was clearly tired from the move. She gave me a quick tour of the house, which was almost empty. Walking through the rooms where our footsteps echoed, I felt not emptiness, but potential. The living room would serve as a relaxation and planning area. The small room was perfect for an office. But the main attraction was the garage: spacious, with a separate exit to the backyard. My future workshop.
Louisa explained that her whole family was practically living in their new home in another state, and they just had to rent out this single-story house to close all their deals. Initially, they listed it for $3,500, but there were few calls; it was too expensive for a one-story house, even in a good area. So, that morning they made a strategic decision to lower the price to $3,000. I was one of the first to call about the new price. Luck smiled on me.
It smiled even more when Louisa, assessing my neat appearance and calm manner, seemed to see me as the ideal tenant. She didn't need a problem renter who required monitoring from another city. She needed someone who would pay on time and not throw parties. My legend about the "introverted student" worked perfectly. Just twenty minutes after my arrival in Bay Ridge, we were driving in her car to a notary to sign the contract.
Louisa's family's haste played into my hands; she left for her new home that very evening. I dedicated the following Tuesday and Wednesday to moving. It was exhausting. First, I had to take my few but important belongings out of the rat-hole in Hell's Kitchen. I had to terminate the contract with the previous landlord, who, of course, didn't return the $500 deposit paid by old John. I took this loss philosophically, considering it the price of saying goodbye to my past life.
Then the setting up began. Hauling boxes, arranging equipment in the garage, and buying all sorts of household trifles followed. Constant taxi rides quickly showed me the harsh truth: even my bulging pocket could be emptied if I thoughtlessly spent money on cabs. I realized it was time to buy a car, not only for convenience but also as an important strategic asset.
To my great surprise, rummaging through my memory, I realized that I already had a driver's license. Thanks to John's foster mother, who actively used all social benefits, including free driving lessons for foster children. Another unexpected gift from the past.
Part of Wednesday, in addition to household chores, I dedicated to finding a car. After analyzing offers on Craigslist, traveling to different corners of Brooklyn, and inspecting several rusty buckets of bolts, I finally found what I needed: a 2007 Honda CR-V. Unobtrusive, reliable, spacious enough, and most importantly, not attracting undue attention. The perfect "gray" car for my purposes. For only $7,200. After a short negotiation and inspection, I paid in cash on the spot, received a receipt and the title, and registered the car in my name that same day at the Brooklyn Department of Transportation, where I also paid for insurance at $100 per month.
By Wednesday evening, I was sitting in my own garage, in my own folding chair, next to my own car. I closed the gate, cutting myself off from the outside world, and finally allowed myself to take stock. I had the following cards in hand: a reliable car, a nice quiet house with a year-long lease, 180 OP in my balance (in rare free moments I did not sit idle, but crafted all sorts of small things), and a tight wad of cash totaling $25,000—I had sold all the gold bars, methodically traveling around different pawnshops throughout the city.
Life was good. I felt an intoxicating sense of control and security that I had been sorely lacking. But to be completely free, a couple more steps remained. Tomorrow I would drop out of the Art College. It wasn't a serious problem, but subconsciously I felt constrained by the formality. I also needed to pay off the $2,000 loan and close all old accounts to start with a clean slate.
I spent another hour tidying up the garage, sorting my equipment, and arranging materials on the shelves. This monotonous work was soothing and satisfying. With a sense of accomplishment, I knocked out another 20 OP on small crafts, bringing the balance to a round two hundred, and went to bed. The plan for tomorrow was simple and clear. Drop out of college. Knock out another 50 OP. And unlock two recipes from the Arcanum set at once: Muscle Stimulator and Protective Field Generator. With my funds and resources, I was sure I could master the creation of something from these two options, and each was good in its own way. If I needed money again, I would assemble or buy a personal smelter for ores right here in the garage. But that was all for tomorrow.
The morning in the new house was different. Quiet. Peaceful. The sunlight streaming through the blinds did not carry anxiety or the smell of dampness, as it had in the old studio. It promised a productive day. The energy seething inside was no longer just youthful maximalism. I felt it almost physically—something warm and dense in my chest, demanding release, eager to create. Were these the hormones of a young body affecting me so much? Or was the notorious systemic Spark of the Creator, about which I still knew practically nothing, really flaring up to eventually become a full-fledged Flame of the Celestial Blacksmith?
I listened to my inner feelings. They were specific but definitely positive. It was an itch in my fingertips, a desire to take the tools and turn a pile of materials into something new. This inner fire could push me to all sorts of accomplishments, great and not so great. Deciding not to cloud my head with philosophical questions, I had breakfast and settled down with a laptop, planning the next steps in the field of crafting. Meanwhile, I waited out the morning traffic in New York, and only when the congestion had cleared up a bit did I get into my Honda and drive to the College.
I had a simple, albeit tedious, task ahead of me: to officially burn the bridges. Submit an application for expulsion, fill out a form to withdraw from the loan program, and listen to a mandatory consultation where, with a weary look, they would explain things I had already Googled. And then: the settlement. A semester here cost $4,500; a year was $9,000. More expensive than my car. John had just completed a full year, so that was the exact amount, plus $300-500 in charges for these first two weeks, that I had to return. Fortunately, the terms of the preferential loan were lenient: no interest, and payments could be started six months later over a period of ten years. Of course, I wasn't going to drag it out. I'd set up automatic payments and forget about this debt like a bad dream.
Arriving at the College, I charged through the administration offices. This whole bureaucratic rigmarole took about an hour. Every stroke of the pen on the papers felt like a snip of scissors, cutting off another thread that connected me to John's life. Finally, I received official confirmation. I was no longer a student at this College. True, I hadn't stopped being a debt slave, but that was just a detail.
Satisfied, I headed for the exit. My head was already buzzing with plans: stop by the hardware store, stock up completely, and spend the whole day in a crafting frenzy. But my plans were not destined to come true so easily. Walking right toward me, down the sunlit corridor, came she. The familiar shock of red hair in the crowd of students was like a bright flash—Mary Jane Watson in person.
Next to her was a guy who was her complete opposite. Thin, slightly hunched, he was made of sharp angles and nervous energy, and behind the lenses of round-rimmed glasses hid a gaze accustomed to the pages of books, not to people's faces. A green sweater, worn jeans... No offense to the guy, but he was an archetypal representative of the nerd faction, a real textbook example.
Everything would have been fine. I wasn't going to change my route or start a conversation. The girl noticed me and gave a welcoming nod with a slight smile. I nodded in response, trying to maintain an impassive expression. We passed each other. I had already taken a couple of steps, immersed in my thoughts about the upcoming craft, when a snippet of their conversation reached my ears. One word. Or rather, one name, uttered by her, made me freeze in place.
"...It's really not difficult, Peter, with your brains, you'll fix that projector in no time..."
I missed what she said next. My hearing caught on one single word, and the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
The name. Peter.
My brain, which at that moment was working urgently in accelerated mode, instantly sifted through gigabytes of meta-knowledge. Peter. In Mary Jane's circle... Thin. Nerd. Glasses... The puzzle came together with a deafening, silent flash.