Hired? For real?
Ortega found himself at a loss for words. He could not believe what he was hearing. The feeling of the smooth platinum between his fingers grounded him in the moment. He closed his eyes, and all the heaviness in his chest was gone. He wanted to laugh and cry, but more than that, he needed privacy to savour this euphoria.
Laura reached past him and pushed the elevator button. It whirred open behind Ortega, and he stood there for a moment before backstepping inside.
As the doors closed, Laura mouthed, you're welcome.
That jolted him. He was supposed to say thanks. He did not get the chance, because the doors sealed before he could let out the words, drowning him in soothing elevator music as he rode.
Then a stupid grin plastered across his face.
Suddenly, a fist bump.
Yes! I knew it. Triumph!
He did a little boogie and spun. The rush was mad, and the fire burned hotter in his eyes. Job secured. Next, domination!
Then came the ding.
And it was not the elevator.
A sultry voice whispered in his ear:
{Congratulations, host.}
He spun. "Who is that?"
The voice continued.
{You are now a Hellclimber.}
{Do you fully accept?
A. Yes
B. Yes}
—
Ortega got home fast. When he did, he shut the door behind him and flopped onto his unmade bed. Luckily, he discovered he could minimize the damn thing.
He was not stupid. On his jobless days, he had binged web novels and knew how this shit went.
He took his time. FashionX was more mysterious than he had thought. There was more to the cosmetics company than met the eye. Apart from its billion-dollar net worth, it had a reputation, of course, for being a female-dominated workplace. The reasons they rarely hired men were unclear. So it was curious when they suddenly opened a spot for male employees. His window.
Ortega lay face-up on his bed, flexing his feet as he finally clicked yes.
And Ortega was happy he did it at home, because a powerful headache slammed into him. It felt as though fingers clawed his brain open like a tangerine and poured info that had never existed.
When the pain subsided, he blinked. He was lying on the floor, room messier than before.
Then he stood. The dizziness cleared, and the window appeared, showing his stats:
{Name: Ortega Dyke
Rank: Demon
Class: Nil
Current Evaluation: A chronic spendthrift and indebted motherfucker. Attractive young man, broke lifestyle.
Hacks: Social intellect, physicality, ambitious presence, strategic cunning.
Flops: Arrogant. Self-centered. Lazy.}
Ortega scoffed at the appraisal. He definitely was not lazy. He just felt that work was something that should be done on his terms, and by that he meant delegating to lesser subjects.
He balled his fists, unclenched them, and sighed. No special power.
Aside from his new understanding of the system's basics, he pretty much remained the same.
Maybe not. He felt his crotch, anticipation lighting his face.
—
Ortega sighed after confirming he received no upgrades down there, pulled his trousers up, turned from the mirror, and sat on his bed, dreaming of his first few days at work. Then he slept.
And there, the dreams got realer. More intense.
Salome, Laura, and the almighty Velvet.
By the time he got up to clean his room, it was already late evening. He sat in a cleaner space minutes later, deep in thought. One week was all he had until his first day. By then, something about him ought to have been better.
He rolled in bed that night, restless.
He woke up earlier than usual, thanks to the banging that would not let him sleep. He rolled out of bed. Mr. Yugo again. He was not ready to deal with the old man today. So he just sat at the edge of his bed until the knocks subsided. Then came a final loud bang that made him wince, followed by retreating footsteps. Relief.
This is only temporary, he told himself. He wanted to believe it. But there was a feeling that if he did not address this directly, he would lose massively.
Then the window popped up in front of him:
{You need money.
Get a side gig.
Have some funds ready by weekend.}
That was it. It was no different from a goal planner. He clicked his tongue, and just as he was about to dismiss the interface, something appeared:
{Reward: Perception Upgrade.}
Ortega jumped to his feet. Perception upgrade? What does that mean?
{It means you'll be able to notice patterns. Patterns tied to money and women a little more efficiently than most, dumbass.}
Ortega cringed. Was the insult necessary?
Anyway, that was good. One week might seem short, but the experience gained if he stayed locked in would be beneficial later on. It was a good start.
He was a bit down that he was not an OP protagonist, though.
He groaned, already imagining the toll it would take.
No! He killed the hesitation.
'Twas just one week.
How hard could it be?
—
Ortega groaned, now behind a cash register in a dilapidated thrift store, wearing a silly apron and regretting every life choice that led him here.
Well, except his new boss. Damn, was she stunning.
She was the only thing exciting about this place. Ortega thought back to how they met...
He had stumbled upon the thrift store during an evening walk and saw the vacancy sign.
He pushed open the glass doors, coming early because he was desperate and had not eaten breakfast. He wore a bland black shirt and jeans, simple, but on his frame and with the way he carried himself, he might as well have been wearing designer.
