Saturday morning filtered soft light through the basement window, nudging Charlie awake in his basement bedroom. No alarm today—his body clock sufficed, though the dull ache in his ribs was from yesterday's grind at Iron Will Fight Club. He stretched, wincing slightly. He stretched, wincing slightly, but a spark of pride flared: 119/1000 hits toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star, a fresh MMA 1 Star under his belt.
He skipped his usual three-mile run, curiosity pulling him upstairs instead. The kitchen carried the warm scent of coffee and toast, a faint radio hum blending with his parents' voices. Marge stood by the counter, her factory apron traded for a weekend sweater, tapping her phone with a focused frown. Harold sat at the table, his sales clipboard pushed aside, scrolling on his screen with a grumble. Charlie leaned against the doorway. "What's got you two so hooked?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
Marge looked up, her eyes brightening. "Oh, Charlie, you need to see this app - it's everywhere." She held up her phone, the screen glowing with a sleek interface, a logo spinning: NexGuard. "It's called NexGuard, made by this genius - Elliot Hayes. Keeps hackers out, stops cheats in apps, games, all kinds of stuff." Harold snorted, still staring at his phone, his brow creased. "Yeah, and get this - the company running my phone sold my number to some marketing outfit. That's why I'm getting calls about promotions I didn't ask for! Hell no, I'm calling them right now!" He jabbed at his screen, muttering about complaints, while Marge shook her head, amused.
Charlie raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to glance at Marge's screen. The app's design was sharp—graphs tracking data, alerts flashing "threats blocked," and a chat window labeled "Hayes AI Assistant." Anti-cheat, anti-hacker... like a fight I'd take, he thought. He pulled his own phone from his pocket - older model, patched with System cash - and searched "Elliot Hayes NexGuard." A slew of articles popped up, and he skimmed a recent tech blog from 2025:
Elliot Hayes, 33, a Black innovator from Chicago, reshaped cybersecurity with NexGuard, and AI-powered app now on over 2 billion devices worldwide. Launched last year, it fuses ironclad anti-hacker defenses - blocking malware, phising, and spyware - with a cutting-edge anti-cheat system for all games, sniffing out aimbots and wallhacks instantly. Self-taught after growing up in Englewood's tough streets, Hayes exposed a major data breach at 33, earning the title "Digital Guardian." NexGuard's AI outpaces threats, dominating from smarphones to pro esports. "Fairness is worth fighting for," Hayes said in a rare interview.
Charlie frowned, thanks to the Better genes potions his mind was sharper than before, this guy, detected a data breach at 33 and also released this app...in a span of a few months, he already got 2 billion devices worldwide.... He glanced at his mother, still swiping through the app, and chatting with the AI, then at Harold his father, now dialing his phone company, voice rising. "Yeah, I said stop selling my data!" Charlie pocketed his phone, curious but wary and not fully sold. Elliot Hayes, is not a genius; he might be a super genius, maybe... no, it couldn't be, Charlie thought .
He grabbed a banana from the counter, peeling it as his mind shifted gears. Bobby's party was tonight—8 PM, the note had said, scrawled with a promise to "bury the hatchet." Never been to one, he thought, a mix of nerves and curiosity bubbling. His closet was a mess of gym gear and old tees, nothing fit for a party. Time to fix that. He checked his system cash—$7950, solid after Thursday's sandwich and Friday's cauliflower. "Heading out," he called, Marge nodding absently, Harold still on his call. Charlie slipped on his sneakers and stepped into Maplewood's crisp morning.
The town's main strip wasn't far - a ten-minute walk past quiet lawns and corner stores. Charlie aimed for Threadline, a clothing shop tucked between a diner and a pawn shop, its window flashing "Weekend Sale" in neon. The bell jingled as he pushed inside, the air cool with a faint cedar scent from polished racks. Shelves overflowed with jeans, shirts, and jackets, pop music humming low over speakers. A clerk - mid-20s, nose ring, dyed blue hair - glanced up from her phone. "Need help?" she asked, half-interested. Charlie shook his head.
He wandered the aisles, fingers brushing fabrics - cotton, denim, and a stray leather jacket too pricy for today. Something clean, not flashy, he thought, picturing Bobby's house. His old self- soft, invisible—would've grabbed anything baggy. Now, he had changed; he was reshaped, still with some loose skin, but day after day it was less and less loose, and he wanted clothes to match. He pulled a black button-up from a rack, slim fit, sleeves sharp but rollable. Held it up - looked good, not try-hard. Next, dark jeans-not too tight, but cut to show his frame without marking his loose skin. He added a belt - simple, black leather, silver buckle - for pull-together. In the mirror, he sized up the stack: not bad. Looks like me, but... better.
