Evan reached his dorm just before the campus curfew lights switched from bright white to low-power yellow. A battered umbrella stand overflowed beside the elevator; he wedged his loaner model between a pair of plaid ones and padded down the hall to Room 412.
Sam Harper—roommate, gamer, and unofficial rumor conduit—sat cross-legged on his bed, headset crooked around one ear while a strategy stream droned from his laptop. He glanced up when Evan entered, took in the damp jeans and the grocery bag printed with cartoon diapers, and muted the video.
"Did you rob a daycare?"
"Long story," Evan answered, dropping the bag by his desk. "CliffsNotes version: I'm a father."
Sam looked from diapers to Evan's tired grin and back. "You're… serious?"
"Found out last night." Evan toed off wet sneakers, peeled away his jacket, and summarized the umbrella, the blanket quest, and the conversation with Mira. He left out the glowing blue UI panels—for now. Some explanations needed steady ground.
Sam whistled low. "Well, congrats? Condolences? Not sure which one you want."
"Both," Evan admitted, opening his laptop. "Mostly I need caffeine and a plan. I've got a recitation to run in nine hours."
"Caffeine incoming." Sam rooted through a pile of snack boxes, produced a canned cold brew, and slid it across the desk. "When do I meet the kid?"
"Soon." Evan cracked the tab. "She's two months old, name's Nora, and apparently steals hearts for sport."
Sam grinned. "Better at charisma than her old man already."
"Harsh but accurate."
They worked in companionable silence: Sam editing a video thumbnail, Evan refining slides on predictive modeling. Outside the rain slowed to a whisper. At 11:57 p.m. Sam yawned, declared defeat, and collapsed beneath rumpled blankets.
Evan kept typing until the digital clock hit midnight and the Super Dad System made good on its promise. A translucent window pulsed above his keyboard, lines of bright text scrolling into focus.
[System Update]
Daily streak acknowledged. Core functions unlocked.
Main Quest (30-Day Support Plan) — progress monitoring begins now.
Objective A: Minimum 15 hours of direct childcare per week.
Objective B: Contribute ≥ $400 toward joint expenses by Day 10.
Penalty for failure: Support Plan tier drops, skill acquisition locked for 7 days.
Underneath, a slimmer panel blinked:
[Side Quest: Secure first paid tutoring client within 24 hrs. Reward 70 SP + "Time-Slice" Passive (study efficiency +10%).]
Evan rubbed his eyes. Four hundred dollars in ten days sounded doable only if he juggled two, maybe three tutoring gigs on top of grading. Lines of budgets floated through his head—rent, formula, data-plan overages. The numbers didn't balance yet, but at least the quest gave a target. Targets he could work with.
He opened the campus tutoring board, tweaked his ad headline—Differential Equations Simplified, First Session Free—and scheduled the post for dawn. A small voice suggested he should panic. Instead he felt a thin ribbon of confidence. A roadmap beat wandering in fog.
The system chimed again, softer this time.
[Parental Vitality +1 applied. Fatigue drain reduced for 6 hrs.]
Heat unfurled in his chest, like a second heartbeat settling into calmer rhythm. He closed the laptop, slid under his blanket, and let the rare quiet of 2 a.m. tuck him toward sleep.
Sunrise Logistics
Morning alarms collided at 6:30, a discordant choir of guitar riffs, default chimes, and Sam's favorite retro jingle. Evan showered fast, shoulder still sore from the previous day's umbrella marathon, and dressed in the one shirt that looked least like it had napped on a chair.
Campus smelled newly laundered after the storm—wet earth, fresh asphalt, budding cherry trees near the humanities block. Evan reached the lecture hall early, installed his slide deck, and greeted fifteen bleary first-years trickling in. Recitation passed without disaster; the Vitality boost kept his voice smooth even when a projector bulb flickered out mid-derivation. When students dispersed, two lingered.
"Professor Wood?" one asked—technically "TA Wood," but freshmen loved titles. "Do you offer private tutoring?"
Evan's pulse ticked. "Yes. First session's free if you bring your problem set."
They traded numbers. The system pinged before Evan even pocketed his phone:
[Side Quest progress 70%. Schedule confirmed, not yet conducted.]
Just like that, the deadline felt less like a guillotine.
Coffee, Rumors, Deadlines
After class he navigated the warren of engineering labs, intent on reserving a whiteboard room for grant revisions. Halfway there he spotted Lucas Grant leaning against a vending machine, scrolling through his phone, earbuds dangling unused. Lucas looked up, hazel-gray gaze sharpening.
