The wind shifted.
It came from nowhere — a soft, sudden breeze that curled between buildings like a whisper sneaking past the noise. It danced past Jack's feet, stirring an empty chip bag and a few old leaves.
And then, something floated into view.
A flyer. Thin, crisp, and strangely clean — carried by the wind with an odd grace, like it had a destination.
Jack blinked and sat up slightly.
The paper twirled in the air, made a slow, lazy circle, and drifted toward him. Sunlight flicked off its golden edges.
As it came closer, Jack could finally read it.
"Seeking Unique Talent. No Experience Required. Interviews Today Only. Follow the Mark."
(A faint symbol at the bottom — a black and gold square, half-shaded like day and night.)
He didn't even realize he was holding his breath.
"…No way," he muttered, eyes wide. "This… this is it. This has to be it."
It felt different. Not like the recycled rejection he'd been chewing on all day. It felt like the universe had taken pity on him — handed him a ticket, just when he was about to quit.
For the first time in hours, Jack smiled.
The flyer fluttered downward… closer… and—
Wham!
A car zipped by, fast, and the wind caught the flyer at just the wrong angle. The paper slammed against the street, right beneath a passing tire.
Crunch.
Jack flinched. "No, no, no—"
Another car followed. Then another.
The flyer was caught in a brief, brutal ballet of rubber and asphalt. Crushed. Torn. Flattened.
Bits of it flew up — confetti in a cruel parade.
A small corner of the paper, ripped clean, twirled back into the air and landed gently on Jack's lap.
He picked it up slowly.
Just one word remained legible: "Talent."
His eye twitched.
He leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky.
And then… he laughed.
Or maybe cried.
It was hard to tell.
His legs kicked out wildly — frustration, exhaustion, disbelief — like a kid throwing a tantrum but too tired to finish. The laughter twisted into a soft, shaky sound in his throat. Not quite tears. But not far.
"Sure," he muttered to no one. "Why not? Even the wind thinks I'm a joke."
The city didn't answer.
Cars kept driving. People kept walking.
And Jack Monroe — broke, hungry, rejected — sat beneath a flickering bus stop light, wondering if life had just one more punch left to throw.
But somewhere down the street… in the shadows between buildings…
The wind turned again.
Jack stayed slumped on the bench, head tilted back, eyes half-closed as the gray sky above slowly drifted by. His shoulders rose and fell with each tired breath. He hadn't moved in minutes — and didn't plan to.
Then, without warning, the wind shifted again — stronger this time. A breeze curled around the bus stop like a wave circling a rock, and something blocked the light to Jack's left.
A figure stood beside him.
Long black coat. Dress pants. Polished shoes. One hand held a folded newspaper, the other slid lazily into a coat pocket.
The man's round blue glasses caught a sliver of light as he tilted his head, flipping a page.
Jack blinked.
The stranger glanced over briefly from behind the paper, then spoke in a smooth, casual tone.
"What's up, stranger? You look like the city chewed you up and spit you out."
Jack squinted at him. "…Excuse me?"
The man didn't look offended. In fact, he flipped another page and gave a soft hum of interest, like he'd just found a good article.
Jack sighed. "Bad day. No job. No food. No money. No luck. Pretty much sums it up."
The man nodded slowly, turning another page as if Jack's words were weather reports.
"Interviews?" he asked.
Jack nodded. "Every building I could find. All said no. Or worse — 'maybe next time.'"
He rubbed his face. "I'm running out of 'next times.'"
The newspaper rustled again.
The stranger didn't offer advice. Just silence. Thoughtful. Calm. Then, after a moment, he folded the paper neatly in half, placed it on his knee, and looked directly at Jack with a warm, knowing smile.
"Ryo Saito," he said, offering a hand. "I'm in the business of meeting interesting people at the wrong time."
Jack hesitated.
The handshake hung in the air like a question.
After a second, Jack sat up straighter and reached forward — unsure, awkward — but Ryo's grip was firm and easy, like shaking hands with someone who already knew you.
"Jack," he mumbled. "Jack Monroe."
"Of course it is," Ryo said softly, releasing the handshake. "Knew it before you said it."
Jack gave him a sideways look. "Do I… know you?"
"Nope," Ryo said brightly, standing up and stretching his arms. He folded the newspaper under one arm with crisp precision and glanced down the street.
Then he looked back at Jack.
"But maybe," he said with a slight grin, "you should come walk with me for a moment."
"…Why?"
"No reason. Or every reason. Depends on how curious you are."
Jack stared at him for a long second. He was too tired to argue. Too curious not to.
And for the first time that day — maybe the first time in weeks — something in his gut didn't say "run." It said follow.
Jack stood slowly, brushing off his coat and slinging the worn bag over his shoulder.
"Alright," he said. "But if this turns into some kind of scam…"
Ryo chuckled, already walking.
"Jack, my friend — I don't scam people. I recruit them."
And with that, the two disappeared into the crowd, the wind curling behind them like a curtain closing on one story… and lifting on another.