Evelyn Lane froze for half a second when Ryan Carter's phone lit up.
Her own face stared back at her from the lock screen.
Seriously?
It was that same candid from the coffee shop—angled, slightly out of focus, but unmistakably her. She blinked, wondering if this guy had actually joined Everstream just to get close to her.
She shook her head internally. Don't jump to conclusions. Not yet.
Keeping her expression neutral, she spent a solid minute adding herself on his contacts, scrolling just enough to make him sweat, then slid the phone back across the table.
"All set," she said smoothly. "If you have any work questions, message me on Slack or text."
"Thanks, Ms. Lane."
For a moment, Ryan thought about brushing her hand as he took the phone, just to see if any skills popped up to copy. But in front of a cafeteria full of people? That would look way too much like something HR training videos warned you about.
Evelyn and Claire left after a few more polite exchanges, barely touching their food.
Owen Becker leaned toward Ryan. "Fun fact—our CEO's got a serious technical background. Even Mike Hanlon—our director—admits she's better at certain coding problems."
"Yeah," another engineer added. "When we're on a big project, she's in the trenches with us, working late."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"She's the real deal," Owen said firmly. "Studied in the States—MIT, actually. Worked on some major open-source projects before Everstream. Certified programming genius."
Ryan wasn't entirely convinced. Twenty-six-year-old CEOs with legendary skills were rare, unless they had… other advantages. But still, the company was full of talented developers, and she'd hired them. That said something.
After lunch, Owen gave Ryan the grand tour, ending in the lounge. It looked like something out of a startup brochure—gaming consoles, a ping-pong table, a pool table, even a small gym.
"We do biweekly tournaments," Owen explained, "pool, table tennis, sometimes Mario Kart. Top three get cash prizes. Small stakes betting is allowed—keeps things interesting."
Ryan's ears perked up. "Cash prizes?"
"First place gets a hundred bucks, second fifty, third twenty. Bets are capped at ten per person. If you bet on the winner, the pot's split among the backers."
Ryan grinned. "Count me in."
Owen looked him over. "You play?"
"I'm decent," Ryan said modestly. In truth, his Intermediate Pool skill put him on par with semi-pros.
"Perfect," Owen said. "Technical's been getting smoked in pool for months. Marketing's got this guy, Liam Cooper—absolute shark. No one's beaten him in half a year."
By the time they got to the pool table, the electronic scoreboard was lit up with names, departments, and betting odds. Liam had thirty-nine people backing him. The payouts would be tiny if he won, but everyone liked safe bets.
"New challenger!" called Penny Jacobs from HR, who was running the bracket. "Ryan, you in?"
"I'm in," Ryan said. "And I'm betting on myself to win."
That got a round of laughter. Penny shrugged and logged it.
Owen leaned in. "Play it safe—challenge fifth place, work your way up."
Ryan shook his head. "First place. Liam."
"You're nuts," Owen hissed. "If you lose the break, you might not even get a shot."
Ryan just smiled. "Then I won't lose the break."
Liam walked over from the weight rack, tall and broad-shouldered, chalking his cue like a man who'd done this a thousand times. "New guy, huh? I'll let you break."
"Fair's fair," Ryan said. "Let's flip for it."
They did. Ryan lost—intentionally, using the fine control from his Intermediate Stealth skill to disguise his choice.
Liam smirked, broke, and ran four balls before a tough angle stopped him.
"Your shot, Carter," Owen called.
Ryan stepped up, feeling the weight of the cue in his hands. With his cultivator-enhanced precision and pool skills, the table might as well have been a puzzle he'd already solved.
One by one, balls dropped cleanly into pockets. Side, corner, bank—he barely needed to aim. When the eight ball disappeared with a solid thunk, the lounge erupted.
"Technical takes the crown!" someone shouted.
Owen whooped. "And my ten bucks just tripled!"
Even Mike Hanlon poked his head in to see what the noise was about.
Liam looked shell-shocked. "Rematch."
"Anytime," Ryan said. They flipped again. This time he won the break—and Liam never touched the table.
By the end of the lunch break, Ryan had beaten two more challengers and walked away with the $100 first-place prize, his original bet back, and the entire betting pool—over $400.
It had been a long time since anyone in the company had cleaned out a tournament like that. The jealousy was palpable.
Ryan, tucking the cash into his wallet, felt a quiet surge of satisfaction. This was just the beginning.