The reader's progress bar creeps once, then snaps to a clean confirmation, and Jace's phone thumps against the wood.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×2.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$2,000.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$3,444.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $96,556.00.
Max exhales like he's been holding his lungs hostage. "Two. Thousand. Dollars."
"On one thousand spent," Jace says. He doesn't lean back; he doesn't gloat. He nudges the burner one notch lower and rotates the pot a quarter inch so the boil evens out, then aligns the chopsticks on their rest. Control buys room to breathe.
The manager arrives in a smooth pocket of silence between tables. "All set on the load," he says, reading the receipt before he sets it down. He keeps his voice light, but there's a new precision in his eyes—polite attention, not suspicion. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Two things," Jace says. "First, compliments to the kitchen. Second, can I add a $60 tip to the order on a separate charge? I'd like that to go to back-of-house if your system allows."
The manager's mouth admits a genuine smile. "We can allocate it. Thank you." He places the reader on the table. Jace taps.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $60.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×2.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$120.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$3,564.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $96,436.00.
"See?" Max says, half laugh, half religion. "Good deeds pay."
"Sometimes," Jace says. "That's not why you do them."
The manager clears his throat lightly. "One more housekeeping thing—purely routine. For high-value loads we sometimes verify name matches. Do you mind?" He taps the receipt. "Card says Carter."
"Jace Carter," Jace says, already sliding his student ID from his wallet. He holds it between two fingers, not like a surrender but like a handshake. The photo is an older haircut and a worse shadow under his eyes, but the bones match. The manager compares face to plastic and nods, a man satisfied by a straight line. "Appreciate your patience," he says.
"Appreciate your broth," Jace says, and means it.
A small voice yelps at the far corner, then the wet plap of sauce hitting tile. A kid—maybe five, cheeks like steamed buns—has weaponized a soup spoon full of sesame paste. A beige comet decorates the floor, the chair leg, the kid's tiny shoe. The mom freezes, horror blooming; the dad's hand flutters like he's deciding whether to scold or laugh.
Jace is already standing. "Stay put," he tells Max without looking, and steps around the server's path so he doesn't block a tray in motion. He pulls a stack of napkins from their holder on a side station, drops to a squat with the economy of a man who respects knees, and corrals the spill before a foot can find it. The mom rushes apologies. Jace shakes his head. "All good," he says, and, because he means it, the mom's shoulders come down.
He deposits the used napkins on the server's bus tray with a nod that says not a demand, just help and returns to A17, washing his hands in the tiny sink near the sauce bar. Max watches him with that dry, impressed tilt. "Baptized by sesame," Max says. "Saint Jace of Chopsticks."
"Stop," Jace says, washing the last smear from his knuckles. He returns to the table and the small, content engine of the burner. Steam writes script across the air; the letters vanish before they can form.
The panel opens a quiet note at the edge of his vision.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: sequential eligible purchases at single merchant are increasing. Pattern may attract attention.
He reads it twice. The words are cool as a lab. He nods to himself and sets the brakes where they belong. "We're done here for big moves," he tells Max. "Different venue next."
Max points his chopsticks like a conductor. "Disciplined king."
"Hungry king," Jace says. He raises a hand for the server. "Could we add chrysanthemum jelly and one hot tea?" He glances at Max. "Two teas?"
"Two teas," Max says. "And the jelly. For science."
The server smiles, vanishes, and returns with a tray in the time it takes the broth to blink twice. The jelly trembles like a small nervous moon. The teas breathe steam that smells like warm grass and the draft of a good library.
"Run it now, please," Jace says. "And as a separate ticket."
"Of course," the server says, and presents the reader.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Spend detected: $22.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Cashback: ×0.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$0.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total cashback disbursed today: +$3,564.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $96,436.00.
Max winces with exaggerated theatrics. "The saints have abandoned us."
"Zero is honest," Jace says, unbothered. He spoons jelly with a small, exact motion. "This proves I'm not chasing hits. We set the line. We hold it."
He tastes the jelly: cool, floral, a texture like polite rain. He chases it with hot tea, and the heat runs down his middle like a hand smoothing a wrinkle from his shirt. He breathes once and lets the human parts of the night speak louder than numbers for a minute: the hiss from the kitchen, the scrape of chopsticks, the safe rhythm of a place that feeds people.
The manager circles back as the table calms. He sets down a tidy sleeve holding the loaded gift card and a printed balance receipt. "You're good to go on these," he says. "Thank you again for the kitchen tip. You made my cook's night."
"I like when the people who keep me alive are happy," Jace says. He taps the sleeve once, a small ritual of ownership. "We're wrapping. Could we get boxes for leftovers and that to-go kit we paid for?"
"On the way."
They work like a pit crew: Jace orchestrates what goes into which container; Max learns that tofu has structural opinions. The server brings the packed to-go kit they rang earlier: broth sealed, items tucked, tape labeled with clean block letters. Jace reads the labels aloud—"beef, mushrooms, tofu, greens"—and the numbers they represent organize themselves in his head, comforting as a list.
He tucks the gift card into a separate sleeve in his wallet, not the transit slot, because redundancy only helps if it's separate. He folds the receipts once and squares the corners. He places the loaded card receipt behind the smaller ones, a stack with sense.
They stand together and the room registers their height the way rooms do, a little ripple in the human surface. Jace eases the chair in with two fingers so it doesn't bang into the table leg. Max copies him because people copy calm.
"Thank you for dinner," Max says, meaning everything but summing it through the easiest door.
"Thank you for staying in the boat," Jace says.
They carry the bags, not heavy but present, to the front. "Have a good night," the hostess says in the voice of someone who has nightly proof that nights can be good. "Come back soon."
"We will," Jace says.
The door opens; night reaches in. The street is a ribbon of wet light. The air is cooler than the restaurant by a practical mile and it erases the chili sting in his nose in two breaths. One step down, then another; they adjust the bag weights without speaking and find a pace together.
"Inventory check," Max says. He taps the bag. "Leftovers, to-go kit, loaded card with a thou on it, plus the two hundred card."
"Correct," Jace says. "And balance running in my head."
Max bumps his shoulder. "And a friend who will absolutely pretend to be your lawyer if needed."
"Please don't," Jace says, amused. "We'd lose."
They pass the restaurant windows; fog breathes on the glass behind them, people inside framed by warmth. Ahead, the street offers choices: a late bar, a bodega with a lottery sign, a 24/7 electronics store across the crosswalk, lit up like a spaceship showroom. The reflection of its displays prints itself on the wet asphalt like an invitation.
"Don't say it," Max says, already grinning.
"I wasn't going to say it," Jace says. He angles his steps toward the crosswalk as the pedestrian light clicks to WALK.
They hit the curb cut, then the tactile paving under their soles. Headlights feather across their legs as a car yields. The electronics store throws light across the sidewalk: phones, headphones, laptops on acrylic stands like sculptures of desire.
"Are we pressing tonight?" Max asks, half thrill, half caution.
Jace holds the door handle without pulling, just feeling the cool metal under his fingers. He cuts a glance at the panel. It floats with courtroom neutrality.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Cashback): $96,436.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: extended session may increase detection likelihood at current spend rate.
He looks at Max, then at the glossy oblongs on their podiums inside. He hears the echo of the manager's "verify name matches," respectful, not hostile. He tastes chrysanthemum on his tongue and the straight line of his own spine.
"We decide here," he says. "We either bank the win and walk, or we go in and play the floor."
Max rocks on his heels. "Either way, I'm here."
Jace nods once, weight balanced. He keeps his grip light on the handle so the decision has to pass through his fingers, not just his head.
The door waits, ready to swing.