At the counter, the clerk scanned his picks: shirt $35, jeans $50, and belt $15. "Hundred even," she said, popping gum. Charlie nodded, pulling out the phone and paying with it - untraceable. The system tracked it: Purchase: $100. Balance: $7850. He took the bag, paper crinkling, and stepped back into the sun.
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The sun had dipped below Maplewood's skyline by the time Charlie reached Bobby's address, the paper invite crumpled in his pocket - 8 PM, bury the hatchet. His new clothes—a black button-up, dark jeans, and a silver-buckled belt - felt crisp against his skin, a far cry from the baggy tees of his old self. Now standing before Bobby's place, Charlie's focus shifted. It wasn't a house - it was a mansion. Three stories of sleek glass and stone sprawled across a manicured lawn, a glowing pool rippling out back, and the skyline of distant city lights framing the view. Music thumped through open windows, laughter and shouts spilling out. Kids milled on the porch, red cups in hand, the air sharp with booze and perfume. Charlie frowned, his stomach tightening. He'd never touched alcohol - never wanted to blur the edge the System gave him.
He stepped inside, the foyer swallowing him in polished marble and vaulted ceilings, a chandelier glinting overhead. The living room pulsed with bodies - some faces familiar, others not - dancing, drinking, sprawling on leather couches. A glass door led to the pool, where a few splashed under string lights, their shouts echoing. Charlie's eyes scanned the crowd, his Better Genes Potion heightening his senses, picking out details - a spilled drink, a girl's giggle, a guy stumbling. Then he saw Bobby, leaning against a kitchen island, flanked by Pete and Ray, their smirks sharp as ever. And next to Bobby - Katie. Her blonde hair caught the light, her smile bright but guarded, her arm brushing Bobby's. Charlie's chest twinged, not quite pain but close. Still stings, huh? She only said hello to me a few times... he thought, the old crush lingering like a bruise.
Bobby's eyes locked onto him, a glint of mischief sparking. He slid his hand onto Katie's waist, deliberately, then let it drift lower, grazing her hip, almost her backside. Charlie caught it, the twinge sharpening - a jab to his pride. Katie didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Bobby made a loud "Oh!" as if just noticing Charlie, his voice cutting through the noise. "Charlie! My friend, how you doing?" Katie's hand shot out, brushing Bobby's away fast, her cheeks flushing as she glanced at Charlie, then away. Bobby sauntered over, leaving Pete, Ray, and Katie behind, and leaned close, his breath sour with beer. "Katie's a real hot one, right?"
Charlie's jaw tightened, memories flashing - Katie's laugh last year, her ignoring him after. Fuck it. Fuck her. He met Bobby's eyes, forcing a grin, wild and sharp. "Yeah, she's hot, no doubt." Bobby blinked, caught off guard by the confidence, then grinned back, a flicker of respect breaking through. The grin faded fast, though, his tone shifting. "Well, welcome to my first big party, Finch - my house, my rules." He clapped Charlie's shoulder too hard; sadly, Charlie felt it like a normal clap on his shoulder. "C'mon, let's show you the place."
Pete, Ray, and Katie trailed behind as Bobby led the tour, his voice loud over the music. "This is the den - biggest TV in town, 85 inches." A sleek screen dominated one wall, game consoles stacked below. "Upstairs, my dad's office runs half the internet sales for three cities, rakes in millions." The hallway gleamed, lined with abstract art, each frame screaming money. Out back, the pool deck stretched wide, city lights twinkling beyond a glass railing. "Best view in Maplewood," Bobby bragged, but his eyes darted nervously as Ray flicked a cigarette butt toward the water. Charlie's frown deepened - Bobby's plan was clear: rub wealth in his face and twist the knife with Katie. Jealous, huh? Not tonight.
The tour hit a snag in the game room, a pool table and arcade machines glowing under neon signs. Pete reached for a crystal figurine on a shelf - some artsy bird, probably worth thousands. "Yo, this cool?" he slurred, tossing it lightly. Bobby's face paled. "Don't touch that! if it breaks, my parents-" The figurine slipped, teetering toward the floor. Charlie's reflexes kiked in, Agility Spike flaring - he lunged, catching it inches from disaster, his knuckles brushing the carped. Bobby exhaled, clutching his chest. "Oh, thank God, Finch. Guys, chill with touching stuff!" Pete laughed, unbothered, while Ray knocked over a stack of coasters, grinning; he was clearly drunk. Katie sighed, her eyes meeting Charlie's for a moment - pity, maybe regret—before she turned away, muttering, "I'm getting a drink." She drifted toward the pool.
