Jack's hands shook as he scrubbed the coffee shop counter, the bitter scent of roasted beans thick in the air, mingling with the stale sweat of his anxiety. The fluorescent lights buzzed like a swarm of angry hornets, grating on his nerves, already raw from the dread of another shift. He'd barely clocked in when the glass door swung open with a jingle, and Abdel Saheed strutted in, flanked by his three cronies—Markos Kael, Mikal Krod, and Jash Haniel. Their designer sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, a mocking fanfare. Jack's stomach knotted, his breath catching. They were a storm cloud, and he was their favorite lightning rod, his tattered Yeezy Boost 350s a neon sign screaming *target*.
He ducked behind the counter, praying Sarah, his coworker with the kind smile, would take their order. But Markos's voice sliced through the shop's hum, sharp and deliberate. "Nah, we want *that guy* to serve us." He jabbed a finger at Jack, his smirk cruel as a blade. The others snickered, their Air Jordan 11 Retros gleaming under the lights, each pair a status symbol Jack could never afford. Abdel's Air Jordan 12 "Wings"—worth more than Jack's monthly rent, maybe $700 on the high end—stood out like a taunt, their gold accents catching the light like a predator's eyes.
Jack forced a smile, clutching his notepad as he approached their table, his heart pounding like a war drum. Each step felt like walking into a trap. "What can I get started for you?" he asked, his voice barely steady, betraying the tremor he fought to hide.
Abdel leaned back, biceps flexing under his fitted black shirt, his eyes locked on Jack's shoes. "Damn, Carlow, those Yeezys look like they've been chewed up and spit out by a junkyard dog. You ever think about getting a life that doesn't scream 'pathetic'?" His voice was loud, meant to carry, drawing the eyes of every customer in the shop.
Jack's cheeks burned, his fingers tightening around the pen until it creaked in his grip. He wanted to snap back, to tell Abdel to shove his overpriced kicks where the sun didn't shine, but the memory of past encounters—fists slamming into his ribs, Abdel's laughter as Jack curled up on the pavement—kept his mouth shut. Markos piled on, kicking his chair back with a screech. "What's the plan, Jack? Saving up for new kicks by the time you're collecting social security?"
Mikal grinned, leaning forward, his voice dripping with mockery. "Those shoes are so old, they're probably haunted. Bet they smell like a landfill too."
Jash pointed at his own pristine Jordans, their leather gleaming. "I'd toss you a pair, but you'd probably pawn 'em for a loaf of bread. Waste of good leather, man."
The words cut deeper than Jack wanted to admit, each one a jab to his already bruised pride. He scribbled Abdel's order—black coffee, no sugar—his hands trembling, the pen leaving jagged lines on the paper. The shop was quiet except for their taunts, the other customers pretending to sip their lattes, their sidelong glances like needles pricking his skin. Jack hurried to the counter, pouring the coffee with unsteady hands, the hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the cup's rim. He willed himself to stay calm. Losing this job wasn't an option—not with rent overdue, an eviction notice pinned to his apartment door like a death sentence, and a bank account that mocked him with a balance of $12.47.
As he returned with the coffee, Abdel's grin widened, predatory, his eyes glinting with malice. Without warning, he grabbed the sugar dispenser from the table and dumped it over Jack's shoes, the grains scattering like tiny shards of glass across the worn fabric. "Whoops! My bad, loser," he said, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Clean it up, yeah?" His friends howled, phones out, filming Jack's humiliation, the sugar crunching under his soles like the last fragments of his dignity.
Jack dropped to his knees, scrubbing the mess with a rag, his throat tight with a mix of rage and shame. The shop felt like a cage, every eye on him—some pitying, some amused, all judging. Abdel wasn't done. He snatched a bottle of surface cleaner from a nearby table, its nozzle glinting like a weapon, and aimed it at Jack's face. "Let's give those rags a real shine," he taunted, his finger twitching on the trigger, his grin sadistic.
"Please, Abdel, don't," Jack pleaded, his voice cracking, raw with fear. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with malice, the hum of the espresso machine a distant roar. Abdel's grin twisted, and he squeezed, spraying a cold jet of cleaner across Jack's cheek and ear. The shock made him flinch, his arm jerking up instinctively. The bottle flew from Abdel's hand, spinning through the air like a missile, crashing onto a nearby table and splashing a couple's laptop and drinks.
