Taj's umbrella ticks rain onto tile, a metronome for coincidence. Off-shift hoodie, backpack strap, no name tag, same steady eyes.
Jace keeps one hand on the doorframe—anchor, not flinch. The other hand is empty, visible. "Small world," he says.
"Too small sometimes," Taj says, smiling like he means it. He glances at the blue tape flags on the desk—ELEC CHAIN — $2,500, HOUSE — $1,200, DINING $100—and doesn't leer. He reads like a clerk reads inventory: polite, accurate. "You were… disciplined," he says. "At the counter."
"Habit," Jace says.
"I noticed," Taj says. "Sandra noticed. We notice neat. Neat is easier to help."
Max leans in the doorway shoulder-first, friendly bouncer. "You two know each other's vibe."
Taj huffs a laugh. "Vibe plus twenty coupons." He tips his head toward the now-quiet laundry door. "I live close. Friend on floor two texted 'flood.' I came to be useful." He tilts his umbrella, presents the clean circle of his intention. "Also, off the clock means I can say obvious things without a uniform making them weird."
"Obvious is useful," Jace says.
"You kept your hands where cameras could love them," Taj says. "You stacked receipts like they were going to be graded. That helps when LP does their morning coffee-and-clips."
"LP?" Max says.
"Loss prevention," Taj says. "Different chain calls it AP—asset protection—because words are free. They drink bad coffee at nine and watch clusters. They notice gift-card loads. They notice sequential splits at one register. They notice repeat faces in the same hour. Not illegal. Just interesting."
"Interesting costs time," Jace says.
Taj nods. "Sandra does the sweep first. She's fair. She puts notes on clips like 'ID verified; receipts separate; demeanor calm; policy explained.' AP eats those notes like vitamins and moves on. But—" He lifts a finger in a friendly and— "—corporate likes patterns. If you're going to do your neat little budget art, vary time, vary registers, vary category. You did that tonight—electronics, food, small sundries. Good dance."
"Appreciated," Jace says, meaning the clarity. He doesn't ask questions that feel like confession. He asks the straight lines. "House card loads?"
"Two things," Taj says, counting on his fingers because habit is contagious. "One: manager eyeball over $1,000 every time; we already did that. Two: starting next week our memo says we'll log ID for all cumulative loads above $1,000 per day per customer. Cap stays $2,500; we just write the name in a box so the next clerk can glance and say 'you're at thirteen; you have twelve hundred left.' Takes five seconds. No blacklist. Just paper. If a shift is slammed, it slows checkout. If a shift is bored, it gives them something to do." His mouth quirks. "Sandra runs bored shifts like she's training for the Olympics, so you'll be fine."
Maya drifts back past with a last towel, hair gathered into a truce bun. She clocks the triangle of men at the door, the umbrella, the labels. "Hi," she says to Taj, scientist-warm. "He's useful."
"Everyone is tonight," Taj says, respectful. "I like useful neighborhoods."
Campus Safety passes back down the hall—two fingers to the brim without a brim. The wet line has retired to memory. Somewhere on four, the toaster repents.
"You closing register gaps tomorrow?" Max asks, as if registers have feelings.
"Morning is replacement printer hell," Taj says. "By evening, we're chill. If you must do your tidy art, don't do it tonight. Do not do it in the first two hours of Sandra's shift tomorrow—she'll be on the floor for a new POS firmware and she does not have attention to spare. After that, buy something non-gift first. Then if you must load, $500, not $2,000. The eyeball is less dramatic. And—" He shrugs, friendly— "—smile like you like rules. You're good at that."
Jace smiles like an honor student who found an A by cleaning the lab bench. "I like rails."
Taj's eyes flicker with recognition. He lifts a folded paper from his hoodie pocket. The corner shows chain letterhead and underlined lines. "We got this taped to the back office door tonight," he says. "Public policy. Nothing secret." He offers it palm-up, not pushing. "Figured you'd file it."
Jace takes the memo like it's a passport. It smells like toner. He reads the underlines without moving his lips:
Gift Card Loads: Manager confirmation required for any single load ≥ $1,000.
Cumulative Loads: Log ID once customer's total loads for the day exceed $1,000.
Clerk Note: If customer requests multiple split transactions, advise "category tracking" is acceptable but returns must follow store policy with original receipt.
He folds it once, then once more to desk-width, and slides it onto the stack under DINING $100, above Tuition. It fits like it was always supposed to exist there. He prints STORE MEMO on a strip of tape and bridges paper to time with adhesive.
