Six days.
Reed had six days before the first transfer would execute. Six days before 200 families would wake up to credits they didn't expect and probably wouldn't believe. Six days before his experiment began or his life ended or both.
He spent the first day doing nothing.
Just sat in his apartment, high enough on Leveler that his hands didn't shake but not so high that he couldn't think, and stared at the ceiling. Processing. Realizing what he'd done. Realizing he couldn't take it back.
He'd stolen half a billion credits.
He'd committed multiple felonies.
He'd guaranteed that corporate would hunt him eventually.
And he'd done it to answer a question. To prove something. To make his brother's death mean something.
Reed wasn't sure if that made him a revolutionary or just an idiot.
Probably both.
Day two, he made his rounds.
Same route as always. Marcus, Yuki, Chen, Sarah, Dmitri. Selling Leveler to people who needed it to function. Watching them make transactions that would ding their prosperity scores. Watching them count credits and calculate how long until they couldn't afford medication or food or water.
But now he knew. Knew that in four days, they'd have 2000 credits they didn't expect. Knew their desperate calculations would suddenly have a buffer. Knew they'd be confused and scared and suspicious.
And he couldn't tell them.
"You alright?" Marcus asked during the pickup. "You look... I don't know. Different."
"Same as always," Reed lied.
"No, you're not." Marcus studied him. "You look like someone who's made a decision. Big one. The kind that changes things."
Reed met his eyes. Wanted to say: in four days, you'll be able to afford your daughter's shoes. In four days, you'll be able to buy real pain medication instead of this gray-market shit. In four days, you'll have choices you've never had before.
Instead he said: "Just thinking about the future."
"Future," Marcus repeated, like the word was foreign. "Don't see much point in thinking about that. Future's just more of the same."
"Maybe," Reed said. "Or maybe it's not."
Marcus looked at him strangely, but didn't press.
Reed moved on to his next stop, carrying the secret like a weight.
Day three, Reed went to the memorial wall.
He did this every day anyway—routine, ritual, the only consistent thing in his life besides dealing and using. But today felt different. Today he stood in front of Marco's plaque and actually talked to it. Out loud. Like his brother could hear him.
"I did something stupid," Reed said quietly. "Something you'd probably think was insane. Stole a lot of money. Going to give it away. Going to try to prove..." He trailed off. "Going to try to prove you didn't have to die."
The plaque stared back at him. MARCO SALAZAR. EXCEEDED PRODUCTIVITY TARGETS.
"The system says people like us are lazy," Reed continued. "Says we need to be desperate to work. Need to be scared of poverty to have value. That if we had security, we'd just... stop. Stop trying, stop contributing, stop mattering."
He touched the plaque, cold metal under his fingers.
"But you worked three jobs, Marco. You were never lazy. You killed yourself trying to do everything right. And the system killed you anyway. Called it 'exceeded productivity targets' like that was a compliment. Like dying for work was an achievement."
Reed's voice got rougher.
"So I'm going to prove them wrong. I'm going to show that people aren't lazy when they're secure. They're just... human. They're just people who deserve to sleep and eat and exist without constantly fighting for survival."
A maintenance worker walked past, glanced at Reed, kept moving. Everyone talked to the memorial wall. Everyone had their dead to mourn.
"In three days, 200 families are going to get money they don't expect," Reed said. "And I'm going to watch what they do with it. Document it. Prove that security makes people better, not worse. That you didn't have to die, Marco. That the system chose to kill you. That it was never necessary."
The plaque didn't answer. But Reed felt like maybe his brother heard him anyway.
"I'm probably going to die for this," Reed added. "Corporate's going to find me eventually. But before they do, I'm going to prove something that matters. For you. For everyone like you."
He stood there for another five minutes, then walked away.
Behind him, Marco's name stayed carved in metal, evidence of a life spent and discarded.
In three days, Reed would start collecting different evidence.
Day four, the doubt hit.
Reed sat in his apartment at 2 AM, too wired to sleep even with Leveler, and thought about all the ways this could fail.
What if people didn't spend the money? What if they were too scared of the catch, too suspicious, too used to the system crushing hope?
What if they did spend it, but nothing changed? What if they just bought meal paste and kept working their terrible jobs because that's all they knew how to do?
What if Reed was wrong? What if corporate was right? What if people really did need desperation to function?
What if he was about to prove that his brother deserved to die after all?
Reed's hands shook—not from withdrawal, from fear. From the possibility that he was about to spend 500 million credits proving corporate's propaganda true.
He pulled out his tablet, pulled up the documentation he'd started. Empty files waiting for data. Questions he wanted to answer:
Do people work less when they're secure?
If yes, do they work less at everything or just at terrible jobs?
Does health improve?
Does crime change?
Do communities form?