"You little shit!" Abdel roared, leaping to his feet, his face a mask of fury, his fists clenched like hammers. "You're dead, Carlow!"
The couple gasped, scrambling to wipe their soaked belongings, their glares darting between Jack and Abdel. Abdel spun to the crowd, his voice thick with fake outrage. "This idiot attacked me! Threw a bottle right at me! Can you believe this guy? He's got a death wish!"
Mr. Thompson Thiel, the shop's gruff manager, stormed out from the back, his face etched with exasperation, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. "What the hell's going on here?" His voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a guillotine.
Abdel played the victim, his tone dripping with calculated indignation. "Your boy here threw a bottle at me! He's a walking disaster, Thompson. Fire him before he burns this place to the ground!"
Jack stammered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears. "It was an accident, sir! He sprayed me first—I was just—"
"Quiet!" Thompson snapped, his glare pinning Jack in place like a bug on a board. The couple muttered complaints, gathering their drenched belongings, their eyes burning holes into Jack. Abdel smirked, folding his arms, knowing he'd won. Thompson turned to Jack, his voice cold as steel. "Clean this mess up. Then get to my office. Move it."
Jack's heart sank as he mopped up the spilled cleaner, the rag soaking through, his hands trembling. The weight of every stare in the shop crushed him, the whispers of "loser" and "pathetic" echoing in his mind, louder than Abdel's taunts. Abdel leaned in, his breath hot against Jack's ear. "This ain't over, Carlow. You'll pay for this, and I'll make sure it hurts." He tossed a wad of cash on the counter—hundreds, way more than the bill, a deliberate flex of his wealth—and sauntered out with his crew, their laughter echoing like a gunshot in Jack's ears.
The rest of the shift was a blur of shame and dread. Jack stuck to the kitchen, stacking dishes, avoiding the front counter where customers whispered about the scene. His hands shook as he worked, his mind replaying Abdel's sneers, the spray of cleaner, the couple's glares. He bent to tie his frayed laces, his fingers fumbling, when his elbow bumped a rack of plates. Time slowed as the stack teetered, wobbled, then crashed to the floor in a deafening explosion of porcelain. Plates, cups, and cutlery scattered like shrapnel, the sound ringing through the kitchen like a death knell, silencing the clatter of pots and pans.
His coworkers froze, their eyes wide with shock. Sarah, the kind one, whispered, "Oh, Jack…" but the pity in her voice only made it worse. Thompson appeared in the doorway, his face red with fury, his hands clenched into fists, veins bulging in his neck. "Carlow! What the hell did you do now?"
"I—I tripped," Jack stammered, his pulse racing, his voice barely a whisper. "My laces—they were loose—"
"Enough!" Thompson roared, his voice shaking the air like a thunderclap. "You're a walking liability! I've had it with you. Pack your things and get out. You're fired."
The words hit like a sledgehammer, stealing Jack's breath, his vision blurring. Fired. No job meant no rent, no food, no way to keep his crumbling apartment on Gumma Street. "Sir, please," he pleaded, desperation clawing at his voice, raw and ragged. "I need this job. I'll be more careful, I swear. I can't—I can't lose this."
Thompson's expression softened, but only slightly, his eyes still hard as flint. "Jack, I get it. Times are tough. But you're costing me money, and I can't afford that. You've had too many chances. I'm sorry, but you're done."
Jack's world tilted, his knees weak as he grabbed his jacket, the sympathetic glances of his coworkers burning worse than Abdel's taunts. Sarah reached out, her hand brushing his arm, but he pulled away, unable to bear the pity. He stumbled out into the evening chill, the weight of failure crushing him, his breath fogging in the crisp air. The walk to Gumma Street felt endless, each step heavier than the last, the city's neon lights mocking him with their false promises. The eviction notice on his apartment door loomed like a guillotine, its bold red letters screaming *FINAL WARNING: PAYMENT DUE IN 72 HOURS*. He'd been scraping by, but this—this was the end. No job, no prospects, just a lifetime of being Abdel's punching bag, the loser of Gumma Street.
Inside his dingy apartment, Jack collapsed onto his threadbare couch, the springs creaking under his weight like a dying animal. The room smelled of damp and despair, the peeling paint and cracked walls closing in like a tomb. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the day—Abdel's cruelty, the spray of cleaner, Thompson's final words, the eviction notice—when a sharp knock jolted him upright, his heart slamming against his ribs. His mind flashed to Abdel, come to gloat, or worse, one of his cronies looking to finish what they started in the shop. Or maybe it was Mr. Onan, his landlord, ready to toss him out tonight.
