Chapter 32: Cellular Rewiring
The pain hit him not like a blow, but like a fire ignited inside his marrow.
Ricky doubled over on the mattress, his fingers tearing into the soft cotton sheets. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as if every organ in his chest was being seized by iron claws, squeezed flat, and then violently expanded. His blood burned inside his veins—a boiling, metallic heat that rushed through his skull, turning his vision into a white, throbbing blur.
A ragged, agonizing scream tore out of his throat before he could stop it.
What the hell did I do? he thought through the blinding haze.
In the floating center of his mind, the pale blue interface flickered, displaying a stark, flashing message:
[ CRITICAL SYSTEM NOTICE — ATTRIBUTE ALLOCATION ]
Warning: Allocating a high volume of Attribute Points simultaneously triggers rapid biological restructuring.
Process: DNA & Cellular Reconfiguration (Tier 1 Baseline Adaptation)
Status: In Progress... Endure.
He wanted to pass out. Every instinct in his brain screamed for the relief of blacking out, but the sheer, agonizing intensity of the cellular rewiring kept his nervous system wide awake, forcing him to experience every agonizing micro-second of the transformation. His bones groaned, his muscle fibers tightened like steel cables, and his lungs gasped for air that felt like liquid fire.
Then came a sharp, heavy bang on the locked bedroom door.
"Ricky!" Aunt Molly’s harsh, raspy voice shouted from the hallway. "Ricky! What in the name of God is going on in there? Sounded like someone was getting his throat cut!"
Ricky choked back another scream, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. He bit his lower lip so hard the iron taste of blood filled his mouth, forcing the agony down into a low, guttural grunt.
"I’m... I’m fine!" Ricky choked out, his voice hoarse and raw. "It’s... nothing!"
"Nothing?" Aunt Molly barked through the thick oak panel, her knuckles rapping hard against the wood again. "You yelled loud enough to wake the dead on Washington Street! Open this door, boy!"
"I’m fine, Aunt Molly!" Ricky grunted, his body shuddering as a wave of heat surged from his spine down to his toes. Sweating was pouring off his forehead, soaking his wool collar. "Just... had a bad cramp! Need a minute alone!"
There was a short pause on the other side of the door. Aunt Molly let out a loud, skeptical snort, but her tone softened a fraction into her usual sharp, practical demeanor.
"A cramp, is it? Sounds like you were being murdered," she muttered. "Well, don’t go dying in my loft. I just took your rent money. If you need a mug of hot water or some mustard plasters, you yell out."
"Yeah... thanks, Aunt Molly," Ricky managed to gasp.
Her heavy footsteps receded down the hall, clicking down the stairs toward the lower floors.
For the next ten minutes, Ricky lay flat on his back, his chest heaving, his fingers clenching the bedsheets as the burning heat slowly subsided into a deep, soothing warmth. It felt as if a cold, clean stream of water was washing through his bloodstream, clearing away every trace of fatigue, inflammation, and muscle soreness he’d accumulated over the past three weeks. His breathing gradually slowed, steady and deep.
The System notification updated in his mind:
[ ATTRIBUTE ALLOCATION COMPLETE ]
Vitality: 20 → 70
System Advisory: To avoid severe physiological shock, avoid distributing large attribute blocks in a single allocation.
Lesson learned, Ricky thought, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Never dump fifty points at once again.
The lock on the front door clicked. A few seconds later, frantic footsteps hurried down the short hallway of the loft. The knob of the bedroom door rattled violently.
"Ricky! Ricky, are you in there?" Marek’s voice was high with panic.
Ricky reached over, slid the iron bolt back, and pushed the door open.
Marek stood in the doorway, his flat cap lopsided, his face pale with worry. Behind him, John Caldwell and young Tom Murphy were hovering near the hallway frame, looking tense.
"Aunt Molly said you were screaming like a stuck pig!" Marek blurted out, his hands hovering over Ricky’s arms as he inspected him. "What happened? Did someone slip in through the roof?"
Ricky offered a tired, genuine smile, sitting up on the mattress and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "No, Marek. No one came through the roof. I just... got a terrible muscle cramp in my legs."
Marek blinked, looking from Ricky’s sweaty face to his sturdy legs, then let out a long, disbelieving breath. "A cramp? That made you scream?"
"A really bad one," Ricky said smoothly, keeping his tone conversational and grounded. "From running five miles in the dark every single morning and hauling flour sacks all afternoon. My legs just locked up."
