The morning rush at The Foundational Grind had become a quiet, comfortable rhythm. The espresso machine purred under Kai's care, Chloe's humming wove through the scent of fresh grounds, and the warm, steady trickle of mana from satisfied customers was a feeling Leo was starting to rely on.
Then Chloe's humming stopped.
She was staring at her phone, her brow furrowed. "Leo? Have you seen this?"
She turned the screen. It was a Mystic Net review for the Grind. One star. The title read: "Unhygienic and Unstable."
Leo's stomach tightened. He took the phone. The review was a masterclass in plausible slander. It mentioned "questionable residue" on the portafilter—Kai's brilliant, empathy-driven prototype. It called the magical ambiance "erratic" and "unprofessional." It was all just vague enough to be damaging, and all completely false.
"That's a lie," Chloe said, her voice small but firm. "How can something that feels this kind get called unstable?"
Her words echoed his own thoughts, but they couldn't stop the cold dread pooling in his gut. Maybe he should have spent less time on perfecting the "Hearth-Warming Aura" and more on flashy advertising. A bitter, familiar voice whispered in the back of his mind: Maybe Albright was right. Sentimentality is a liability.
Before he could answer, the bell on the door chimed. Mrs. Gable, their regular who always ordered a "Soothing Mint Medley," gave them an apologetic wave as she hurried past the counter. "So sorry, dears! There's a grand opening two blocks over—everything's half-price today! I have to see!"
The door clicked shut behind her. The silence she left behind was heavier than before.
Leo's own phone buzzed in his pocket. A new notification from the Bootstrap System, but the usual warm, parchment-like glow felt muted. The text was a stark, simple condemnation.
[REVENUE TREND: NEGATIVE.]
The words sat in his vision, a cold, sinking weight. It wasn't just a statistic. It was a verdict on his entire philosophy.
He walked to the window and looked down the street. There it was. A new sign, sleek and glowing with sterile, corporate mana: "Crossed Wands." A line stretched out the door. He saw Mrs. Gable join the end of it, looking excited. He watched a young couple, who had been debating their order at his counter just yesterday, walk straight past his door and toward the new café, lured by the bright banners and the promise of a discount.
This wasn't just competition. A one-star lie and a copycat opening on the same day? He looked at the glowing sign one last time. The letters didn't flicker; they pulsed—steady, mechanical, alive. Julian Cross hadn't just left a business card. He'd opened a front line.