"You file like a tax preparer," Taj says, admiring without envy.
"I like finding things," Jace says. He keeps his body the shape of non-threat. He does not offer money, plans, future times. He treats Taj like what he is: a person who keeps a store working and wants the human beings in it to not make that harder than it already is.
Max tilts his head at Taj. "Question that is not a confession," he says. "If a random college person wanted to avoid being interesting, and they'd already been interesting once this week—hypothetically—how many days apart would you put clusters?"
"Two," Taj says, immediate. "Better three. Change which store. Buy a backpack. Bring a friend. Talk about chargers and homework, not limits. If a clerk is alone at the counter, don't bring them a big complicated pile at ten till close. The clock is a customer too."
Max points at him like he just solved a riddle. "I want to Yelp review you personally."
"Please don't," Taj says, dry.
Maya leans on her towel like it's a staff of office. "Also: be nice to the person who controls the key to the glass case."
"Correct," Taj says, saluting with the umbrella like a baton. "Humans open doors."
Jace taps the edge of the memo, feeling the way paper turns into rails. His phone, face-up on the desk, glows a quiet preview: Marketplace → DM: 'Buying your electronics gift card—$250 now, campus center tomorrow?' The message line is clean; no emoji; profile picture is a stack of textbooks and a hand with nail polish bitten to determination.
Taj's eyes slide across the glow and away, the way a person who likes boundaries moves their gaze. "Tomorrow," he says, not quite a question.
"After eight," Jace says. The HUD sits quiet as a church, satisfied by obedience.
[SYSTEM PROMPT] Advisory: session ended. No additional executions until after 08:00.
Jace doesn't voice it. He feels it walk his spine and settle.
"Good," Taj says. He taps the umbrella on the tile—one soft tick—and shoulders it. "I should rescue my friend from the concept of laundry." He steps backward the way good clerks leave: no extra motion, no trailing questions. Then he stops himself half a syllable from gone. "One last—" He pats his pocket, produces a crumpled sticky note with SANDRA written in square letters and a number. "If a clerk gives you trouble about category tracking, ask for her. She hates sloppy rules. She likes tidy people."
"I like tidy people too," Max says.
Jace takes the note, smooths it, lays it atop the memo like a small flag, then bridges it with a smaller strip of tape so it doesn't go rogue. He does not add the number to his phone. He lets paper stay paper.
Taj clocks that too and smiles with respect. "Neat." He nods at Maya. "Congratulations on not culverting."
"Heroism is calling customer service," she says solemnly.
"Sometimes it is," Taj says. He raises the umbrella slightly in salutation and heads down the hall. The elevator sighs for him.
The RA walks past on another loop, sees the paper additions on the desk from the doorway, and does that little face people do when things they don't understand look safe anyway. "Night," he says.
"Night," Jace and Max say in chorus.
The hall returns to small sounds—distant faucet, a laugh bitten short, someone whispering an apology to a microwave. Inside the room, the fan whooshes like a loyal dog. The blue tape flags make the tiny posture of ready.
Maya pushes off the doorframe. "Coffee. After eight. And you're both going to pretend to be normal while you explain being normal."
"Deal," Max says, beaming.
"Goodnight," Jace says.
"Goodnight," Maya says, and steals the phrase as she goes. "End recommended."
Jace lets that land in the room like a stone on a lake—no splash, just rings. He lifts the phone to read the marketplace DM fully but does not answer. He sets it face-down with more respect than superstition. He clicks the pen once, lays it across the memo and sticky like a paperweight that knows its job.
Max stands at the window and watches rain decide whether it's done. "You're a weirdly ethical criminal," he says, which is a joke they won't tell in public.
"I'm ethical," Jace says. "And neat." He checks the door, checks the lock, checks the desk, checks the blue tape boats, checks his breath. The list makes him the right shape. It keeps the night square.
The phone hums again, tiny fish to glass. Another preview: Marketplace → 'I can do $300 tomorrow for the full card if you meet at 10.' The offers stack like polite bricks.
Jace lets them wait. He looks at Max; Max looks back with the grin that means pillow fight with capitalism tomorrow. Jace feels the calendar open its hands.
Outside, someone coughs. Inside, he places his palm on the doorframe again, the way a person touches a tree before they decide which path is the path. The room holds its breath for him, and he gives it back, steady.
The phone lights their faces with the suggestion of morning plans.
He doesn't reach.
The screen glows.
The night leans forward.