The lobby doors breathe them out. Rain writes quick little slashes across the steps. Sodium lights make halos on wet concrete.
Yellow rain jacket, hood up. Derek. He has the posture of a guy pretending he's not cold.
"You Jace?" he says, hands out where everyone can see.
"Derek," Jace says. "Transfer only. $70."
"Deal," Derek says too fast, then tries to recover with a huff that wants to be a laugh. "Seemed rude to haggle when I'm the one who's desperate, but also—sixty?"
"Seventy," Jace says. No heat; just a landing pad. "Receipt copy and warranty instructions included. You can open it here."
Nate jogs up from the curb, curls slicked to his forehead under a cap, breath making ghosts. "He's good," Nate says. "Derek breaks cables by looking at them, but he's good."
"Not helping," Derek mutters, then grins at Jace with the social bravery of a wet dog. "I just—my brick's dying, and I TA at seven, and if I show up dead the freshmen think death is an option."
Jace opens the bag shoulder-level, not sneaky. He sets the power bank box on the top step—far from puddles, close to his center of gravity. He slices the factory seal with a key and angles the box so the rain can't climb in. Case out. Ports visible. He presses the little battery check. Four polite LEDs answer yes.
Derek leans in, checks the ports like he knows at least one thing. He nods, grim. "It's real."
"Warranty info from the box is here," Jace says, sliding a receipt copy into the sleeve behind it. "If the manufacturer plays dumb, use the phrase 'defect on arrival' and act bored."
Derek laughs. "You have a tone for life."
"Transfer?" Jace says.
"Zelle," Derek says, already thumbing. "Name?"
"Carter," Jace says. "Send, then I hand."
Rain tics on the hood; tires hiss; the building lights hum. Max keeps his hands in his pockets like a good bouncer.
Jace's phone buzzes.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Income detected: $70.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Money Welfare: ×3.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$210.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total money crit disbursed today: +$1,150.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Money): $98,850.00.
The bank ping follows; Derek's name matches. Jace gives the human nod and slides the case into Derek's hands. "You're hot. Go make freshmen believe time is real."
Derek clutches the box like a found kitten. "You're both wizards." He points at Max. "If your friend heckles poets again, tell him to heckle me taller."
"I only heckle with consent," Max says.
Derek backs toward the curb, waves with the hand not holding a future, and jogs into the rain.
Nate stays, breath calming. "He was going to try cash," he confesses. "I told him transfer only. I'm learning your religion."
"It's not a religion," Jace says. "It's rails."
Nate rocks on his heels, then looks down like he remembered a second errand. He taps the pocket of his hoodie. "Cable," he says. "My charger's frayed at the neck. $20 for that USB-C?"
Max makes a delighted noise like they've summoned a second dessert. Jace lifts the bag, checks inventory with the small ritual that prevents dumb mistakes. Cable present. He keeps the headphones memory in his head, not in the bag—they're gone, and the ledger knows it. He slides the cable out, leaves the bag open and still in his hand so the camera above the lobby door can see it all like a play.
"Twenty," Jace says. "Transfer only. You can test in the lobby—no puddles near power."
Nate flashes his phone and then himself. "Zelle. Carter again?"
"Carter," Jace says.
Buzz.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Income detected: $20.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Evaluating Talent…[SYSTEM PROMPT] Money Welfare: ×2.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Disbursement today: +$40.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Total money crit disbursed today: +$1,190.00.[SYSTEM PROMPT] Daily cap remaining (Money): $98,810.00.
Nate pulls a battery from his backpack, plugs the cable, tests a phone; the little charging star appears. He does a small prayer hands at Jace like gratitude belongs in the shape of his body. "I owe you both noodles."
"You owe the future less chaos," Jace says.
Nate salutes with the battery, then sprints into the rain after his roommate like a second thought that wants to be first.
Max is already half laughing, half shivering. "We sold two things, bought civilization, and the weather helped."
"The weather doesn't care," Jace says. He tucks the bag under his jacket, not because it matters, but because he respects objects that are still part of the plan.
They slide back through the lobby doors. Warm air fogs their glasses for a second. The soda machine hums its bad ideas. The RA looks up from the sudoku, registers faces, the absence of drama, and grants a nod that counts as a permit to continue existing.
"Evening," he says.
"Lobby commerce concluded," Max says, saluting with two fingers. "All receipts in a row."
"Beautiful words," the RA says, amused.
The elevator sign still begs; they take stairs. Metal treads. The small thunder of wet soles. Third floor. The hallway smells like wet hoodies, cinnamon gum, and someone's attempt at cologne. A door at the far end coughs laughter.
In the room, Jace sets the bag down with the care of a chef with a knife. He aligns the receipt stack on the desk: electronics on top (now short two items); restaurant stack behind; laundry slip; parking permit; tuition confirmation; Zelle screenshots nested.
He speaks the ledger so the night hears it too. "Money +$1,190 today; cap remaining $98,810. Cashback +$17,844; remaining $82,156. Inventory now: gift card — electronics chain ($2,500); house gift card ($1,200). No physical items left."
Max flops onto the desk chair backward, chin on the rail. "We could stop now," he says, meaning we could be happy.
"We could," Jace says, meaning we might. He straightens one corner of the tuition PDF like squaring paper squares life.
His phone buzzes again. Not the marketplace. Not Nate. A bank number with the formal haircut of institutions.
We noticed unusual activity on your card ending ••40.Recent: $2,000—Electronics Chain Gift Card.Reply Y to confirm, N to deny.
Max reads the preview over his shoulder and whistles low. "Mother may I."
Jace doesn't move for one beat. He lets the question sit between bones and screen. He wants to treat it like a pop-up, like a gnat; he doesn't. He treats it like a lever.
He angles the phone so Max can see the whole text. "We confirm Y," Max says, immediate.
"Maybe," Jace says.
"Maybe?" Max is indignant on behalf of motion. "It's ours."
"It is," Jace says. "But the next ten Ys train the bank what normal looks like." He breathes. He can feel the rail under his foot; he wants to stay on it. "We confirm, but we also decide what tomorrow looks like."
Max blinks, recalibrates. "Meaning we don't push the chain again tomorrow."
"Meaning we let the pattern cool," Jace says. He is not lecturing Max; he is lecturing the part of himself that loves green lights.
He thumbs Y halfway and holds. The message field acknowledges the contact like a cat acknowledging a human. He keeps it there because momentum is a liar; it tells you it's wisdom.
"Before you send," Max says, softer, "I'd like to present the court with Exhibit A: noodles."
Jace's mouth betrays him with a smile. "Sustained."
The phone buzzes again, as if the bank heard them and judged their indecision rude.
Reminder: Reply Y to approve, N to deny.Card ending ••40.
"Okay," Jace says to the future. He looks at the receipts like a priest looks at candles. Everything is squared. Everything is audit-clean. He looks at Max. Max is the kind of friend who will still be here if Jace says no and still be here if Jace says yes. Jace likes building a life on still be here.
He brings his thumb down.
He stops a hair above the Y as if the sky asked for one more second of respect.
The phone waits.
The night leans forward.