Morning put a hard edge on everything—shadows, voices, choices. The dashboard kept its dare on top:
[Buy Box ≥30%: 31h 12m → 26h 03m]
[Share: 33–37% (stable)]
He hit the first wholesaler at 8:32 a.m., tested random units for warp and stink, and hauled 24 black / 12 clear in a tote that bit his shoulder. The receipt said exactly what he needed it to say: GENERIC TPU CASES — 36 UNITS. Upstairs, inventory ticked up, labels queued, seals went on in a rhythm his hands trusted more than thoughts.
A small orange star lit up the listing:
[★★★★★]
"Matte grip. No logo. Ships like lightning."
[Avg. Rating: 4.8 (5)]
[Conversion forecast: +4–6%]
He breathed. Then the platform took the breath back.
[Competitor Fulfillment Change: "PrimeChoiceGoods" now FBA (Prime).]
[Impact: Prime preference active in Buy Box rotation.]
[Your Share: 37% → 24%]
There it was—the ceiling. Prime was gravity. His FBM could outrun a lot of things. Not that.
The System didn't sugarcoat:
[Counter-Paths]
• FBA Inbound (24–72h) → Prime badge | Cash + Time cost
• SFP Eligibility (long path) → Not available (new seller)
• Metro Same-Day Pilot (Limited Zip Codes) → "Fast & Free" badge in pilot area | Capacity stress + Audit Risk +2%
• Differentiated Bundle → Case + microfiber cloth → New child SKU to dodge repricers
He didn't have time for inbound. He toggled two switches he could afford:
Metro Same-Day Pilot: APPLY → ACCEPTED (City Core Only)
Bundle: 2-Pack (Black+Clear) + Microfiber Cloth → LIVE
Hero image got a tiny "+Cloth" tag in the corner. Bullets got one honest line—Includes microfiber cleaning cloth; no logo; soft-touch grip. No promises he couldn't prove.
[Listing Quality: 92 → 94]
[Pilot Badge: Fast & Free (Metro) — Active]
[Forecast: CTR +6–9% (pilot zips), Conversion +4–6%]
Orders turned from polite to purposeful inside city limits. Singles spiked in the pilot zip codes. 2-Packs held elsewhere. Buy Box crawled back to 29%, then 31%, refusing to drown.
He printed a SCAN Form, swallowed a coffee that tasted like coins, and walked the first stack to the kiosk. One beep, ten acceptances. Oxygen.
Back at the desk, ads drifted ugly:
[ACoS: 29% → 34%]
[Cause: Competitor bid bump on "minimalist case" + Prime preference]
[Recommendation: Kill all broad. Exact match only: "no-logo slim case", "matte grippy case". Add product targeting to competitor's new Prime ASIN.]
He knifed broad, left only the two exacts, and dropped product-targeting onto the competitor's shiny new Prime page. If they wanted to be a lighthouse, he'd nail a poster to their door.
A gray email arrived—no adjectives, only verbs:
[Account Health: "Used Sold as New" — Case Closed, No Action.]
[Note: Seal serials accepted. Keep records.]
He exhaled. The guillotine's blade was up. For now.
The VP texted like a metronome: Sign. Be smart. He flipped the phone over. A business buyer ordered 8 units at the 5+ tier; the order did more for him than any lecture ever would.
[Hold ≥30%: 26h 03m → 23h 19m]
At 11:40, the System flagged what everyone could smell:
[Anomaly Detector]
"PrimeChoiceGoods" received 9 five-star reviews in 19 minutes. Velocity abnormal.
[Status: Flagged for manual review. Ads may be limited during review.]
[Recommendation: Do nothing. Focus ops.]
He did nothing spectacular. He did everything boring—answered questions under a minute, sealed units with serials visible, scanned early, scanned again. The Buy Box crept to 33%, then 35% inside pilot zip codes. Elsewhere it clung around 30% like a finger in a door.
At 1:10 p.m., he hit wholesaler #2, a cube of a man behind a counter stacked with clear pouches.
"Generic only," he said. "No stamps."
"Generic's what we got." The man slid a tray. "Black, clear. New mold. Polycarbonate clear next week if you want no-yellow."
He did. Not now. He tested fit, lip, smell. Clean. He split a buy—30 black, 20 clear—and asked for the receipt to call them GENERIC TPU CASES like scripture. The card wheezed. It still went through.
