It was a chilly December morning in Bay City, the kind of morning where the overcast sky seemed to hang low enough to touch. The city streets were quiet except for the occasional hum of a passing car and the faint rustle of the wind. Streetlights still glowed faintly, as though reluctant to yield to the dull daylight.
Ryan Carter trudged along a familiar path, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a threadbare jacket. The worn-out sneakers on his feet made a soft scuffing sound against the pavement with every step. He walked with a purpose, though there wasn't much waiting for him at the end of his destination—just another long shift at the local supermarket where he worked as a shelf stocker.
At 25 years old, Ryan was an ordinary young man with nothing extraordinary to his name. He had grown up in a small, unremarkable town, the youngest son of a hardworking family. His parents ran a modest corner shop that just barely made ends meet, while his older brother had settled down with a family of his own. Ryan, however, was the one everyone pinned their hopes on—the one who was supposed to leave the town behind and make something of himself.
But life hadn't gone as planned.
After high school, Ryan moved to Bay City with dreams of finding success in the big city. Yet, reality hit hard. Job opportunities were scarce, and the ones he managed to land barely paid enough to cover his bills. Over the years, he had taken on countless odd jobs—delivery driver, janitor, warehouse worker—but none of them lasted. Now, he was stuck in a dead-end supermarket job that paid just enough to rent a tiny, rundown apartment on the outskirts of the city.
His apartment was as uninspiring as his life: peeling paint on the walls, a second-hand sofa that sagged in the middle, and a rickety metal bedframe that creaked with every movement. Yet, amidst the gloom, there was one thing Ryan enjoyed—browsing the local flea market on weekends. It wasn't much, but sifting through old, discarded items gave him a small sense of purpose. Sometimes, he would daydream about stumbling upon a hidden treasure, something that could finally turn his life around.
That weekend, as the wind carried the sharp scent of impending rain, Ryan wandered through the bustling flea market on the edge of town. The place was alive with the sounds of haggling voices and the rustle of makeshift tents swaying in the breeze. Vendors called out to passersby, hoping to sell their eclectic mix of goods—everything from dusty old books to battered tools and tarnished jewelry.
Ryan's eyes scanned the rows of cluttered stalls, his gaze stopping at a small booth tucked away in the corner. The stall was piled high with old brass items, most of them covered in a thick layer of tarnish. Among the collection, something caught his eye—a copper plate, dulled with age and streaked with greenish patina.
"Hey, how much for this?" Ryan asked, picking up the plate. It felt heavier than it looked, and its rim was etched with faint, intricate patterns that seemed to tell a story, though he couldn't quite decipher it.
The vendor, a middle-aged man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely looked up. "That old thing? Five bucks. Honestly, it's just junk. Looks good on a shelf, though."
Ryan hesitated for a moment, turning the plate over in his hands. He wasn't sure why, but something about it piqued his interest. Maybe it was the craftsmanship or the weight of history it seemed to carry—or maybe it was just his wishful thinking. Either way, five dollars didn't feel like much of a gamble.
"Alright, I'll take it," he said, pulling out a crumpled bill from his pocket.
The vendor shrugged, handing him a paper bag to carry the plate. Ryan tucked it under his arm and continued walking, weaving through the bustling aisles.
As Ryan left the crowded market, the setting sun cast a golden hue across the city. He shifted the plate under his arm, glancing down at it briefly. For a split second, the surface of the plate seemed to catch the light, emitting a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer.
Ryan stopped in his tracks, squinting at the plate. "Must've been the angle," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He wasn't one to trust his eyes after a long day.
With the plate still tucked securely under his arm, he made his way back toward his apartment. The streets were quieter now, the evening crowd thinning as night began to settle over Bay City. Ryan quickened his pace, eager to get home before the temperature dropped further.
Ryan tightened his grip on the copper plate as he turned the corner into a quieter street. The evening air was heavy with the muted hum of distant traffic, and the dim glow of the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. He was eager to get back to his small apartment, clean the strange plate he'd just bought, and maybe indulge in his usual daydreams about turning his life around.
But just as he passed a small convenience store, a piercing cry for help jolted him to a stop.
"Stop him! Somebody, help!"
