Jace's phone buzzes like a coin hitting a cup.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Income detected: $300.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Money Welfare: ×3.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$900.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total money crit disbursed today: +$2,090.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Money): $97,910.00.
The bank ping chases it, ordinary and perfect. He checks the name—Becca Q.—and gives the human nod that makes relief a shared thing.
"Received," he says. He doesn't make it a ceremony. He folds the kraft envelope back open just enough to show the chain card's edge. "Card balance now $2,212," he says for the ledger and the air. He writes BAL 2,212 beneath his first note on the envelope with clean block letters and caps the pen.
Becca tucks receipts and the bag into her tote like someone who has learned to carry the day without dropping pieces of it. "You're alarmingly competent," she says, dry approval.
"Competence is free if you practice," Jace says.
Kenny, watching the choreography with retail curiosity, offers a small salute with the bag. Sandra glances over from the pallet, reads the room—calm, receipts, visible hands—and strolls near enough to be included but not intrusive.
"Everything good?" Sandra asks Becca, equal parts customer service and social check.
"All good," Becca says. "They even wrote the card balance down like a little lighthouse."
"Neat helps," Sandra says, amused. Her eyes flick to Jace. "Appreciate separate receipts."
"Appreciate clear rails," Jace says.
"That's my brand," she says, then nods Kenny back to the glass.
Becca tips her cap. "Thanks for the handoff," she tells everyone like they were all in on it. Then to Jace: "If the card still has balance later and I decide I need a ring light to hate myself less on Zoom, I'll DM."
"Variety is a virtue," Jace says. "But the card's alive."
She strides out into daylight with the poised hurry of someone who finally has what they need.
Jace waits two beats so the scene has time to close itself. He squares the pen, slips the envelopeed card into the inner pocket again, and lets the panel's neat totals sit in the corner of his sight without petting them.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +18,044.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $81,956.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total money crit disbursed today: +$2,090.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Money): $97,910.00.
He doesn't say nice. He says nothing and lets discipline be its own compliment.
They exit together—glass doors that exhale retail air and inhale campus. Light is honest out here. The campus center's plaza spreads like a chessboard you don't have to win on. Benches, flyers, someone in a cap and gown taking pictures they'll pretend to hate later.
Max bumps Jace's shoulder with a grin he can't reduce. "We got paid to be neat," he says.
"We got paid to make a clean path through a store," Jace says. He checks the time: 11:47. His eye sketches Taj's map in the air over the storefront: first two hours of Sandra's shift—heat; after, a little softer. They just did a small, tidy slice. Next big asks should respect the clock.
He narrates the ledger because the world edits better when you hear yourself. "**Money +$900 just now; total +2,090; cap $97,910. Card balance $2,212. Receipts held by buyer." He's not bragging—he's stacking bricks into a floor.
They take one of the benches that faces sun but not glare. The stone is warm but not rude. Jace lets his back feel what a bench wants to be: a support with a job. Max leans forward like a sprinter who likes sitting.
Maya texts two sentences and an emoji that got a degree in shrug: did civilized commerce work / do i need to clap / 🙃
Jace replies: earbuds $199 + hub $89 → transfer $300 landed → yes you can clap quietly.
She sends a gif of a lab coat applauding and then, because she is feral with manners, proud of rails.
"Okay," Max says, eyes on the plaza, voice tuned low for their two-person world. "Now the chorus of buyers?"
"Now we curate," Jace says. He flips his phone to the marketplace. DMs shimmer like fish: $250 now, trade textbooks?, can you buy me a laptop today, cash only pls (he marks that one with a polite no cash auto-reply), and the one that has both weight and shape:
Sara (campus IT): can you meet 1:30? need a 13" laptop ($2,199) today. i'll choose model. you use your store card at the register; i'll transfer $2,200 on the spot.prefer register 2 (closer to the aisle). we can keep it smooth.
Jace reads it twice, once for content, once for motive. The profile says a name he's seen on a campus IT ticket board; mutuals include the radio booth, a math TA who is kind on purpose, and a campus event coordinator whose superpower is coaxing microphones into loving speakers. The tone is businesslike, not breathless. The register 2 preference suggests this isn't her first rodeo—or she likes to stand where lines aren't bumping her.
"$2,200 transfer," Max says, low whistle. "Money thing loves that."
"LP thing thinks about that," Jace says. He feels the rails in his bones like a staircase. "Time is good—1:30 is well past firmware hell. Register variety—we used glass with Kenny; we can escalate at a floor register. Clerk variety—Sandra's in the building, but not glued to Register 2. Category—high-ticket computer; that's interesting by definition."
