He held the phone with his thumb near the lock, Dylan's hand open between them like a reasonable request turned into a small test. The HUD hung at the edge of his sight, polite as ever.
[Public visibility: LOW][Quick toggle? LOW / MEDIUM][Reminder: MINIMIZED previews are non-descriptive]
"Here," Alex said, and let the word be a key that opened only one door. He unlocked the phone, went straight to the banking app, and tilted the screen where Dylan could read but not scroll.
Two recent lines sat near the top, tidy as receipts tucked in a wallet:
DOWNTOWN DINER - Debit $70.00
Cashback - Credit $280.00
Below them, a few ordinary transactions from the week: campus coffee, a textbook reseller, bus fare. Nothing that looked like magic to anyone except the person whose eyes also saw a HUD.
"Bank promo," Alex said, tone even. "Restaurant tie-in, I think. It's random, and it's already hit zero once. We're not retiring on pie."
Dylan leaned close enough that Alex could smell fryer salt and whatever cologne the bottle calls bold. He nodded slowly, the way you nod when your brain doesn't have all the pieces but the picture feels mostly legal. "So it's not, like, a credit card hack."
"It's not a hack," Alex said. He pinched the phone back with a small smile and hit the power button so the screen went dark. "It's a Tuesday with frosting."
"I respect frosting." Dylan dropped his hand, the request retired without pride bleeding out of it. "Out of scientific curiosity, what if we… replicated? Small sample size. I buy a soda, you buy a soda, we compare sodas."
"We just tested variance," Alex said. "It hit zero on ours. If there's a window, we shouldn't waste rolls on carbonated peer review."
Dylan fake-sighed like a child denied fireworks on a school night. "Hate when you're right."
They started walking, the to-go bag of fries thumping against Dylan's knee with each step like a metronome that smelled like ketchup. Streetlights lifted themselves a notch; the sky blued into evening properly. Campus sat up the hill like a thought that required stairs.
"You seem… different," Dylan said after a block of comfortable noise. "You came in looking ghosted and then did a personality patch."
"Bad day pivoted," Alex said. He let the corners of his mouth admit that being alive felt like someone had finally moved the mat to the correct place. "Sometimes you get the bounce."
"Ominous," Dylan said, but he was grinning. "If the bounce continues, I am absolutely available for mentorship. A man can dream of a world where capitalism flirts with him."
"You just want fries money."
"I want principled fries money."
The crosswalk chirped. They waited behind a cluster of students carrying a speaker that insisted everyone needed to know how their night would feel. When the light flipped, Dylan tried again, persuasive as a man selling socks out of a violin case. "Hear me out. One tiny experiment - like a parking meter. If not now, sometime this week. Otherwise I'll spiral into conspiracy YouTube, and no one wants that."
"It's going to be noisy," Alex said. "Promos always are. You'll get false patterns. You'll think Tuesdays near neon signs matter."
"I'm already halfway there in my heart."
They crested the short hill to campus proper. The library's glass made the inside lights into a soft aquarium; shadows moved on upper floors like fish with deadlines. On the steps, Jack Dalton sat with one leg bent, one stretched, a paperback balanced in his hand the way some people hold a tool. He lifted his chin when he saw them and closed the book with a finger marking place.
"You bring offerings?" Jack said.
"Fries," Dylan said, hoisting the bag like a lantern. "They're hot and greasy and morally instructive."
"Perfect," Jack said, standing. He had the air of a man who knows the weight of an apology slice and the value of a properly folded T-shirt. "You two look like you did minor crime but got out on charm."
"Public service," Alex said. "We rescued two artists from a misbehaving card reader."
Jack took a fry, blew on it, and regarded Alex over the steam. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." It surprised Alex to hear how true it sounded. He adjusted the story for the audience: "Bank's doing some restaurant promo. We got lucky on tipback and then unlucky on our own check."
"Unlucky?" Dylan said. "Zero. A majestic, authoritative zero."
"Variance," Alex said. "The universe refusing to be bullied."
Jack nodded once, lines around his eyes barely moving. "Enjoy luck while it thinks you're cute."
Dylan clutched his chest. "Poetry from a man holding ketchup."
"Condiments bring out my best," Jack said. He glanced at the library, then back. "Heading to the dorm?"
"Marching," Dylan said. "I need to sit in a chair and make yelling noises at strangers on the internet."
"Productive," Jack said, and fell in step. He walked on Alex's quiet side as if by instinct, leaving Dylan the narration lane.
They cut across the quad. A club had set up a table with a hand-painted sign about ultimate frisbee tryouts; a hopeful man in a mascot suit failed to convince anyone that heat and polyester were compatible. The fountain in the center did its programmed twinkle, putting on elegances for no one.
Dylan resumed the case for replication as if the break had improved his argument. "Since it's a merchant thing," he said, pointing at the bag, "what if we try the campus store? They are a merchant. They also sell gummy worms, which I feel ethically obligated to support."
