The key turned in the lock with a screech that grated down Leo's spine. He had to shove his shoulder against the warped wooden door to get it to budge. It swung inward with a groan, releasing a long-held breath of dust and damp.
The air inside was thick and still. Sunlight fought its way through a grime-caked window, cutting a weak path through the gloom. It landed on The Foundational Grind. His grandfather's café.
It wasn't a shop. It was a tomb.
Dust lay over everything. Cobwebs draped from the light fixtures, swaying in the disturbed air. Tables and chairs were shoved into a haphazard pile. The place felt hollow. A broken promise.
Leo's shoulders slumped. He'd let the key and the deed spark something stupid in his chest. A flicker of possibility. This? This was just a room full of junk. Another dead end.
His fingers trailed through the dust on the counter. He could just make out the ghost of a coffee ring underneath. Someone had sat here. His grandfather had served them. The thought felt distant, like a story about someone else.
Then he saw it.
Sitting alone in the center of the cleared counter was a coffee tamper. It was heavy-looking, made of a dark, polished wood banded with tarnished brass. Ornate glyphs were carved into the metal, now filled with grime. It was the only clean object in the entire place, as if it had been waiting.
He reached for it. The wood was unnaturally cold, a deep chill that seeped into his palm. A memory flashed, vivid and warm: his grandfather's large, calloused hands guiding his own small ones on a practice tamper, the smell of roasted beans and a low, rumbling laugh. The contrast with the object's current icy stillness was jarring.
As his fingers closed around the handle, a sharp, stinging pain made him jerk his hand back. A tiny, perfect bead of blood welled up on his thumb. He'd pricked it on a nearly invisible seam in the brass.
"Damn it," he muttered, sticking his thumb in his mouth. The taste of copper and dust.
He looked back at the tamper. His blood, a single crimson drop, had fallen onto the cold metal. Instead of beading up, it spread. It flowed into the carved glyphs like ink on parchment, tracing the strange symbols in a sudden, bright red.
The glyphs began to glow.
A searing, electric pain shot through Leo's skull. He stumbled back, vision swimming. Lines of light, the color of warm parchment, scrolled across his sight, overlaying the dusty café.
[BOOTSTRAP BUSINESSMAN SYSTEM v1.0 - ACTIVATED]
The words hung in the air, burned onto his retinas. He squeezed his eyes shut, but they were still there, etched on the inside of his eyelids.
[SCANNING NEW HOST... LEO FINCH... BLOODLINE CONFIRMED.]
A voice spoke in his mind. It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation. The bitter, rich taste of over-extracted dark roast. The dry, acidic feeling of regret at the bottom of a cup.
"Let's see," the voice rasped, echoing in the hollows of his skull. "Let's see if you can do what your father couldn't."
Leo's breath hitched. His father? The man had never shown an interest in anything but get-rich-quick schemes that collapsed under their own weight. He'd never believed in anything long enough to fail at it.
More text scrolled, a diagnostic readout he couldn't stop.
[SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC INITIATED...]
[ESTABLISHING FOUNDATIONAL CONNECTION... STABLE.]
[ASSESSING HOST APTITUDE... PENDING.]
[PRIMARY USER: ARTHUR FINCH. STATUS: TERMINATED.]
The words chilled him more than the tamper ever had. Terminated. Not 'deceased.' Not 'passed away.' Terminated.
The final line of text flickered, the glowing letters distorting as if in pain.
[CAUSE OF USER DEACTIVATION: EXTERNAL MANA SURGE (ANOMALOUS).]
The voice in his mind gave a static-laced crackle, a sound of pure agony. The glowing UI flickered wildly, the agony in his skull spiking so hard his knees buckled. He grabbed the dusty counter to stay upright.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanished. The UI stabilized, the warm parchment glow returning.
A new, simple line of text appeared, hovering in the center of his vision.
[INITIAL QUEST: CLEAN YOUR DAMN SHOP.]
Leo stood there, leaning heavily on the counter, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dust motes swirled in the single beam of light. The voice was gone. But the words, and the searing pain, remained.
He looked at the tamper. The blood was gone from the glyphs. They now pulsed with a soft, steady light.
His grandfather hadn't just left him a café. He'd left him a mystery. A ghost in the machine.
Terminated, Leo thought, the word echoing like a gunshot in his chest.