Jace lowers his finger.
Glass accepts. The kiosk thunks like a polite vault.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $420.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Verifying exclusions…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Eligible (public merchant fee). Roll variance: active.
The pause is one breath, maybe two.
His phone kicks.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×2.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$840.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$12,644.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $87,356.00.
A small printer coughs. The permit curls out warm as bread. The ink's still wet; edges smell like heated plastic and campus bureaucracy.
Max grins into the rain. "We just got paid to not get ticketed."
Jace slides the permit into the clear sleeve and then into the inner pocket where important rectangles live. "We got paid to make future Jace less stupid."
"The hottest man alive," Max says. "He thinks about future him."
Jace touches the panel once with his eyes, the way you pat a dog you're training.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total money crit disbursed today: +$380.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Money): $99,620.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: session pacing acceptable; merchant variety high.
He lets the advisory settle his shoulders.
Rain snickers on the kiosk roof. The stainless hums at a note that suggests hospitals and clean rooms. They step out from under and the wet air puts its hands on their faces. The path glows—lamps, puddles, leaf shine. The night is a city with its makeup off.
"Home?" Max asks.
"Home," Jace says. "One more small rung."
"Define small."
They pass the student center's glass mouth. Inside: couches occupied by the determined awake, a guy asleep with a calculus textbook as a hat, a girl turning an iced coffee into religion. Down the hall, under a glowing sign: LAUNDRY. A payment kiosk blinks like a pinball machine that learned shame. A little decal brags LOAD CAMPUS LAUNDRY CARD HERE in a font that thinks stickers are the answer.
"Variety," Jace says.
"Variety," Max echoes.
Inside the laundry room, the air smells like hot lint and clean cotton and the humid ghost of other people's lives. Machines churn. A fluorescent buzz saws at the silence.
Jace taps the kiosk. The interface is dumb and honest. $10, $15, $25, $40. He picks $25 because it's boring and good. He aligns his card. He keeps his voice low because it's night and everything important happens quietly.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $25.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×0.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$0.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$12,644.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $87,356.00.
Max winces like he bit a lemon. "Ow."
"Zeros pay later," Jace says. He tucks the laundry card into the outer wallet slot—the one that can get wet, the one that can fall and not ruin his life.
A dryer door pops open somewhere and sighs heat. A guy in a hoodie does the universal dance of my duvet is heavier than my self-esteem and wins. Jace holds the door with a hip; the guy nods gratitude without learning names.
They step back into the rain and let campus lay itself out like a board they already know how to play. Past the quad—trees dripping, a statue glistening like it finally got a bath. Past the humanities cube—posters for plays stapled in violent hope. A skateboard hisses by; the skater murmurs "sorry" like a prayer. The city is a good dog tonight.
The dorm looms up at them—brick, lit windows, a stubborn neon EXIT sign that's as much art as safety. The lobby hums with the always-on fridge, the soda machine's bad decisions, the building's own heartbeat. The RA from earlier sits at the desk like he's paid to be awake. Clipboard. Pen. Eyes that have seen everything twice.
"Evening," he says, like he wasn't screaming Stairwell an hour ago.
"Evening," Jace says. Max adds, "We evacuated so hard."
The RA cracks a tired laugh. "Thanks for playing the game." He watches their bags and their faces and decides they are the kind of boys who give a building back the way they found it. He returns to a sudoku with the focus of a monk.
The elevator has a handmade sign: OUT—USE STAIRS (sorry!) with a frowny face that makes it worse. They take the stairs because that's what the sign told them and because Jace's body likes steps again. Third floor. The carpet smells like new broom and old decisions. Someone on two is playing a guitar with the tenderness of a surgeon; someone on four is watching a movie that believes in explosions.
Max nudges him with a shoulder. "We did alright."
"We did procedure," Jace says.
Their door is closed now; the goldfish neighbor is asleep or lost to Netflix. Jace taps the card. The lock hiccups and then complies. Their room greets them with the gentle whoosh of a fan that will never achieve flight, a desk that has learned his elbows, a window with city smeared on it like a cheap painting.
He puts the bags down with respect. He doesn't drop money on the floor. He doesn't make luck pick up after him.
He squares the receipts on the desk—electronics on top, restaurant stack behind, laundry slip nested, kiosk permit printed and filed. He narrates for himself, because the night likes a ledger it can hear.
"Cashback +$12,644," he says. "Cap remaining $87,356. Money +$380, cap $99,620. Inventory present: headphones, power bank, cable. Gift cards—electronics chain $2,500, house card $1,200. Laundry card: $25 load."
Max perches on the bed, sneakers on, knees bouncing like the floor is caffeinated. "Sleep?"
"In a minute," Jace says.
He opens his laptop because muscle memory says plans live on screens. The campus portal comes up with the eager stupidity of a site that thinks fonts are a solution. Student Center.Bursar.Make a Payment. His name sits at the corner like a dare.
He clicks. A number arrives with institutional confidence: Tuition Installment Due: $2,600.00 by Friday. Today is not Friday. Today is a wet night that has already had enough story for most boys. Jace is not most boys.
Max watches his face the way you watch a dawn you didn't purchase. "We could wait," he says. "Or we could."
"Or we could," Jace says.
He taps Make a Payment and the portal takes an affectionate eternity to load the form. Amount: $2,600.00. Payment method: Card. There's a note about convenience fees that makes him want to fight a building. He breathes once. He uses the boring bank card again because boring is safe. He does not press gift cards into places they do not belong. He keeps rails.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected (pending): $2,600.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Verifying exclusions…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Eligible (tuition/fees). Roll variance: active.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: high-value academic transaction; attention unlikely; pacing acceptable.
Max leans over the desk, radiating heat and trouble. "If it blanks, we still pay school. If it hits—"
"We high-five the bursar," Jace says.
He checks his math one last time. Cashback cap remaining $87,356. This isn't about the cap. This is about the floor he's building out of ordinary choices laid end to end until they look like a road.
He hovers over Pay Now. The button is a green rectangle that thinks it's a door. The cursor trembles by physics, not fear. He sets his wrist on the desk to still it. He keeps the hand visible to Max because he has learned that sometimes you need a witness, even when you're just buying your own life on layaway.
"Counting us down?" Max says, soft.
"No," Jace says. "Counting us up."
He lowers the finger. He can feel the shape of the night bend around the motion and become the kind of story that lets a boy sleep.
He doesn't press. Not yet. He lets the moment feel him choosing.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback roll primed. Confirm to execute.
He smiles, small and sharp. The city and the portal and the room hold still for one beat. Then he—