Ryan's eyes darted toward the commotion. An elderly woman stood near the entrance, clutching her chest and pointing down the street. A man in a dark hoodie was sprinting away, her purse clutched tightly under his arm.
For a moment, Ryan hesitated. His rational mind screamed at him to ignore it—he was tired, the thief was armed, and this wasn't his fight. But before he could think it through, his body moved on instinct.
"Hey! Stop!" he yelled, taking off after the thief.
His worn sneakers slapped against the pavement as he pushed himself to run faster. The thief glanced over his shoulder, his expression shifting from smug to annoyed when he realized Ryan wasn't backing down.
The chase led them down a narrow alley cluttered with trash bins and discarded crates. The thief shoved a bin over in a bid to slow Ryan down, but he leapt over it, adrenaline propelling him forward.
"Just give it up, man!" Ryan shouted, his voice strained.
The thief didn't answer, but his steps faltered for a split second. That hesitation was all Ryan needed. Summoning the last of his energy, he lunged forward and grabbed the thief's arm.
They both tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap. The purse skidded across the alley floor, landing a few feet away.
The thief snarled, yanking a small pocket knife from his jacket. "Walk away, hero," he growled, the blade catching the dim light.
Ryan's heart pounded, but he held his ground. As the thief lunged, he grabbed the man's wrist, wrestling for control of the knife. In the struggle, the blade nicked his palm, sending a sharp sting through his hand.
"Let it go!" Ryan shouted, using his free arm to shove the thief backward. The man stumbled, cursed under his breath, and, realizing the fight wasn't worth it, turned and bolted into the shadows.
Panting, Ryan staggered to his feet and retrieved the purse. His hand throbbed, and blood dripped from his palm onto the pavement, but he ignored it. He dusted himself off and walked back to the street where the elderly woman was still waiting.
The moment she saw her purse, the woman let out a relieved sob.
"Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!" she cried, reaching for the bag with trembling hands.
"It's alright," Ryan said, offering her a tired but reassuring smile.
The woman clutched the purse to her chest before pulling out a small wad of cash. "Please, take this. You've done more than enough, and I don't know how else to thank you."
Ryan shook his head, taking a step back. "I don't need it. Just be more careful next time, okay?"
"But you're hurt!" she exclaimed, noticing the blood dripping from his hand. "At least let me call someone—"
"No, it's fine," Ryan interrupted gently. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'll take care of it."
The woman hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line of worry, but eventually nodded. "Bless you, young man," she said softly before walking off, her small frame disappearing into the night.
Ryan looked down at his hand. The cut wasn't deep, but it was messy, with streaks of blood running down his fingers. He sighed, knowing full well he didn't have the money to go to a clinic.
"I'll just clean it up at home," he muttered, clutching the copper plate tightly as he continued his walk.
By the time Ryan reached his apartment, his hand was throbbing, and the adrenaline from the chase had completely worn off. He placed the copper plate on his coffee table and rummaged through a drawer to find the small first-aid kit he kept for emergencies.
He sat on the couch, dabbing at the wound with an alcohol pad. The sting made him wince, but he kept working, muttering under his breath about his luck—or lack thereof.
As he wrapped a makeshift bandage around his palm, a single drop of blood escaped and landed squarely on the copper plate.
What happened next made him freeze.
The plate began to glow, a faint but unmistakable light radiating from its surface. Ryan stared, slack-jawed, as the glow intensified, filling the room with an ethereal shimmer.
Then, a voice—cold, mechanical, and impossibly clear—spoke directly into his mind:
"Binding process initiated… Scanning… Initialization complete. Welcome, user, to the Appraisal System."
Ryan blinked, his mind struggling to process what he'd just heard. "What the hell?" he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Words and symbols began to flash before his eyes, floating in midair like a hologram. He instinctively reached out to touch them, but his hand passed through empty space.
The glow from the plate slowly faded, leaving the room dark and silent once more. Ryan sat back, his chest heaving as his gaze flickered between his hand and the copper plate.
"What… just happened?"
Exhaustion finally caught up with him. Too tired and too confused to think clearly, Ryan leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Whatever this was, he'd deal with it tomorrow.
For now, he just needed to sleep.