Chapter 4: THE ELLINGTON GAMBIT
The subway car rattled through darkness beneath the city.
I gripped the overhead bar and ran the numbers again. One hundred fifty-three dollars in my pocket. Six thousand due by Friday. Three days to conjure five thousand eight hundred forty-seven dollars from thin air.
The math didn't work. Not through legitimate means.
[FINANCIAL ASSESSMENT: DEFICIT CRITICAL]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: HIGH-VALUE TARGET ACQUISITION]
The system wanted me to find a mark. Someone with money, someone vulnerable, someone whose loss wouldn't register as a crime worth investigating.
I closed my eyes and thought about June Ellington instead.
She'd read me in five minutes. Seen through the polished clothes and rehearsed confidence to something underneath. Not the transmigrator, not the system—but the desperation. The need. The hunger for stability in a life that had none.
And she'd offered the apartment anyway.
"I rent to people who remind me of Byron."
Her late husband. The criminal connections the system had flagged. Whatever Byron Ellington had done in his life, June had loved him through it. She understood the world I was entering better than I did.
Maybe that was worth more than money.
The brownstone looked different at night. Warm light spilled from the first-floor windows. Jazz drifted through the walls—Coltrane, if my ear was right. Something about the sound made this place feel less like a building and more like a sanctuary.
I climbed the steps and rang the bell.
June appeared in a silk robe, wineglass in hand, completely unsurprised to see me.
"Mr. Dark. I wondered if you'd come back."
"I needed to talk to you about the apartment."
"I assumed as much." She stepped aside. "Come in. And please—call me June."
The sitting room held different shadows after sunset. Candles flickered on the mantle. The jazz came from a vintage turntable in the corner, vinyl crackling softly beneath the music.
June settled into her chair like a queen holding court.
"You don't have the money."
Not a question. Statement of fact.
"I have some." I remained standing. "Not enough. I can get the rest, but not by Friday."
"Sit down." She gestured to the chair across from her. "You're making me nervous, hovering like that."
I sat.
"Tell me why I should wait."
The question hung between us. I could lie. The system would help—Silver Tongue ready, phrases already forming in my peripheral vision. Believable excuses about delayed wire transfers and processing times.
I dismissed the prompts.
"Because I'm exactly what you think I am." The words came from somewhere deeper than strategy. "I'm starting over. I don't have references because my old life burned down. I don't have savings because everything I built got taken by people with more power than ethics."
June's expression didn't change.
"I'm not a con man asking for charity. I'm someone who needs a place to stand while I figure out what comes next. And I think—" I paused, choosing carefully. "I think you know what that feels like."
Silence stretched. The music shifted—new track, slower tempo.
"Byron was a forger," June said finally. "Documents, mostly. Some art. He came to this country with nothing but his hands and his wits. Built everything from scratch." Her eyes went distant. "When we met, he was fresh out of prison. Second offense. Most women would have run."
"But not you."
"I saw what he could become. Not what he was." She sipped her wine. "He spent the next forty years proving me right. Built legitimate businesses. Raised three children. Became a pillar of the community while half the art in the Met owes something to his early work."
[RELATIONSHIP INSIGHT: JUNE VALUES POTENTIAL OVER PRESENT]
[OPPORTUNITY: AUTHENTIC CONNECTION]
I filed away the system's assessment and focused on the woman in front of me.
"You're telling me you've seen this movie before."
"I'm telling you I'm a good judge of character, Mr. Dark." Her gaze sharpened. "And I haven't decided if you're the hero or the villain of your story."
"Neither have I."
The honesty surprised us both.
June laughed—a warm sound, rich with experience and sorrow and something like hope.
"First month's rent. Due when you have it. No deadline." She rose, moving to a cabinet near the window. "I'll need something in return."
"Name it."
She pulled out a small lockbox and set it on the table between us.
"My accountant is a fool. These are Byron's old records—some legitimate, some less so. I need someone who can make sense of them before the IRS comes asking questions I don't want to answer."