"Heard you skipped the astronomy mixer review session," he said, smirk hovering. "Falling behind?"
"Priorities shifted," Evan answered, voice even.
Lucas's eyes darted to the reusable tote slung over Evan's shoulder—logo of the discount grocery still visible. His smirk tilted. "Domestic errands? Didn't peg you for brand-name formula guy."
Evan's nerves prickled but he kept tone neutral. "Life's full of surprises."
Lucas straightened, mock-serious. "Grant pitch got bumped. Presentations are Friday at nine a.m."
"That's forty-eight hours earlier than posted."
Lucas shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Board decided sooner is better. Thought you'd want the update." He paused. "Good luck, Wood." The phrase sounded sincere, yet something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
Evan thanked him and walked on, jaw tight. Forty-eight hours. He messaged Professor Calver for confirmation; the reply came fast: Yes. New slot. You're ready. The professor's confidence felt generous; Evan's slides needed polish, his mind half-occupied by diaper counts.
River Loft, Round Two
Afternoon sun scattered through high clouds when Evan arrived at 12-B. This time he carried two cloth shopping bags: diapers, bulk coffee, a multipack of pacifiers shaped like cartoon fruit. He'd spent half his remaining cash but logged it mentally toward the quest's expense quota. Mira opened wearing a faded T-shirt + leggings combo that still smelled of dryer sheets. Nora snoozed in a wrap close to her chest.
"You beat the mailman," Mira greeted, relief plain. "I was about to text you for wipes."
He set bags on the kitchenette counter. "Got them. Also pacifiers. Apparently the grape one squeaks."
She arched a brow. "Bold choice."
They shared a grin, easy now, the previous day's tension distilled into quieter camaraderie. Over instant coffee they reviewed the whiteboard plan. Mira had landed a part-time remote contract—five cents per verified survey response. "Not glamorous," she said, "but flexible." She'd finished onboarding modules overnight, earning fifty dollars already.
Evan showed her the new System objective. He still hadn't explained the iridescent interface, but he translated numbers into plain needs: "I have to contribute four hundred by next week. Tutoring will cover most. Grant stipend comes after presentation."
Mira chewed her lip. "What if the board rejects it?"
"Then I pick up more sessions." He sipped coffee. "But they won't. Calver's betting on us." Us, he realized—not me. The project's profits would ripple into baby blankets and rent soon enough.
Nora stirred, tiny fingers clutching air. Mira unwrapped her, passed the warm bundle to Evan. He slid an arm under Nora's back, supporting her neck the way the parenting site had illustrated. Blanket still hugged her torso; the Soothing Aura kicked in, and Nora's fuss dwindled to soft glugs.
A pleasant ripple flowed up his arm. The interface whispered:
[Parental Affinity +1 → 5/100]
Mira noticed his soft smile. "Something good?"
"She's light but she feels like—" He hunted for wording. "—like she anchors me."
Mira's expression softened. "She does that to me too."
Unexpected Pitch Practice
At three-thirty Sam texted: Whiteboard room booked. I'm free to heckle your slides.
Evan prepped to leave when Mira caught his arm. "Wait." She disappeared into the bedroom nook, returned with a gray scarf—his umbrella donation from the first night apparently O.P.S. (Official Parent Stuff). "Storm's coming back."
He looped the scarf. "Forecast clear."
"Humor me." She nudged him toward the door, maternal authority in miniature. He went willingly, pausing to wave good-bye to Nora, who rewarded him with a gummy half-smile.
Campus Again
Sam awaited in a reservable study cubicle plastered with equations. He tossed potato chips into his mouth while Evan projected the slide deck: power-grid fault graphs, reliability heat maps, cost-saving projections. Sam raised a brow at each but ultimately nodded. "Compelling, if you trim the calculus for humanities donors."
Evan flagged four slides for revision. A new notification glimmered:
[Networking Boost: Tutoring ad viewed by 12 students. Two inquiries pending.]
Numbers ticked toward the $400 target. His chest loosened.
They broke at six; Sam rushed to lab, Evan jogged back to River Loft carrying a folder of printed slides. The sky indeed darkened—Mira had predicted right. Thunder rumbled across rooftops as he reached the stairwell.
Halfway up, his phone vibrated. Mira's name flashed.