Do people pursue education, art, projects?
Or do they just... stop?
Reed stared at the questions until his eyes hurt.
What if the answer was the one he didn't want?
What if Marco had been wrong? What if Reed was wrong? What if the system, cruel and grinding as it was, actually understood human nature better than he did?
He took more Leveler. Tried to sleep. Couldn't.
At 4 AM, he gave up and went to the common area.
It was empty at this hour—just flickering lights and broken furniture and the water dispenser that hadn't worked in months. The space looked exactly like what it was: a place where people too exhausted to hope went to exist in the gaps between shifts.
Reed sat in his corner and imagined it different.
Imagined the furniture fixed. Imagined plants growing. Imagined people actually gathering here, not because they had to but because they wanted to. Imagined laughter.
"You're insane," he said out loud to the empty room. "This is going to fail and you're going to die for nothing."
But he didn't shut it down. Didn't stop the transfers. Didn't run.
Because even if he was wrong, even if he was about to prove corporate right, at least he'd know. At least he'd have tried. At least Marco's death would have prompted a question, even if the answer was painful.
Reed sat in the empty common area until morning, watching the building wake up around him. Watching residents emerge for their shifts, shoulders hunched, eyes dead, bodies running on Leveler and desperation.
In two days, they'd have 2000 credits.
In two days, he'd start finding out if hope could survive in people this broken.
Day five, Reed started documenting baseline conditions.
He walked through Building 7 with his tablet, recording observations. How many people left for work at which times. How many visible signs of stress, exhaustion, illness. How much Leveler he was selling. How many arguments he overheard. How many children looked underfed. How many apartments had lights on all night because someone was working multiple shifts.
This was Building 7 before. This was the control data. This was what corporate said was normal, necessary, the way things had to be.
Reed documented it all with clinical detachment. Made spreadsheets. Took notes. Became a researcher studying poverty from the inside.
"What are you writing?" Yuki asked when they caught him making notes after a pickup.
"Just... observations," Reed said.
"About what?"
"About how people live here. About what it costs to survive."
Yuki looked uncomfortable. "Why?"
"Curiosity," Reed said. Which wasn't exactly a lie.
"That's weird, Reed. You know that's weird, right?"
"Yeah," Reed agreed. "I know."
But he kept documenting anyway. Kept recording the baseline. Kept collecting data about life in Sector 12 before the money came.
By evening, he had 50 pages of notes. Numbers, observations, quotes. A comprehensive picture of Building 7's daily existence.
It looked like dying in slow motion.
Tomorrow, the money would transfer.
Tomorrow, his experiment would begin.
Tomorrow, he'd start answering the question that had been eating him since Marco died:
What if?
Day six, 5 AM, Reed couldn't sleep.
The transfers would execute at 6 AM, precisely when most residents checked their daily prosperity scores. Reed had programmed it that way—maximum visibility, maximum immediate awareness.
He lay in bed, watching the ceiling, counting down.
At 5:30, he gave up and got up.
At 5:45, he made synthetic coffee he couldn't taste.
At 5:55, he pulled up his tablet and opened the transfer system Dmitri had built.
FUTURE FORWARD SOLUTIONS - FIRST MONTHLY DISTRIBUTION
STATUS: PENDING
EXECUTE AT: 06:00:00
Reed watched the countdown.
5:56.
5:57.
This was it. The point where his stupid idea became reality. Where half a billion in stolen corporate money became 200 families' unexpected salvation. Where he proved something or died trying.
5:58.
Reed thought about Marco. About his brother's tired eyes and constant hustle and desperate belief that hard work meant something. About the memorial plaque that reduced a life to productivity metrics.
5:59.
"For you," Reed whispered. "Let's see if I can prove you mattered."
6:00.
STATUS: EXECUTING
The screen flickered. Money moved. 200 accounts received 2000 credits each. The system he'd built sprang to life, distributing corporate's stolen money to Sector 12's poorest residents.
STATUS: COMPLETE
NEXT TRANSFER: 30 DAYS
It was done.
Reed sat in his apartment, holding his tablet, feeling nothing and everything.
He'd just changed 200 lives.
Or he'd just set himself up to prove that change was impossible.
Either way, he'd find out.
Outside his window, Building 7 was waking up. People were checking their tablets. People were seeing credits they didn't expect. People were starting to ask: what if?
Reed grabbed his tablet and headed to the common area.
Time to start documenting.
Time to start answering the question that would either justify his life or prove it meaningless:
What if people didn't have to be this tired?
What if security made them better instead of worse?
What if Marco didn't have to die?
The experiment had begun.
And Reed Salazar, age thirty, drug dealer, thief, accidental revolutionary, was ready to collect his data.
Even if it killed him.
Especially if it killed him.
At least then it would mean something.