"Later," Alex said. He kept his tone kind, not absolute. People accept later when they refuse no. "I want to see how long the window stays open and whether small charges burn rolls the same as big ones. If we're playing, we play smart."
Jack exhaled through his nose - a microlaugh. "He's already turned it into a spreadsheet in his head."
"Rude to be seen," Alex said.
"Accurate," Jack said.
They reached their building, a rectangle of brick pretending at tradition. Inside, the stairwell presented itself as punishment for sins not yet committed. They climbed. The second-floor landing still wore a scuff Dylan had put there with a longboard; the third-floor landing had a flyer curling up at the corners that announced a club devoted to people who liked breakfast for dinner.
At the top, the hallway air had that dorm-warm smell of detergent and microwaved anything. Someone had tied a shoelace between two doorknobs as a prank; someone else had cut it and left the ends like a tiny failed bridge.
Outside 3B, Jack shifted the fries to his left hand and reached for the knob with his right like he always did - habit dressed as choreography. "Prepare for the smell of neglect," he said.
Dylan blocked him with an elbow. "Wait. Before we cross the threshold of our crimes, I want to see if the promo gods are still watching. Alex, show him the line items. Spread the gospel."
"Gospel is overstating it," Alex said, but he unlocked the phone again and flashed the banking lines for Jack as he had for Dylan - quick, controlled, nothing scrollable. Jack looked for a second longer than Dylan had, like he cared less about the numbers and more about the steadiness in Alex's hand.
"Be boring about it," Jack said. "Luck hates the greedy."
"I'm a connoisseur of boring," Alex said. It felt like a promise to himself, the kind that pays out with interest.
The phone buzzed - one discreet haptic, the minimized setting doing exactly what he'd asked for. He lifted the screen enough to see the source without turning it toward the room.
[Text - IVY MONROE]: Coffee tomorrow? My treat, since math is sacred.]
Dylan leaned, not quite nosy, not quite respectful. His eyebrows twitched into a shape that meant I saw the pattern of your face change even if he didn't read the name.
"Anything good?" Dylan said, pure mischief.
"Logistics," Alex said. He locked the phone again because the habit felt clean. The HUD, unbidden, tagged the corner of his vision with a neutral reminder:
[Calendar: Available slots tomorrow 10:00–12:00; 14:00–16:00][Daily caps: MONEY - high remaining; CASHBACK - high remaining]
"Jack," Dylan said, "tell him to crowdsource this decision with his elders."
"I am your age," Jack said.
"Emotionally, you are forty."
"Emotionally, I am employed," Jack said. He looked at Alex. "You going?"
Alex considered the weight of yes and the utility of no. Coffee with Ivy wasn't just coffee; it was a controlled situation to learn who she was when she wasn't managing a scene. It was also a chance to see if money-in crits cared about source and tone with a person whose family probably had accounts an app called legacy and meant it. More importantly, it was a chance to practice not flinching when the world offered something.
Dylan made a drumroll on the fries bag with his fingertips. "We believe in coffee. We believe in science. We believe in getting me out of this moment by letting me live vicariously through your choices."
"Open the door," Jack said, amused. "He can live vicariously while we sit."
Dylan let them in. The room presented itself in all its academic squalor. Jack set the fries on the desk; Dylan rescued two from the top and pretended not to be performing theft. Alex's phone sat balanced in his hand, light as possibility.
The HUD, finally intrusive, offered a little efficiency like a butler who only interrupts to hold the coat you were about to shrug off.
[Would you like to add this coffee to calendar?][Create reminder to review visibility settings before meeting?]
He didn't love that it volunteered suggestions, but they weren't rules; they were options lined up like coasters. He moved his thumb over the glass and stopped. In his periphery, Dylan had turned half away to shovel fries; Jack was washing his hands at the sink with the brisk competence of a man who lived among others and adjusted accordingly.
"Answer her," Dylan said without looking, proving he was paying more attention than his hands claimed. "Say yes, because fate is hard of hearing unless you speak up."
"Fate owes us nothing," Jack said, drying his hands. "But schedules like clarity."
Alex smiled at both of them without letting either win. He unlocked the phone. Ivy's text waited, spare and confident. He typed Sure. Late morning works-11? and hovered over send. He could add a joke; he could add nothing. He could ask a question that turned coffee into negotiation. Or he could keep it light, leave space, and see what the other person did with room.
The HUD stayed out of the message field like a respectful ghost. It set one more line in the corner, purely informational:
[Note: Visibility LOW; suggest maintaining for public meet]
He didn't need the suggestion to know that. But knowing it sat there like a small geometry problem solved.
"Big day tomorrow?" Jack asked, casual as he sorted ketchup packets into a tidy fan.
"Just coffee," Alex said. The truth stayed true even when it wore strategy like a nice shirt.
He looked at the text again, then at his friends. If he said yes, the road bent one way. If he ignored it, the road bent another. It was a small hinge, but doors swing on small hinges all the time.
Dylan watched his thumb with a magician's fascination. Jack watched his face.
He had to decide whether to fold them into the orbit around this meeting or keep his compartments clean.