By noon the city had burned off its hangover. Delivery vans stitched traffic into lanes; sun flashed off glass like cut steel. Ethan sat at his shaky desk with eight cases lined up like pawns and a timer crawling at the top of his Seller Central:
[Hold Buy Box ≥30%: 67h 03m → 58h 12m]
Orders trickled. One single. One 2-Pack. Then a chime he hadn't heard before:
[New Review: ★★★★★]
"Clean case, no logo, shipped stupid fast. Exactly what I wanted."
[Reputation Seed +1 | Avg. Rating: 5.0 (1)]
[Forecast: CTR +2–3%, Conversion +4–6%]
The effect was immediate. Search results showed his thumbnail with a new gold star under it. Clicks thickened; bounce rate thinned. The Buy Box ticked to 33%, dipped to 30%, settled at 31% and held.
He hit Request a Review on the other two orders—the legal, one-click button Amazon preferred. No begging, no coupons, no bribes. Fast over cute.
A buyer pinged: "Is it MagSafe?"
He answered: No magnets. Slim TPU only.
Honesty didn't sparkle, but it didn't backfire either.
The competitor moved like a shadow at noon:
["PrimeChoiceGoods" price → $5.49 | Sponsored Ads spend rising | Positioning: Top of page for "slim case"]
[Your ACoS (trial): 24% | Spend: $6.21 | Visibility ×1.12]
He refused the floor. He chose exits. He published the Black+Clear 2-Pack variation and added a compatibility chart image—models listed, camera bump clearance 1.2mm stamped in neat type. No promises he couldn't prove.
[Variation Live | Differentiator Detected]
[Listing Quality: 88 → 90]
The numbers nudged. Two buys hit within ten minutes—both the new 2-Pack. The System stamped the page with neat satisfaction:
[Momentum: Variation Adoption ↑]
[Buy Box Share: 34%]
He jogged two packages to the postal kiosk—metrics loved sweat—and fed them to the belt. On the walk back, his phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Midwestern vowels again. "This is Amanda from Compliance. Quick note: we closed your exemption review. Your response was tight. Keep photos honest and handling fast. Don't try to look bigger than you are. New sellers get flagged when they pretend."
"Understood."
"Also—" a pause, paper shuffling "—someone filed 'unauthorized brand use' on you with no evidence. We see these. We're ignoring it. If they attach a brand record, we'll ask you again. Until then, sell."
The call died. The red Policy tab stayed gray. He breathed.
Back at the desk, the VP texted:
HR will send your paperwork. Sign today, avoid trouble. Friendly advice.
He put the phone face-down, printed two labels, and set cutoff: 2:00 p.m. for same-day dispatch. Then he opened Pricing and did nothing. Let the other guy bleed for page one while his own ladder went up behind him.
Another chime. Another review:
[New Review: ★★★★☆]
"No logo, slim. Would buy again. Wish there was a clear option."
The System highlighted the relevant words like a teacher with a marker: clear option. He smiled at the coincidence. He already had it live.
[Feedback Loop: Product variant matches expressed demand → Conversion +]
Buy Box: 36%.
His ad spend ticked to $9.47. Sales covered it with room. He took the Free Returns toggle down for an hour, watched conversion wobble, put it back up. Some costs earned their rent.
Then the sandbox kicked sand again.
[Notice: Catalog Merge Requested]
"PrimeChoiceGoods" has requested to merge your ASIN into theirs as the "same product."
[Risk: Loss of variation control | Title/Images may be overwritten]
[Respond within: 24h]
A nasty move. Merge the generic under your roof, then rewrite the roof.
The System laid out a knife kit:
[Counter-Options]
• Reject Merge with evidence of material differences (Black+Clear variant, packaging, bullets).
• Lock Images (reupload with checksum; lifestyle in slot 2–3 only).
• Title Guard (mirror high-intent terms while keeping No-Logo constraint).
[Template Ready? Y/N]
He hit Y. The form assembled itself—clean, short, photo attachments highlighting the Black+Clear variant, the compatibility chart, the no-logo truth. He added one sentence the template didn't include:
Merging would mislead buyers; our listing is explicitly generic with specific variants.
Submit. Done. No anger. Just motion.
Orders chimed again. A 2-Pack, then another single. He watched Units/Hour graze 1.6, tiny but real. The Buy Box sat at 37% for a full fifteen minutes—long enough to feel like owning a piece of sky.
The competitor sent one more note, smug dressed as casual:
Enjoy it. By tonight, I switch to a different ASIN and clean you out.
He didn't reply. He opened Inventory instead and marked Low Stock Alert: 4 units. There was the next war: not bots or buttons, but running out.
He set a handshake deal with a local wholesaler he found three bus stops away—cash and carry, no logos, 20 units if the plastic felt right. They'd open at three. He would be there at 2:59.
The timer at the top slid forward a little more:
[Hold Buy Box ≥30%: 58h 12m → 51h 44m]
He taped another sticky over the trackpad:
DON'T WIN ON PRICE. WIN ON SPEED + HONESTY + DIFFERENCE.
At 2:07 p.m., his screen blinked a ribbon he hadn't seen before:
[Program Invite: Free Delivery Friday (Pilot) — Confirmed]
Start: 46h
Projected: CTR +8–10%, Conversion +5–7% | Shipping overage covered (trial)
He clicked the terms without blinking. Then he shut the laptop and grabbed his backpack.
The door buzzer sounded as he stepped into the hall. A courier in a gray cap held out an envelope with his name in a lawyer's font.
NOTICE OF NON-COMPETE AND CONFIDENTIALITY OBLIGATIONS.
Cease and desist from operating any competing business for a period of twelve (12) months…
He didn't even finish the paragraph before flipping to the signature line. It was blank. The VP hadn't gotten the papers filed before HR punted him. The firm letterhead meant pressure, not teeth.
He took a photo of the envelope. He texted Amanda Shaw: Receiving non-compete threats from former employer; no access to their systems; independent generic goods. He didn't expect help. He wanted a timestamp.
The reply came two minutes later: Employment issues aren't ours. But non-competes aren't a catalog policy. Keep selling.
He smiled for the first time that day, a small, mean thing that tasted like metal but not blood.
The elevator swallowed him whole. Down the block, a bell rang on a metal grate as a shopkeeper rolled it up. He shifted the backpack on his shoulder and moved.
On his phone, a new message pulsed from the System as he hit the sidewalk:
[Side Quest (Optional): Source ≥20 units within 3 hours without lowering quality.]
[Reward: Handling Capacity + | Risk: Cash Flow −]
His thumb hovered, then tapped Accept.
He didn't run.
He walked fast.