"Mr. Carter?" The coffee-warm voice holds the line. "One last verification and I can stop interrupting your evening."
"Go ahead," Jace says, phone flat on the desk, mic to the room, nail touching Confirm on the dining page—no pressure yet. The painter's-tape flags on the gift-card sleeves look like a small regatta in his peripheral vision.
"We see a university dining top-up page open on your device," the rep says. "If that posts in the next minute, is that you?"
"It is," Jace says.
"Understood. Any other large transactions planned tonight?"
"No," Jace says. His voice makes it true. "We're in cool-down."
"Good practice." Keys clack. "We'll note high-volume night—understood and maintain a 72-hour tap for similar in-store gift-card loads at the same chain. Other activity should flow. If interrupted, reply Y to our text or call this number. You're all set."
"Thank you," Jace says.
"Stay dry," she says, a smile smuggled in, and the line clicks to polite silence.
Max mimes a tiny drumroll with two fingers on the desk. "Green button?"
"Green button," Jace says.
He presses.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $100.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Verifying exclusions…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Eligible (student account funding). Roll variance: active.
The portal thinks. The cursor flirts with a spin.
His phone taps his palm.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×2.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$200.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$18,044.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $81,956.00.
The portal declares Top-Up Successful like it just cured scurvy. Jace drags the PDF into Receipts_Dining, then copies it to Receipts_YYMM because it pleases him when folders behave like soldiers.
Max exhales a laugh with all the teeth in it. "Breakfast on the house. Which is you."
"Future me thanks present me," Jace says, dry. He shuts the portal, wipes the edge of the screen with his sleeve, then prints DINING $100 on a strip of tape and slaps it on the inside of a folder where his brain will actually look.
He reads the numbers aloud so the night hears them too. "Cashback today +$18,044. Cap remaining $81,956. Money today +$1,190. Cap remaining $98,810."
The fan throws polite wind. Rain beads the window like punctuation that can't decide if it's done. Max leans back and lets his spine admit the day without giving any of it away to sleep yet.
"We stop," Max says, more statement than question.
"We stop," Jace agrees. "We won the right to not chase." He squares the stack: electronics on top (now only gift-card sleeves), restaurant behind, laundry, permit, tuition, dining, Zelles printed and tucked. The tape flags jut like tidy tongues.
A soft knock floats in from the hall. Not security. Not crisis. RA knock: two gentle taps that believe doors ought to be asked, not taken.
Max and Jace share a quick, amused look that says we live in a building. Jace keeps his hands visible, palms above desk level. He is not hiding anything; he is arranging truth.
"Come on," Max whispers, sliding the chair back from the door's arc.
"One sec," Jace calls—calm. He puts the laptop to sleep, phone face-up where the panel's glow can paint the desk if it needs to. The HUD respects him; he respects it back by not stabbing at it like a gambling app. He checks that the sleeves are labeled, the receipts aligned, nothing that would read as sloppy from a doorway.
He steps to the door and opens it a hand's width first, just enough to catch a vibe. RA, same face as the drill; clipboard, pen, reflective vest that wants to be doing less.
"Evening," the RA says. His voice is low by habit. "Post-alarm walk-through. Quick: you two good? No damage? Quiet-hours okay?"
"All good," Jace says. "We were about to stop moving."
Max nods, saint of compliance. "We're boring," he says, with pride.
"Bless you," the RA says. He glances past Jace's shoulder the way RAs do—courtesy scan for candles, hot plates, indoor fireworks. He sees a neat desk, a fan, receipts like a parade at rest. His shoulders come down half an inch. "I'm just checking names against rooms; we had three folks mis-keyed earlier."
"Carter and Vale," Jace says, angling so he doesn't block the view.
"Carter, Vale," the RA repeats, pencil a little thunderbolt. "Mind if I step just inside and verify the room occupancy on the housing app? Takes ten seconds."
"Door open," Jace says. "No problem."
He steps back; the RA steps in one pace, a man who knows exactly how much space courtesy takes and refuses to take more. His radio murmurs about floor four. He taps the app, compares faces, checks the room number above the door. He smiles the smile of a man paid to doubt and pleased to confirm.
Jace's phone hums, quiet as a moth. He doesn't reach. The panel floats a single clear note at the top edge of his vision where only he can see it.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: session length significant. End recommended. Resume after 08:00.
The timing lands like a cue. He's not spooked by permission; he likes it. He can feel the urge to tell the RA everything—how the night balanced on small edges, how receipts kept them honest, how he is building a floor and not a high-wire. But he doesn't gift strangers his tools. He gifts them results.
"You two were on the muster," the RA says, checking one last box. "Thanks for making it easy." His eyes flick to the tape flags and the stack, amused. "You label your life?"
"Someone has to," Jace says.
"That's a superpower," the RA says, genuine. "Okay, I'm off to tell a guy he can't grill in a stairwell. Have a good night."
"You too," Jace says.
The RA backs out like a gentleman and the door is a door again, not a border. The hallway resumes its slight ocean hush. The room clicks back into two boys and a plan-shaped silence.
Jace touches the Advisory with his eyes—no taps—and acknowledges it. "We're done," he says, letting the sentence be the switch.
"Done," Max echoes, then glances at the gift-card sleeves like they might purr. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Jace says. He doesn't list targets. He doesn't push luck. He sets the sleeves side by side like sleeping animals and lays the pen across them like a bar.
His phone breathes once, waiting for a habit it refuses to feed. His hands know where to put themselves when they're not allowed on buttons.
Another soft sound at the door: not a knock. A sheet slid under—Campus Safety printout about the earlier alarm with checkboxes about where to assemble next time if the west exit is blocked. Bureaucracy tucks them in.
Max toes the paper with his sneaker. "We love a bedtime story," he says.
Jace grins. He picks it up and places it at the bottom of the stack, under Dining and Tuition, because sometimes you sleep better if the rules are below what you already paid for.
The air settles like a held breath let go. The night has shape now: done, not empty.
From the hall, a voice calls softly—neighbor tone, not official. "Hey, Carter—you awake?"
Jace and Max look at each other. Jace steps toward the door again. His hand finds the knob. The skin on his palm still remembers raindrops.
He turns the lock.