The afternoon let out like a slow breath. Students drifted toward the station in loose groups, hands in pockets, bags slung low, the air full of snack wrappers and after-school plans. Elias walked a step behind the noise, not in a hurry. The pale counter in the corner of his vision still said 5 AP—annoying, like a low battery symbol you can't swipe away.
Takumi peeled off toward the gym with promises to "only shoot around for an hour," which meant two. Elias waved without turning and cut down a side street most people ignored. It smelled like frying oil and damp cardboard, and the paving stones were cracked in the exact same places they'd been last year.
The shop sat halfway along the block: narrow front, clean glass, a simple sign. Not flashy. Someone had wiped the fingerprints off the door recently; it squeaked like a polite cough when he pushed it open. Inside was a mixed perfume—fresh paper, floor cleaner, something floral he couldn't place.
A woman looked up from the counter. Mid-to-late thirties, maybe cresting forty in the right light. Shorter hair today, brushed behind one ear in a way that made her jawline neat. No heavy makeup. A pale cardigan over a fitted blouse, sleeves rolled to the forearm. She didn't brighten the way cashiers pretend to; her smile arrived like she'd recognized someone she'd expected to see.
"First time?" she asked.
Elias glanced along the racks. Newsweeklies. Travel magazines with beaches so blue they looked fake. A thin row of manga. And, set back just far enough to pretend it wasn't obvious, glossy imports wrapped in discreet plastic.
"Used to be a different place here," he said. "Closed."
"I know." She tapped a pen against the ledger. "I took the lease."
He nodded like that answered something and wandered the aisles with his hands behind his back, as if he might be tempted to steal if he let them hang at his sides. He wasn't in a rush. He let his eyes land, move, land again. When he reached the shelf he'd come for, he didn't pretend to be shy about it. He took a Japanese monthly, the kind that always pretended it was about "photography," and brought it to the counter.
She scanned it without looking down, eyes on his instead. The total was small; he paid in coins. When she handed the bag across, her fingers found his—light, certain, no flinch when they touched. The contact lasted an extra heartbeat. He felt the warmth before he felt his pulse kick, and then he looked up because he didn't know what face he was making.
Her expression didn't change. Maybe she liked his surprise, or maybe she'd done that exact thing a hundred times this week. He swallowed, shifted his weight half a shoe's length to the right.
A soft chime slid through his head.
[Affinity gain: +10 AP]
[Total AP: 15]
He didn't let the smile come up. Just tucked the bag into his backpack and said, "Thanks."
"Come again," she said, and it was ordinary and not ordinary at all.
The street outside felt cooler. He walked two doors down before letting the panel flicker alive. 15 AP. The shop menu sat where he'd left it last night:
Focus Boost (20 AP) – 12 hours of tighter concentration, better recall.
Calm Presence (30 AP) – People ease up around you.
Keen Observation (40 AP) – Details stand out.
Quick Recovery (50 AP) – Heal small stuff fast.
He hovered on Focus Boost long enough to feel the wanting in his throat. Five points short. Close enough to be irritating.
On the way home he cut through the arcade just to hear the machines talk to each other. Neon reflected in the cracked tiles; a crane game clicked in a lonely rhythm. The panel stayed where it was—right corner of his vision, pale numbers. Nobody else could see it, but he still didn't look at it while other people were around. It felt like checking a bank app in public.
His building smelled like damp concrete and someone else's dinner. He climbed two flights and opened his door with his shoulder because the lock stuck unless you bullied it. Inside was the same rectangle of space: desk under the window, futon folded up to pretend the room had a living area, kettle on the single-burner stove. A breeze pushed the curtain and let in the noise of a scooter idling below.
He set the magazine on the desk without opening it and sat. The notebook from last night was still spread to a page where his handwriting looked suspiciously neat. He flipped three pages backward, reread a problem, surprised himself by remembering the steps without sighing first. It wasn't Focus Boost—that would have felt like a switch clicking—but something from yesterday had stayed. Maybe it was just momentum. Maybe his brain liked not being constantly interrupted by itself.
His phone buzzed. Takumi: Coach made us run suicides. I have died. Tell my mother I was brave.
Elias typed: We were never brave. Only stubborn.
Takumi sent a crying emoji and a photo of a sweaty face that could have been anyone's if not for the ridiculous grin.
The panel in the corner kept very still. He stared at the 15 like he could talk it into becoming 20 by force of will. No luck. He checked the kitchen, found rice and a lonely egg, and made both into something that tasted better than it looked. While he ate standing up, he answered a message from Mom with a picture of his notes and the caption studying, don't faint. She sent back a sticker of a cartoon cat flexing.
After, he washed the single pan and let it drip dry. The apartment quieted until he could hear the TV through the wall—some comedy show with a laugh track that arrived a half-second too late. Outside, a siren wailed past; somewhere above, a door banged and then apologized with a soft close.
He brought the shop menu up again just to feel the itch. Focus Boost gleamed like it knew he'd pick it as soon as he could. The other items waited, patient. Appearance stuff and "presence" upgrades were listed farther down with prices that made him snort. He wasn't buying a face; he needed a passing grade.
He slid the panel away and sat with his elbows on the desk, thumbs tapping each other. The woman's touch had been careful. Not flirting in neon letters—just… a decision. He could feel the line of it on his skin if he thought about it. He didn't know if she did that with everyone, or if he'd looked like he needed it, or if she'd simply liked his face enough to test a theory of her own.
"Mutual interest," he said, trying the system's phrase out loud. The room didn't argue.
He worked another hour because working was easier than worrying, then showered, the water coming out a little too hot before settling. In the mirror he looked the same as yesterday and the day before that, which was fine. He brushed his teeth, caught himself grinning at nothing, and stopped.
Back in bed, he set the alarm five minutes earlier with the confidence of a man who would hate himself in the morning and do it anyway. The panel pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat, then went dark.
On the edge of sleep he decided two things: tomorrow he'd get those last five points, and when he did, he'd spend them on Focus Boost without blinking. After that… see. Talk to more people. Pay attention to the way eyes linger and voices tilt. Let the numbers teach him what he hadn't learned just by guessing.
He turned onto his side, listened to the building settle, and let the day fall behind him in small, even pieces.