The morning sun spilled through the thin curtains, flooding the small living room with golden light. Sophie was already awake. She had tied her hair up into a small bun, grabbed a rag, and was wiping down the low wooden table. Every now and then she peeked toward Jason's room, her face tightening with concern.
She had woken up earlier, bubbling with excitement to surprise her brother with breakfast. She wanted him to see that she wasn't just a little girl depending on him all the time—she wanted to help, even in small ways. But when she passed his room, she saw him sprawled on the bed, still in his clothes from last night. His breathing was heavy, his shirt soaked with sweat, and his body looked tense, as if even in sleep, he was still fighting.
"Why is he like this?" she whispered to herself, biting her lower lip. She thought maybe he had gone drinking again, but Jason had promised her he stopped. Or maybe he worked too late at the workshop?
Sophie tiptoed closer and carefully pulled the blanket over him. She frowned—his knuckles were bruised. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat, and she could almost smell the exhaustion rolling off him.
When Jason stirred, she quickly retreated to the kitchen, pretending to be busy with the eggs.
Minutes later, Jason walked out, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to mask how weak he felt. His body screamed with soreness from last night's brutal training, but he forced a grin when he saw Sophie standing there.
"Morning, chef Sophie," he teased, trying to make his voice sound light.
Sophie folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. "You look worn out, Jason. What did you do last night?"
Jason froze. "Uh… I—just couldn't sleep. Did some… stretches."
"Stretches?" Sophie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"Yes," Jason said quickly, plopping himself into the chair. "You know, keeping this old body flexible. If I don't, I'll be rusty before I'm thirty."
Sophie frowned, studying him. "Jason, you're not even old yet. Don't try to act like some grandpa. Your eyes are red. Did you cry?"
That question hit him like a hammer. Jason looked down at the table, hiding his face. He quickly forced a laugh. "Cry? Me? No way. Maybe some dust got in. You know how this place is."
She didn't believe him, but she sighed and let it go. "Fine. But don't push yourself too much. You're all I have, Jason. If you fall sick, what am I supposed to do?"
Jason reached over, ruffling her hair. "Hey, don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. Now, let me taste your breakfast. I hope you didn't poison the eggs."
Sophie smiled at the teasing, even if her worry lingered. She set down the plates and sat across from him, forcing herself to act normal.
As they ate, Jason kept steering the conversation away from himself, asking Sophie about her dreams and her little drawing projects. By the time breakfast was over, Sophie's laughter filled the room again, and her earlier tears had been replaced with a playful grin.
But Jason knew—she wasn't fooled. Not completely.
---
By mid-morning, Jason was already dressed and heading to the workshop. His body protested every step, but he shoved the pain aside. Work was waiting, and bills didn't care if his muscles ached.
When he pushed through the large metal doors of the workshop, a cheer erupted.
"Jason's back!" one of the guys shouted.
"You finally decided to show up, huh?" another added, smirking. "What happened? Did the bottles keep you up last night?"
Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, I left those bottles for you clowns. I was busy all night with… personal matters."
That sparked laughter and some mocking whistles.
"Busy? With who?" someone teased.
"Tell us you finally found a girl!" another added, earning a round of chuckles.
Jason raised his hands. "Relax, relax. It's not what you think. I just wanted a day off yesterday. You know, recharge."
"Ohhh," one of the older men grinned. "Recharge. That's code for sleeping all day."
Jason laughed along, happy to keep things light.
It wasn't long before Sam approached, wiping grease off his hands. He leaned closer, his tone quieter than the others. "Victor called you, didn't he?"
Jason blinked, caught off guard, then nodded. "Yeah. He set a date. Crimson Den again. This one's… different though. Riskier."
Sam's brows furrowed. "Riskier how?"
"If I lose," Jason muttered, "there's no payout."
Sam let out a low whistle. "That's rough. You sure you wanna take it?"
Jason looked him dead in the eyes. "I have to. It's for Sophie."
Sam nodded slowly. "I figured you'd say that. Just don't get yourself killed in there."
Jason smirked. "Don't worry. I've got this."
Their conversation was cut short when a loud honking shook the workshop. A massive truck pulled up, hauling a sleek white speed boat strapped down with heavy chains. The men whistled and crowded around as the driver carefully reversed it into position.
"Whoa!" one of the mechanics shouted. "Now that's not something you see every day."
"Are we supposed to fix that thing?" another asked nervously.
The contractor, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp shirt, stepped out and clapped his hands. "Alright, gentlemen. This beauty's mine, but she's not running smooth. I need her fixed, tuned, and resprayed. Can you handle it?"
The workers exchanged uneasy glances.
"Uh… we mostly work on cars," someone muttered.
"Boats are different," another added.
Sam rubbed his chin. "I might have an idea, but I'm not fully sure…" He looked toward Jason. "Come on, let's check it out."
Jason hesitated. He had never worked on a speed boat in his life. But curiosity pushed him forward.
He climbed onto the trailer, inspecting the sleek frame, his hands brushing along the surface. The contractor crossed his arms, watching closely.
"Well?" the man demanded. "Can you fix it or not?"
Jason's mind raced. System, scan it, he thought silently.
A soft chime rang in his head.
> [System Scan Complete]
Malfunctions detected: fuel line corrosion, throttle linkage misalignment, exhaust leakage, hull paint erosion. Estimated repair time: 5 days with team assistance.
Jason straightened, his voice steady. "Fuel line's corroded, throttle linkage is off, exhaust has a leak, and the hull paint's eroding. It's not just cosmetic—it's performance too."
The entire workshop went silent.
"How the hell do you know that?" one of the workers whispered.
The contractor's eyebrows shot up. "You've worked on speed boats before?"
Jason shrugged. "No. But a machine is a machine. They all talk if you know how to listen."
The workers exchanged murmurs, some impressed, some doubtful.
Sam smirked knowingly. He had suspected Jason was different. Now it was obvious.
The contractor stepped forward. "Alright, hotshot. Let's say you're right. How much will it cost me?"
Jason didn't hesitate. "You'll need new fuel lines, fresh throttle adjustment, patching the exhaust, full respray, and man-hours. And not just mine—every man in this shop will need to work on it. That means you're paying for the materials and the entire team's labor."
The contractor stared at him. The workers behind Jason gaped.
Jason met the man's eyes calmly. "If you want it done right, you pay for everyone. Otherwise, take it somewhere else."
For a tense moment, silence filled the workshop. Then the contractor grinned. "You've got guts, kid. Fine. Do it your way. Just don't disappoint me."
Cheers erupted from the coworkers.
"Jason, you crazy bastard!" one laughed.
"Never seen anyone talk back to a contractor like that," another said.
Sam clapped Jason on the shoulder. "Guess we've got ourselves a project."
Jason smiled faintly. But deep inside, his body ached, his mind whispered of battles yet to come, and the system buzzed quietly, reminding him—this was only the beginning.
---