Marek let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned against the doorframe. "Well, that makes sense. You work like a rented mule, Ricky. I told you before, you need to let your body rest for a couple of days."
"I’ll be fine with a little rest," Ricky said, standing up slowly.
He tested his weight. His legs felt completely different—not heavier or bigger, but incredibly solid, rooted to the floorboards like cast iron. There wasn’t a single ache in his back or shoulders. His lungs felt vast, as if he could run from Washington Street to Harlem without losing his breath.
"Aunt Molly’s got dinner ready downstairs," Marek said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "She told us to bring you down. Said she cooked up a big pot of stew for the whole house."
Ricky smiled, feeling his stomach give a quiet rumble. "Give me two minutes to change into a dry shirt. I’ll be right down."
"Don’t take too long," Marek chuckled, turning toward the stairs. "Frank looks like he’s ready to eat the spoon."
Downstairs on the second floor, the air in Aunt Molly’s kitchen was warm and rich, thick with the comforting scent of simmered pork, boiled potatoes, savory onions, and fresh rye bread.
A large cast-iron pot sat in the middle of a long wooden table, steaming gently beneath an overhead oil lamp. Around the table sat Arthur, Frank, Tom, John Caldwell, and Marek, while Aunt Molly moved around the hearth, ladling thick brown stew into tin bowls.
"Sit down, Ricky," Aunt Molly said as Ricky stepped into the room. She looked him over with her sharp gray eyes, her hands resting on her hips. "You look less like a corpse now. The cramp let go?"
Frank Murphy grinned, leaning his elbows on the table. "Heard you were hitting high notes up there, boss! Sounds like Arthur when he steps on a rusty nail!"
The boys let out a round of quiet chuckles.
Ricky smiled, pulling out a wooden chair and sitting down beside Marek. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Let’s see how your legs feel after five miles on the cobbles."
"God has graced us with a generous tenant who pays six weeks in advance," Aunt Molly announced, setting a heavy bowl of pork stew and a thick slice of rye bread in front of Ricky. She looked around the table at her nephews and John. "So we eat meat tonight. And you boys better say your grace, or I’ll take the bowls back."
Arthur gave a short, respectful nod, taking off his flat cap, while Frank and Tom tucked their heads for a brief second before reaching for the bread.
"So," Aunt Molly said, taking her own seat at the head of the table and picking up her spoon. "Arthur tells me you boys are running a commission trade. Delivering flour and hardware to the shops on Bleecker."
Ricky glanced at Arthur, who gave him a subtle, reassuring wink over his stew bowl. Arthur had kept the details clean—no mention of smuggled stock, unmanifested kegs, or night shifts.
"That’s right, ma’am," Ricky said, dipping his bread into the hot broth. "We take orders from the local grocers and tailors, and drop the stock off the next morning. Clean, honest supply."
Aunt Molly snorted softly, chewing her bread. "Well, it’s better than what these three were doing last month. Running off to the docks, picking fights with the river gangs, and bringing the precinct patrolmen to my stoop. At least now you’ve got a dray and an honest dollar in your pockets."
"We’re working hard, Aunt Molly," Frank said defensively around a mouthful of pork. "We’re making good silver!"
"Just make sure it stays honest," she warned, pointing her spoon at Frank. "Officer Collins comes by this block on Tuesdays. If he tells me my nephews are causing trouble on Washington Street, I’ll take the broom to the lot of you."
Ricky offered a sheepish smile, nodding politely as he ate. Officer Collins, he noted mentally. The name matched the research outline of the precinct patrolman.
As the banter continued—Frank teasing Tom about his appetite, John sharing a quick story about a butcher shop in Birmingham, and Marek laughing as he wiped broth from his chin—Ricky leaned back slightly in his chair, taking in the scene.
The warm gaslight flickered on the brick wall. The clatter of spoons against tin bowls filled the room.
For the first time since he had been pulled out of modern Georgia nearly a month ago, the cold, alien dread in Ricky’s chest eased. Looking at Marek, John, Arthur, Frank, and Tom sitting around the table, joking like brothers under Aunt Molly’s sharp, watchful eye, he realized something.
Back in 2026, he had Marcus, Dre, and Terrell—his street crew who looked out for each other when things got tough. Out here in 1910, amidst the coal smoke, the gang feuds, and the rising empire of the Founder’s Syndicate, he had found his new family.
Ricky picked up his spoon, a sharp, quiet smile touching his lips as he joined in the laughter.
They were ready for Monday night.