He saw a golden-haired woman in an apron. Her phone was horizontal in her hand. She was watching a movie, it seemed. From her constant joy and laughter, comedy.
He walked closer, heartbeat quickening.
She had soft, plump features and a round face. Her makeup was modest, not extravagant like Laura's or posh like Salome's. She had a natural beauty, a glow that screamed, I'm not rich, but I take good care of myself.
"Hi," he said as he came near. For some reason, his voice always turned deep and dark when he spoke to attractive women.
She paused her movie and looked up at him.
God, her lips. That gloss. And her eyes, so soft.
"How can I help you?"
"I'm, uh, I saw the vacancy," he said, suddenly nervous.
At that, her eyebrows shot up. Then came genuine anticipation. She slowly eyed him, and Ortega felt ridiculously self-conscious, so he eyed her back. Her apron hugged her large chest. She had a nose ring.
"Okay," she nodded. "You're hired."
Ortega blinked. "What? Like now? I can start now?"
More than that, however:
"Wait, you own this place?"
She shrugged like it was obvious.
She owned a whole motherfucking store? Ortega could not believe it. It was modest, sure, but still far better than him in financial standing. That tripled his impression of her.
She pushed back against the counter, already pointing him around. "Grab an apron. Any minute now, customers are gonna start pouring in."
Ortega was starting to feel the pressure.
"Wait, just like that? No orientation?"
At that, she chuckled like it was the funniest thing in the world.
"It's a junk store. Staying behind the counter's about as much orientation you'll get. But you do know how to work a cash register, right?"
"Yeah," Ortega said, lost for words but filled with a sudden surge. He would do his best.
"If you need anything," she paused, rethinking. "Actually, don't need anything. God knows how much I need a break from all this. Anyway, have fun."
With that, she sauntered off. And that was that.
—
"That'll be seventeen dollars," he said dully as he packaged a middle-aged woman's goods. Then he picked up the bag and handed it to her, not even bothering to smile. "Thanks for shopping with us. Come next—"
The woman was already out the door before he could finish. He sighed, shoulders slumping. The ceiling fan hummed. Alarmingly boring, this shit was.
He shook his head. Does not matter. The endgame was getting paid.
By the end of the day, Ortega was thankful he had endured. His boss counted the day's takings and handed him his cut. He branched into a grocery store before heading home and bought actual meat.
It sizzled on the stove as he perused the system interface. He had missed some notifications at work and now read through them:
{Exp gained. Handling chaotic customers was shit, but you pulled through.}
Supper was burnt meat and rice. He ate with a heavy heart. Picked up his phone after. Scrolled TikTok, though that only made it worse. His FYP flooded with alpha men in Lambos with baddies, making stupid success quotes or just flexing.
Shit is toxic, he told himself for the thousandth time, but he could not stop scrolling until after midnight. Even then, he only stopped because his phone died.
—
His alarm clock blared the next day, and Ortega swore, wondering why he had not destroyed the damn thing already. That, and his ringing phone, his boss's number flashing.
Shit. He was late.
He met his mirror, eyes darker than usual, then washed up. Same clothes as yesterday? Did not matter. There was the apron.
When he got to work, he quickly apologized and made his way to his post. Soon, he was fighting to stay awake, attending to orders. The world did not let him rest. The bastards surged in more than usual, and he worked nonstop.
Greet. Calculate. Package. Smile. Repeat.
Okay, he ignored smile, but the routine was draining still.
Customers paid for good service and pleasantries, but Ortega only had energy to be efficient. Nothing else was necessary.
That was what he told himself, until he came along…
—
"What do you mean you don't take refunds?"
The man before Ortega was not just fat. He was P-H-A-T fat. His face held the look of someone ready to throw hands.
"I mean, you could have told me that before selling me a torn package."
He was lying. There was no way the pack was torn. Ortega had double-checked. He pinched his nose and yawned.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
"Sorry sir, but store policies. I can't."
"You're shitting me! This a scam operation?" The man leveled Ortega with a glare. "I KNOW your manager."
Ortega just blinked. Seriously?
Then he turned toward the back. "Ma'am!"
"What is it?"
"There's a sir here wanting a refund."
The reply came lightning fast.
"No refunds!"
Ortega regarded the man with a told-you-so look, hoping that sealed it. It did. Fatass hissed and powered off. Ortega shook his head, wondering why the idiot had not just brought the bag of chips back if he wanted a refund. Probably ate it. Or was lying. Yes, definitely lying.
The beaded curtain rattled, and golden-haired Miss Mae poked her head out.
"Any issues?"
"No issues."