He crept to the door, his pulse racing, and peered through the peephole. A figure stood in the hallway, cloaked in shadow, their face obscured by a hood pulled low. In their hand was a sleek black envelope, unmarked except for a single letter embossed in silver: *H*. Jack's breath caught, a chill running down his spine. This wasn't Abdel. This wasn't Onan. This was something else—something bigger, something dangerous.
"Jack Carlow," the figure said, their voice low and urgent, tinged with a strange metallic edge, like it was filtered through some unseen device. "Open the door. You've been chosen."
His hand froze on the knob, his mind screaming to ignore it, to crawl into bed and let the world swallow him whole. Who was this? A debt collector? A prank? But the eviction notice glared from the door, and the memory of Abdel's sneer burned in his gut like acid. Whatever this was, it was a chance—or a trap. Desperation won, edging out fear by a hair. He cracked the door open, the hinges creaking, and the figure shoved the envelope into his hands, their gloved fingers cold as ice against his skin.
"Don't open it here," they whispered, their eyes hidden in shadow, their voice barely audible over the hum of the hallway lights. "Wait till you're alone. And don't tell anyone. Not a soul, Carlow. You don't know who's watching." Before Jack could respond, they vanished down the stairwell, their footsteps silent as a ghost, leaving only the faint echo of their warning.
Back inside, Jack locked the door, his fingers trembling as he tore open the envelope. Inside was a single item: a small, metallic chip, no bigger than a coin, pulsing with a faint blue light that seemed to hum with its own life. A note, scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting, read: *Insert into any device. Tonight. – T.* No name, no explanation, just those cryptic words and that glowing chip, like something ripped from a sci-fi thriller.
Jack's breath hitched, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. This wasn't Abdel's style—too sophisticated, too strange. But it felt dangerous, like a spark in a room full of gasoline. He glanced at his ancient laptop, the only device he owned, its cracked screen mocking him from the corner of the room. His gut screamed to toss the chip, to run, to forget this ever happened. But the eviction notice, the memory of Abdel's laughter, and the weight of his own failure pushed him forward. What did he have left to lose? Nothing. He was already at rock bottom.
He plugged the chip into his laptop, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. The screen flickered, erupted in static, then resolved into a distorted image of a blurred face, the features shifting like a mirage in a desert. A voice, cold and mechanical, filled the room, each word precise, deliberate, chilling. "Jack Carlow. You're at rock bottom. We can pull you out. H.U.N has been watching you. We know your pain, your enemies, your potential. Survive the first test, and you'll have power you can't imagine. Fail, and you're already dead."
The screen went black, leaving Jack staring at his reflection in the dark glass, the chip's blue pulse the only light in the room, casting eerie shadows on the peeling walls. His heart pounded, a volatile mix of fear, defiance, and something new—something dangerous. H.U.N. The myth. The organization whispered about in dark alleys and conspiracy boards, supposedly dissolved decades ago, a shadow that pulled strings no one could see. And now, they wanted *him*. Why? He was nobody, just a loser from Gumma Street, Abdel's punching bag, a fired barista with nothing but debt and broken dreams.
But as the weight of the day—Abdel's cruelty, the spray of cleaner, Thompson's dismissal, the looming threat of homelessness—crashed over him like a tidal wave, Jack felt a spark ignite in his chest. Not hope, not yet. Something darker, sharper, more primal. Revenge. If H.U.N was real, if they could give him even a fraction of the power they promised, maybe he could make Abdel Saheed regret every word, every laugh, every spray of cleaner. Maybe he could rise above the ashes of his life and burn those who'd kicked him down.
The chip pulsed faster, as if sensing his resolve, its blue light casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance with secrets. Jack's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. Whatever H.U.N was, whatever their game, he'd play it. Not for them, but for himself. For the kid who'd been beaten down too many times, who'd cleaned sugar off his shoes while the world laughed. For the chance to turn the tables. He didn't know what the first test was, but as he sat in the dark, the weight of the chip in his hand, he knew one thing: he wasn't going down without a fight. And if H.U.N was watching, they'd better be ready for what Jack Carlow could become.