Inventory upstairs felt like a fall harvest. His bank felt like October rent in a bad year.
[In-Stock: 44 → 94]
[Reserve Forecast: Early releases possible if delivery scans ↑]
He booked extra SCAN Form runs: 2:00 / 6:00 / 9:00. If the platform wanted scans, he'd feed it timestamps until his legs resented him.
At 2:37, the competitor blinked.
[Competitor Status: Ads limited (review), FBA active]
[Your Share: 31% → 39% (pilot zips), 32% elsewhere]
He didn't celebrate. He printed labels. The kettle hissed.
Then beige turned orange:
[Safety Notice: Customer reported "chemical smell."]
[ASIN: Your Clear 2-Pack variation]
[Status: Under review. Clear variation only suppressed.]
[Provide MSDS or material documentation if available.]
Not a kill shot, but a bruise where he needed muscle. Clear plastic could stink if you let it. He didn't. The pouches smelled like nothing. He could prove it poorly—words—or better—paper.
He opened his thread to Compliance and wrote:
No odor reported on inbound stock; random inspections attached. Material: TPU; MSDS attached (supplier doc). Using tamper seals + same-day ship; returnless refund issued to complainant. He attached the supplier's generic TPU MSDS PDF, photos of random units opened at the counter, a video of him opening a pouch and pressing it to his face with a grimace that turned into nothing. Honest, human, slightly ridiculous—the kind of thing a tired investigator might forgive.
[Case Submitted. Review ETA: 6–24h]
[Sales impact: Clear suppressed; Black + Black+Clear bundle unaffected]
He nudged the Black+Clear hero image forward, kept the cloth tag visible, and shifted his ad spend from the clear SKU to the bundle. Orders rerouted like traffic around a lane closure.
[Hold ≥30%: 23h 19m → 20h 05m]
At 4:12, a business buyer re-ordered 15 units—the Monday half of the split he'd insisted on. Oxygen for tomorrow promised today. He sealed fifteen with serials and shot a photo of the neat grid like a supply sergeant who'd learned to love neat.
The phone rang with Midwest vowels. "Amanda, Compliance. Quick—got your MSDS. Smell complaints are tricky. Your evidence is decent. If we clear, keep clear pouches away from heat. People store packages on radiators."
"I won't," he said, thinking of the kettle and the window sill and how stupid failure could look when it wanted to.
"Also," she added, "don't chase Prime on price. You can't outrun it. Out-prove it."
The line died. Advice absorbed.
At 5:20, a ribbon blinked he'd never seen:
[Early Payout Pilot — Eligibility Under Review]
[Current: On-time shipping 100% (Day 3/5)]
[If approved: Disbursement cadence accelerates post-delivery]
He didn't smile. He printed labels.
The VP texted again—longer, meaner. He didn't read past the first insult. He fed the insult to the shoebox with the others. He fed packages to the kiosk.
Night came back in through the blinds. Orders kept time. The Buy Box held above 30% like a brick held at arm's length. Not easy. Not falling.
[Free Delivery Friday: 28h to start]
[Stock floor target: ≥60 units (met)]
[Recommendation: Sleep ≥4h | Human error risk rising]
He set three alarms anyway: 5:40, 6:10, 6:40. If he got four hours, he'd be a king.
At 9:02, Account Health pinged:
[Update: "Chemical smell" — Cleared. Variation reinstated.]
[Investigator Note: Keep material docs on file. Avoid heat.]
The clear SKU reappeared like a diver breaking surface. He shifted a sliver of ad spend back. The competitor's Prime badge glowed like a crown he couldn't steal yet. He stared at it for one honest second and let the want go.
He had the next twelve hours to earn the next twelve after that. He closed the laptop, taped one more sticky above the trackpad, and read it twice:
PROVE > PROMISE.
He set the stack for the 9:10 run and stepped into the hall. The city met him with cold air and a bus brake's long exhale. In his pocket, the System whispered one more invitation dressed as a threat:
[Optional Task: Maintain Buy Box ≥30% through Free Delivery Friday.]
[Reward: Keyword Radar (Full) — 7 days + "Fast & Free" badge extension.]
[Cost: Audit Risk +3% | Sleep −]
He didn't hit Accept. He didn't need to. He was already acting like he had.