Morning came like a slap in the face. No birds. No sunshine. Just the hum of a broken fridge and the familiar city sirens screaming like they were paid to.
Rhea Morgan opened one eye.
The phone was still there. Sitting on her nightstand like a smug ex who knew you still wanted them.
She stared at it. Half hoping it had been some weird dream. A fever episode. A hallucination brought on by dehydration, trauma, and ramen.
She picked it up.
The screen lit up.
[Good morning, sugarplum. System active.]
Yep. Still insane.
[Daily Motivation: You are broke, but hot.]
"…Not helpful."
[Correction: Not helpful YET.]
Rhea rolled her eyes and dragged herself out of bed. Her hair was a disaster. Her hoodie was now 24% hoodie, 76% wrinkle. She padded barefoot into her cramped kitchen-slash-living room-slash-laundry zone and opened the fridge.
One slice of cheese. Expired oat milk. A sad lemon that looked like it had seen war.
"Breakfast of champions."
She poured water from the tap into a chipped mug, tossed the lemon in like she was crafting a witch's brew, and sipped it with a grimace.
She looked out the window. Rain again. The city didn't know how to chill.
Maybe it matched her mood.
[Time to get your life together, yes?]
[Suggested Tasks: Find work. Clean self. Avoid self-loathing loop until at least noon.]
"You're surprisingly bold for a phone."
[I'm a system. I am your emotionally invasive life coach.]
"And I didn't consent to any of this."
[Incorrect. You answered the call. That counts.]
"Oh my god. You're like the worst dating app ever."
[You swipe hearts. I swipe your soul.]
"...Okay, that was kinda hot."
Rhea threw on a slightly cleaner hoodie and jeans, brushed her teeth using a travel-sized tube from a hotel she never stayed at, and tied her sneakers with the grace of someone who hadn't done cardio in two years.
Outside, the city hit her all at once.
Noise. People. Horns. Smells. Everything buzzing like it couldn't wait to be somewhere else. Rhea moved through it like a ghost, eyes half-shut, earbuds in but no music playing. Just something to block out the world.
She needed a job.
She needed money.
She needed a damn break.
The Café
The bell above the café door chimed as she walked in. "Grind Me Gently" was the name—yes, that was real. It was small, queer-owned, and smelled like espresso and queer anxiety.
A barista with green hair and a serotonin-deprived smile greeted her with a nod. "Hey. You here for the sign?"
Rhea glanced behind the counter. A handwritten note taped to the espresso machine read:
"HELP WANTED – Must fake it 'til you make it."
"Yeah. Maybe," Rhea said. "I make good fake enthusiasm."
Green Hair chuckled. "We pay under the table. Tips split even. Owner's chill, unless you use dairy milk without warning someone."
"I'm lactose-free and emotionally unavailable. Do I qualify?"
"You start tomorrow."
By noon, Rhea was walking home with an empty stomach, a new job, and a mental playlist of intrusive thoughts.
She passed a dog-walking group, a food cart blasting Bad Bunny, a girl skateboarding in a glittery suit, and someone crying into a bagel.
Classic city vibes.
[Good work. Step one complete: Entry-level grind unlocked.]
"I got a café job, not a superpower."
[Same thing. Capitalism demands sacrifice.]
[You're now one day closer to your first bond.]
She paused mid-step.
"Thirty chapters," she murmured. "That's like… a whole act."
[Yes. Use it wisely. Heal. Reflect. Grow. Do squats.]
"…You're unwell."
[You're talking to your phone in public.]
Touché.
Back in her apartment, Rhea collapsed onto her bed and let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scream.
What now?
She had a job. That was… something. Tomorrow she'd be grinding oat milk for hipster gays and pretending to be friendly.
Still, the thought of bonding—really bonding—with eighteen different women?
Older women?
Powerful women?
She barely knew how to hold her own in a conversation without cracking a joke or deflecting with sarcasm. Intimacy? Vulnerability? Actual feelings?
She hadn't even liked anyone since the Ava Disaster of 2021. And even then, it wasn't love—it was codependence wrapped in lust and lit on fire.
Now she was expected to do that again—eighteen times?
Her stomach twisted.
This wasn't a romance story. This was punishment.
She grabbed her notebook and flipped to the back page.
She started a new list.
"What does love even mean?"
Not flinching when someone touches you
Listening without waiting to talk
Laughing in the middle of a fight
Letting someone see the ugly stuff
Still showing up the next day
She stared at it. Then slowly wrote:
"Not running."
Her phone buzzed again.
[System Reminder: Your future lovers are not prizes. They are people. Complex. Dangerous. Beautiful. Broken.]
[Treat them accordingly.]
Rhea raised an eyebrow.
"So what, I'm not just chasing cash and coochie?"
[You're chasing connection.]
[And maybe coochie. But respectfully.]
She laughed. For real this time.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
Or maybe it would be the most emotionally terrifying thing she'd ever done.
Either way, the countdown had started.
She had thirty chapters to become someone worth loving.
END OF CHAPTER 2