His thumb hangs over Y. One breath. Another.
He presses.
The reply goes like a pebble into still water.
Bank: Thanks. Purchase confirmed. Monitoring remains active.
Max's shoulders release a tension he pretended wasn't there. "Order upheld."
"Temporary calm," Jace says.
His phone vibrates again before the silence can grow teeth. Unknown 800. The number wears a tie.
He flips the phone, raises an eyebrow at Max.
"Answer," Max mouths.
Jace does—thumb up, speaker on, flat on the desk so the mic hears all of them.
"Evening," a calm woman says. "This is Fraud Prevention from your bank. For security, please confirm your name and the last two digits of your phone number."
"Jace Carter," he says. "Twenty-six."
"Thank you." The voice is coffee-warm, not hostile. "We're contacting you about an in-person purchase at an electronics chain for $2,000, categorized as a gift-card load. Was this you?"
"It was," Jace says. "ID verified in-store."
"And a pattern of smaller transactions at the same location in the last hour. And separate transactions at a restaurant across the street—some food, some tips, some gift-card activity. All you?"
"All me," Jace says. "Separate receipts for category tracking. I can read itemization if needed."
There's a small smile tucked into the rep's intake breath. "That won't be necessary. Two more questions to get this profile right. Any additional large purchases planned tonight?"
"No," Jace says, and makes it true. "We are in cool-down."
"Noted." A soft click of keyboard on her end. "Travel outside your home city in the next week?"
"Local only."
"Thank you." Another keyboard fragment. "I'll mark your profile high-volume night—understood and place a temporary note that similar transactions at the same chain may require a tap from us for the next 72 hours. Most normal purchases should run without interruption. If a decline occurs, reply Y again or call us from this number."
"Appreciated," Jace says. "We're staying inside rails."
"I can tell," she says, like a compliment. "Have a safe night."
The line clicks to polite silence. Jace taps End, then sets the phone down with the same care he gives receipts and knives.
Max fans his sweatshirt like he's drying adrenaline. "We just had a date with Risk Control and didn't flinch."
"Polite people doing their jobs," Jace says.
He pulls a roll of painter's tape from the drawer—blue like trust—and a Sharpie that only writes in confident lines. He prints ELEC CHAIN — $2,500 on one strip, HOUSE — $1,200 on another. He wraps the tape around each sleeve like a little flag for future him who might forget. He writes BAL: 2,500 and BAL: 1,200 again on the backs because redundancy is the only free thing that works twice.
Max watches, pleased at how the ritual organizes the air. "Do we… one more?"
"Define," Jace says, already flipping his laptop open because hands like to work when brains want to rush.
"Something small," Max says. "New merchant. Variety. Like meal plan. You grumbled about it earlier."
The campus portal's login light greets them like a golden retriever—eager, slightly cross-eyed. Jace clicks Dining. The interface looks like someone lost an argument with buttons. Top Up Meal Plan.
"Rails check," Jace says. He counts on fingers because theater makes thinking visible. "New merchant: Dining services. Category: student account funding. Eligibility: not borrowed, not system money. Pacing: after the bank call—variety okay, session long."
"Also," Max adds, "Hungry."
Jace types 100.00 into the top-up box because he enjoys the shape of two zeros lining up. He selects Card (boring bank), not either gift card. He reads the screen aloud like the city can hear it too: "Add $100 to Meal Plan — Posts Immediately. No Refunds. Contact Dining for Disputes."
He glances at the panel. It slides in like a judge in a well-cut suit.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected (pending): $100.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Verifying exclusions…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Eligible (student account funding). Roll variance: active.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: session length high; pacing remains acceptable.
Max leans on the desk, close enough to fog the corner of the screen. "If it blanks, future breakfasts are less tragic."
"Zeros pay later," Jace says, amused.
He checks his ledgers, mouths the numbers because making sound makes reality settle. "Cashback today +$17,844. Remaining $82,156. Money today +$1,190. Remaining $98,810."
The room is holding. The fan throws its polite whoosh. Water beads on the window like punctuation marks arguing about where to land. Distant down the hall, somebody drops a textbook and the building performs the sound for them. Quiet hours notice them and decide they're fine.
Jace hovers a finger over Confirm on the dining page. He doesn't press. Not yet. He lets the choice feel him choosing.
"You're doing the wrist thing again," Max says, fond.
"Physics," Jace says, and braces his wrist on the desk to still the twitch that belongs to atoms, not fear.
His phone, face-up on the desk, reflects the small green button as if phones are mirrors tonight. The painter's-tape flags on the sleeves look like a little regatta in the corner of his eye. He breathes, counts to three because three has been good to him. He could stop now and call the day perfect enough to break. He could press and stay inside his own story. Both are discipline. The trick is knowing which one tonight is.
"Confirm," Max says, softly, like a bedtime story for money.
Jace lowers his finger.
The panel tightens, ready.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback roll primed. Confirm to execute.
He touches the screen.
His phone vibrates at the exact same millisecond. Unknown 800 again, same tie.
The sound splits the moment like a card trick.
Jace huffs a single laugh, more air than noise. "Of course."
He holds on Confirm with his nail, not pressure—buying the choice one honest second—while his other hand swipes Answer. Speaker on.
"Mr. Carter?" The same coffee-warm voice, like they never left. "Apologies—one last verification before we clear the rest of the night for you."
Max looks from the laptop to the phone like he's watching two trains share a track. "This is fine," he whispers, half to himself.
"It's fine," Jace says, to both of them, and sets the phone flat—mic aimed at the open room, green button waiting under his fingertip like a promise he intends to keep.