She opened the box. Receipts, ledgers, bank statements from decades past. A paper trail of a life lived between legal and criminal.
[APPRAISAL ACTIVE]
[DOCUMENTATION COMPLEXITY: HIGH]
[ESTIMATED VALUE: SIGNIFICANT (BOTH MONETARY AND INFORMATIONAL)]
"I was a forensic accountant," I said. "Before everything fell apart."
"I know." June's smile held secrets. "I made some calls after our first meeting. The Aron Dark identity is new, but the skills are real."
She'd checked up on me. Found the gaps in my history and filled them with accurate assumptions.
This woman was more dangerous than the system had suggested.
"I'll sort your records. Pro bono."
"Then we have a deal." She handed me a key ring. Two keys, brass and worn. "Third floor. The door sticks in humidity. Jiggle the handle twice before turning."
I took the keys. They weighed almost nothing. They weighed everything.
"June." I stood to leave. "Who told you about my accounting background?"
"A friend of a friend." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "You'll learn, Mr. Dark—information is currency in this building. We deal in it as naturally as breathing."
The apartment exceeded my expectations.
High ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors that creaked in all the right places. A bay window overlooked the street below, streetlights painting patterns through antique glass. Furniture came with the space—nothing fancy, but solid. A bed, a dresser, a worn leather chair that probably held stories.
I set my messenger bag on the kitchen counter and explored.
The bathroom had a clawfoot tub, porcelain chips revealing decades of use. The kitchen was small but functional, gas stove, refrigerator that hummed contentedly in the corner. A closet near the entrance would serve for storage.
[NEW LOCATION ESTABLISHED: PRIMARY RESIDENCE]
[SECURITY ASSESSMENT: MODERATE]
[RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH SECONDARY CACHE LOCATIONS]
I stood at the bay window as sunset painted the city gold and orange. Manhattan stretched toward the horizon—towers of glass and steel, rivers of traffic, eight million stories playing out in parallel.
My city now.
Something loosened in my chest. A knot I hadn't realized I was carrying. For the first time since waking up in Marcus Webb's body, I had ground beneath my feet. A place that was mine, even temporarily.
The system pulsed softly at the edge of my vision.
[STRESS LEVEL: DECREASING]
[ADAPTATION PROGRESS: 47%]
I let myself have the moment. Thirty seconds of peace before the weight returned.
June had given me breathing room, but breathing room didn't pay bills. I had rent coming eventually, utilities, food, the thousand expenses of existence. The FBI consulting opportunity—if Peter Burke even answered my calls—wouldn't generate income fast enough.
I needed capital. Real money. Enough to build on.
The leather chair groaned as I settled into it. Byron's records waited in a cardboard box June had pressed into my hands on my way out. Work I'd promised for free, but work that came with hidden value.
Information. Contacts. Patterns from decades of operating between legal and criminal.
I opened the first ledger and started reading.
Three hours later, I understood why June's accountant had failed. Byron Ellington hadn't just been a forger—he'd been an artist with numbers. Shell companies nested inside shell companies. Transactions that looked random until you mapped them against dates and locations. A lifetime of moving money in ways that technically broke no laws while violating their spirit completely.
The system helped—pattern recognition highlighting anomalies, connections I might have missed through fatigue.
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE: 23 ACTIONABLE INSIGHTS IDENTIFIED]
[NOTABLE: 3 DORMANT ACCOUNTS, TOTAL VALUE $47,000+]
[NOTABLE: CONTACT NETWORK INCLUDES 7 ACTIVE CRIMINAL OPERATORS]
Forty-seven thousand dollars sitting in forgotten accounts. Seven people who might become useful contacts.
Byron Ellington's ghost was offering me a roadmap.
I set down the ledger and pulled out Peter Burke's business card. Tomorrow, I'd start building something legitimate. Tonight, I'd plan something else.
The city lights burned beyond my window.
Time to stop surviving and start building.
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