The party spiraled as the night wore on, Bobby's control slipping. Drunk kids spilled beer on rugs, a couple sneaked into the master bedroom, others argued by the pool. Two guys - big, red-faced, clearly wasted - cornered Bobby near the kiteched, one shoving his chest. "Stop ruining the party, rich boy!" Bobby squared up, fist clenched - he knew how to scrap - but Charlie stepped in, he was following and watching Bobby and felt bad for him, his Boxing 2 Stars Humming. A quick jab snapped the guy's head back, clean and sharp, no hook needed. The second backed off, muttering, and Bobby stared, wide-eyed. "Damn, Finch..." he said, catching his breath.
Things hit a braking point upstairs. Bobby stormed into his parents' bedroom, finding three kids tangled on the bed, clothes half-off. "Get the hell out!" he roared, spotting a security camera blinking in the corner. "There's cameras, you fuckers!" He turned to the hall, voice cracking, stopping the music. "Everyone, just - FUCK OFFF!!" The crowd groaned, some laughing, but they shuffled out, Pete and Ray wanted to stay but Bobby told them also to fuck off, they left, tossing empty cups on the floor. "Fucking bastards," Bobby spat, kicking a stray bottle. He grabbed Charlie's arm, pullin him aside, face flushed with exhaustion. "Listen, Finch, no hard feelings, i wanted to show you that Katie's trouble, okay? She's all about bad boys, the worst the better. Ditch that bitch." Hell, only you helped me tonight, the 'sludge.' Ironic, huh?"
Charlie shrugged, his wild grin softening. "Your way of showing me katie's trouble was wild huh?, This was my first party, Bobby. Honestly? Kinda sucked." Bobby barked a laugh, slumping against the wall. "Yeah, me neither. Never hosting again - my parents are gonna rip me apart." He straightened, a new thought hitting. "Saw you at Iron Will, man - that cross on Mike, damn. You ever try kickboxing? We could spar sometime."
Charlie nodded looking le he was stepping toward the door. "Yeah, Bobby. Maybe. Didn't know you went there."
Bobby called after him, voice low. "Wait, Charlie - I'm... I'm sorry, for everything." Charlie turned, meeting his eyes, and smiled, genuine, no edge. "No hard feelings. Just... don't pull that crap on others, okay?" Bobby rubbed his neck, sheepish. "I'll try, man." Charlie nodded, stepping off the porch into Maplewood's quiet night, the party's chaos - spilled beer, katie's glance, Pete and Ray's mess - fading behind him. But something stopped him. The mansion's lawn was littered with red cups, crushed cans, and cigarette butts, a wreck Bobby'd face alone. This is not right, Charlie thought.
He bent down, grabbing and empty cup, then another, stacking them in his hand. A bottle rolled nearby - he snagged it, tossing it into a trash bag left by the pool. Bobby stepped out, spotting him, his brows knitting. "Charlie, what are you doing?" Charlie blinked, straightening up, a half-smile tugging. "Cleaning, man. You want me to leave you with this messs?" Bobby froze, his eyes glinting, a shimmer of tears catching the moonlight. "Charlie, you.." His voice cracked, raw. "Oh, fuck it... yeah, let's clean this mess, bro." He grabbed a bag joining in, his hands shaky but moving fast - picking cups, sweeping wrappers, righting a tipped chair.
They worked in quiet rhythm, the mansion's glow softening as Maplewood slept. Charlie hauled trash to the curb. Bobby scrubbed a beer stain off the deck, muttreing about his parents' wrath. By dawn, the sun's first rays crept over the city like skyline, painting the pool gold. The lawn looked near-pristine - bags piled, cups gone, furniture straight. Charlie wiped sweat from his brow, the last can clinking into a bin. Bobby stood by the glass doors, hands on his hips, staring at the cleaned-up chaos. "We did it," he said, voice soft, almost disbelieving.
Charlie slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to head home, his new button-up creased but intact. Bobby watched him step onto the street, his silhouette sharp against the sunrise. Respect flickered in Bobby's eyes, heavy with regret - for the taunts, the "sludge" days. Finch, of all people, he thought, shaking his head, a faint smile breaking. Charlie went home and didn't look back, his steps steady, he wanted to sleep.