Max throws a glance sidelong. "Pattern cost?"
"Moderate," Jace says. "We've eaten lunch for LP already today. Another store visit is fine if the choreography is perfect. We need: separate receipts, visible hands, envelope out and in, and a clean transfer before exit."
"Also," Max says, "we are, and I cannot emphasize this enough, gorgeous in sunlight."
"Helpful," Jace deadpans, then breathes once to check if his want is louder than his plan. It isn't. The plan is a metronome. The want can dance on top of it if it can keep time.
He drafts:
Jace:2:15 is better—avoids lunch rush. We'll meet in front of Register 2. You choose model; I'll purchase with store card. You transfer $2,200 before we leave the counter. No cash.
Three dots blink, pause, blink. The plaza keeps being a plaza: someone trips on their own laugh; a messenger bike kisses air without touching anyone.
Sara:2:15 works. i'll have SKU ready. denim skirt, green hoodie. see you then.
"Green hoodie at 2:15," Max says. "We love a schedule."
"We love rails," Jace says. He pockets the phone, then takes it back out because neatness isn't a state, it's a practice. He opens the envelope and adds one more note under BAL 2,212: target 2:15 — reg 2 — laptop 2,199. He prints a tiny LP with an arrow to variety for future humor.
"You going to eat anything that isn't a receipt?" Max asks, eyeing snack carts like a man reading poetry.
"Water," Jace says, and drinks, because his brain is an organ like any other and capital loves hydration.
They kill twenty minutes not doing anything stupid. It looks like people-watching; it is thread-count for coincidence. Jace maps the store's door flow without staring like a creep. He counts cashier rotations by the habit of a man who will never again be surprised by lunch.
At 2:04, the phone purls again—different fish:
Marco: can u use rest of card to buy me monitor $329 now? pay $330 transfer @ door.
Jace auto-replies the polite version of not right now and pins Marco to a maybe-tomorrow stack because stairs are not climbed by jumping sideways.
At 2:11, Taj's number—unlabeled on purpose—trickles in with a text that sounds like his mouth:
Heads up: LP is doing a quick mid-day spot walk at 2. Not drama; just visible. If you're doing neat art, visible hands ×2.
Jace thumbs back copy and adds visible hands under his envelope scribble because writing things down is how you make your body obey.
Max watches the door like a civil saint. "Green hoodie," he says when it matters.
2:14. Denim skirt, green hoodie, small tote with a healthily murdered sticker population. Sara is on time the way knives are sharp.
"You Jace?" she says. No breathless. No cute. Business.
"We are," Jace says. "Register two?"
"Register two," she confirms, and produces a printed SKU like a grocery list.
They enter. The lights haven't changed; his attention has. Register 2 is clear. A clerk named PRIYA stands at it with the stance of someone who can ring a line and solve a human and not drop the bag.
"Hi," Priya says, present. "How are we doing?"
"Buying a 13-inch laptop—SKU here," Sara says, sliding paper. "Paying with store gift card," Jace adds. "Separate receipt in bag, please."
Priya taps the SKU; the screen smiles with the number. "I'll just grab it from lockup," she says, and calls to Kenny to fetch. Kenny, collaborative human, vanishes and returns with a box that means tuition and hope and careful thinking. Priya scans; the register pings the amount.
Jace slides the card from the envelope in a motion cameras can love. He keeps the envelope open on the counter like a resting mouth. He angles the card so Priya sees what it is, not because he has to, but because clean angles make people relax.
"Gift card tender," Priya says, more to the register than the air.
Jace taps.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $2,199.00 via store gift card.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Tender type: gift card → Host cash spend = $0.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ineligible (no Host spend).[SYSTEM PROMPT] Gift card balance remaining: $13.00.
Receipt prints like a river. Priya tucks it into the bag and sets the box down in a way that says this belongs to the person in the green hoodie now.
"Transfer," Sara says, already lifting her phone. "$2,200. Name Carter."
Jace places his hands flat on the glass on either side of the envelope. Visible. Boring. Honest. Max picks up his own phone and holds it screen-out to no one, a human sign that all of this is okay and in public.
Priya looks briefly between them, then decides this is an adult trade and she is there to keep the receipt from getting lonely.
Sara's thumb hovers over Send $2,200.
At the edge of Jace's vision, two LP polos cross the back of the store like weather moving behind mountains. No sirens. No drama. He breathes once, setting his ribs to the speed of good decisions.
"Before we leave the counter," he says softly, like a line in a play they rehearsed, and Sara nods like a professional who likes the same theater.