"Hey, I'm five minutes out—"
"Evan." Fear edged her whisper. "Nora's warm. Really warm."
His heart slammed. "Temp?"
"I'm not sure. Thermometer says 38.4."
Fever. Two-month-old. He took the stairs two at a time.
Fever Spike
Inside 12-B, the air felt thicker, muggy with anxious breathing. Nora whimpered in the crib, cheeks crimson. Evan sanitized hands, scooped her up, felt heat on her forehead like a small furnace. Mira paced, a damp cloth trembling in her grip.
The System burst across his vision, scarlet borders flashing:
[Emergency Quest: Reduce infant temperature below 38 °C within 2 hrs.
Reward: Health Sense Lv 1, 120 SP.
Penalty: Affinity reset to 0.]
Affinity reset? His pulse doubled, but training replaced panic. "We do quick steps," he said. "Strip to diaper, lukewarm sponge bath, then pediatrician on call. I'll call the campus clinic for after-hours triage."
Mira exhaled shakily. "I'll run the water."
They moved as a single unit: Evan undressed Nora; Mira filled a basin, checking the water temp on her wrist. Nora cried weakly but the cries held strength—a good sign. The lukewarm cloth cooled her skin in slow circles. Ten minutes in, Evan dialed the clinic. A nurse advised: monitor every fifteen minutes, come in if fever passed 39 °C or if feeding stopped.
Thirty minutes later the thermometer read 38.1. Evan swallowed relief, kept his voice steady. "Down, but not enough."
Mira rocked Nora, whispering lullabies. Evan prepared a tiny bottle of electrolyte solution after confirming dosage online. Nora sucked greedily, another good sign.
Forty-five minutes: 37.9. The System window dimmed from scarlet to amber.
[Progress 70%. Continue cooling measures.]
They alternated cloth duty, took turns humming. Rain battered windows again, wind rattled panes. Outside felt wild, inside focused.
At the ninety-minute mark the thermometer flashed 37.6. The scarlet border vanished.
[Quest complete. Health Sense Lv 1 acquired. SP +120.]
With the skill came sudden clarity: Evan knew the next feed needed at 20 mL, knew normal diaper output for six hours, knew which cry signaled gas versus hunger. The information slotted in with unnerving precision, but he welcomed it. Anything to keep Nora safe.
Mira sagged onto the couch, tears finally spilling—relief not sorrow. Evan sat beside her, Nora sleeping on his chest, small breaths feather-light. Outside thunder retreated eastward.
Mira wiped her cheeks. "You handled that like you've done it a hundred times."
"I had help," he murmured, thinking of the invisible UI. "And you were amazing."
She smiled, shaky but genuine. "Partnership level-up?"
He laughed quietly. "Definitely."
The System chimed as though eavesdropping:
[Bond Level: Co-parents 15/100.]
Exhaustion rolled in at last. They set Nora in the crib between fresh towels and extra blankets. Evan scribbled vitals on a sticky note so they could check in through the night. Mira brewed decaf, handed him a mug. Steam curled around the lamp's glow, soft and forgiving.
"Friday, nine a.m.," he said after a sip, reminding himself as much as her. "Grant pitch."
"You'll nail it," she replied, brushing his bruised shoulder with gentle fingertips.
He hoped so. The $400 deadline, the thirty-day plan, the specter of another fever—each loomed. But tonight they'd faced a crisis and won. That counted.
CRACK—something outside hit the stairwell railing, metallic and sharp. Evan straightened. Mira's eyes widened. A second clang echoed, then hurried footsteps descending. Evan rushed to the door and peeked through the peephole. Only dim hallway light and an empty flight of stairs.
The System pulsed a final line, cold as rainfall in January:
[Proximity alert: Unknown observer detected 00:46. Risk level — Moderate.]
Evan's skin prickled. He locked the deadbolt, slipped the chain. Mira held Nora tighter, instinctive. Thunder had passed, but a different storm edged closer, muting the triumph of a cooled fever.
Outside the door, the hallway lights flickered twice and steadied. Evan listened long after silence settled, heart beat syncing with the soft in-out of Nora's breaths. Questions crowded behind his eyes, ready to pounce when daylight returned. For now he filed them under one promise: stay ready.
Somewhere beyond the rain-shined windows, campus servers hummed, grant judges drafted rubrics, and a stranger with silent footsteps melted into shadows—leaving the night, and the next chapter, bristling with unfinished intent.