"Huh," he admitted. He picked up one of his own hefty Carvers and made a similar cut. It worked, but required visibly more effort, more sawing motion. He looked back at the Eversharp Edge knife, then at Theo. "Alright, kid. It cuts. Holds an edge, you say?"
"Significantly longer than comparable blades," Theo affirmed. "Reduces sharpening downtime, increases efficiency." He held his breath.
Marello tapped the blade thoughtfully against the block. "How much?"
"$99.99," Theo said, trying to sound casual.
The butcher barked a short laugh. "A hundred bucks? For one knife from a guy I never heard of? You got guts, kid, I'll give ya that." He handed the knife back. "Tell ya what. Leave it here with me for the day. Let me put it through its paces on some real work, not just scraps. Come back before closing. If it holds up like you say, maybe we talk. Maybe."
It wasn't a sale, but it wasn't a no. It was a chance. A hook planted. "Fair enough," Theo agreed, forcing a confident smile. "I'll be back around five." He left the knife, feeling a pang of anxiety at parting with one of his precious few enhanced items, but also a flicker of hope. He walked out, the bell jingling his departure.
The afternoon crawled by. Theo returned to his apartment, the pressure mounting exponentially as 3 PM, then 4 PM passed. He checked his bank balance again. $1580.09. He refreshed the marketplace page. Nothing. The silence was deafening. Doubt gnawed at him. Had he wasted his time with the butcher? Was the online listing a bust? The image of the eviction notice being slapped on his door became terrifyingly vivid. He started calculating what he could get for his laptop, his good suit. It wouldn't be enough.
Then, at 4:48 PM, just as true panic began to set in, his laptop emitted a cheerful, almost mocking "Cha-ching!" sound.
Sale Confirmed: Eversharp Edge - Pro Butcher Knife (+1 Enhanced Quality)
Theo stared at the notification, his heart leaping into his throat. Relief, potent and dizzying, washed over him, so intense it left him weak-kneed. He'd done it. Someone had actually bought one. He wanted to laugh, to shout, but the relief immediately morphed into a new kind of panic.
Shipping.
He looked around his disastrous apartment. He had no boxes, no bubble wrap, no packing tape. The buyer had paid for standard shipping. Platform rules likely required shipment within 24 hours. He needed materials now. And money for postage.
Adrenaline surged. He checked his wallet. $39 left after buying the butcher paper and whetstone earlier. Not enough. He looked at the clock. 4:52 PM. Banks were closed. The post office would close soon.
Frantic, he grabbed his empty backpack and bolted out the door. He ran to the corner store, spending $10 on a roll of packing tape and hoping for the best. Boxes? He spotted a pile of flattened cardboard boxes behind a nearby grocery store. Ignoring the grime and the potential embarrassment, he grabbed a couple that looked sturdy and relatively clean, stuffing them into his backpack. Bubble wrap? No chance. He ran back to his apartment, his mind racing. Protection. He needed padding. He looked at the piles of dirty laundry. No. Then his eyes landed on the stacks of junk mail and old newspapers overflowing from a recycling bin he never put out. Perfect. He started shredding newspaper, stuffing it into the cleaner of the two salvaged boxes.
He carefully wrapped the enhanced knife in multiple layers of newspaper, secured it with tape, placed it in the box cushioned by more shredded paper, and taped the whole thing shut with aggressive, overlapping strips. It looked ugly, unprofessional, but hopefully secure.
He checked the time. 5:15 PM. Post office was closed. Shipping drop-off boxes? Maybe. He grabbed the package, his laptop (for printing the label if he could find a place), and ran out again. He found a 24-hour shipping store two blocks over, paid their inflated price to print the label using another $5, and used their automated kiosk to pay for postage, another $12 vanishing from his dwindling cash reserves. He shoved the ugly box into the drop-off chute just before the final pickup deadline. Done. Cost: $27 in materials and postage, plus dignity.
He stumbled back to his apartment, exhausted but wired. He immediately logged into his bank account and initiated the $450 rent payment. Confirmation received. He watched the balance drop to $1130.09. Despite making a sale, his bank balance still looked terrible.
Later that evening, close to 6 PM, right around the 24-hour mark since he'd first enhanced the glass tumbler, he felt it. A subtle warmth returning, the faint internal hum restarting, like a pilot light relighting. His power was back. Ten fresh uses available.
Just then, his phone buzzed. A message from the online marketplace. New Positive Rating Received for Eversharp Edge! The buyer, likely the one whose order he just shipped, must have received a notification and left pre-emptive feedback based on the listing or perceived value. Whatever the reason, it was a 5-star rating with a simple comment: "Looks promising, fast shipping!"
Another "Cha-ching!" sounded almost immediately after. Second sale.
Before closing time, he went back to the butcher shop, his anxiety lessened but still present. Marello looked up as he entered, wiping his hands. He gestured towards the chopping block where the Eversharp Edge knife lay.
"Alright, Sterling," the butcher said, his tone grudgingly impressed. "Your knife… it ain't bad. Held up better'n I expected through half a steer and a dozen chickens. Didn't need to touch it up once." He picked it up, examined the edge critically. "Still sharp." He looked Theo square in the eye. "Tell ya what. I'll take this one. And I want two more. Give ya eighty bucks apiece for 'em, cash."
Theo's mind raced. $80 was less than the $100 online, but it was cash, now, no fees, no shipping hassle. And potentially invaluable goodwill. "Three knives at eighty-five each, and you tell your colleagues where you got them, and that they can buy it online." Theo countered smoothly, leveraging the butcher's admission.