I wake up to the sound of my alarm screaming at 5:30 AM like it's personally offended by my existence.
For a moment, I lie there in the darkness, staring at my roommate's face. Lincoln looks... tired today. Same here, buddy. I contemplate every life choice that led me to this moment. The system. The haircut. The job. The decision to work out in the mornings instead of after work like a sane person.
"Oh right," I mutter, reaching over to slap the alarm into submission. "I did this to myself."
I sit up, my body protesting with a symphony of creaks and groans. Yesterday's workout and four-hour training session at the café have left me feeling like I've been tenderized by a particularly enthusiastic butcher.
Then I remember: I haven't checked the system shop since passing ten Evolution Points.
I pull up the interface with a thought, greeted once again by the stupidly extensive list of options.
I scan through, looking for anything actually useful rather than vanity upgrades. Sure, I could add an inch to my height, but going from 5'2" to 5'3" isn't exactly getting me scouted for the basketball team. The "add an inch to manhood" option is still there, tempting me like a sleazy car salesman, but I'm not quite desperate enough to spend precious Evolution Points, nor my Minor Shop Voucher, on something I don't see myself making use of anytime soon.
Or possibly ever, given my current track record.
What I really need are upgrades that'll help me earn more points or scale up faster. I focus on those:
Training Adept - Increase workout efficiency by another 20% [25 Evolution Points]
Recovery Boost - Speeds up natural healing from injuries and fatigue by 20% [100 Evolution Points]
Efficient Sleeper - Reduce sleep requirement by 5% [10 Evolution Points]
Multitasker - Enhances ability to handle two tasks or partners simultaneously without loss of focus [250 Evolution Points]
Intuitive Learner - Accelerates skill acquisition in any hobbies or techniques by 20% [200 Evolution Points]
I stare at Multitasker for a long moment. "Two tasks or partners," I read aloud. "System, are you... are you seriously suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
A chat window pops up: 😏
"You know what? I can't deal with your nonsense right now." I close the shop interface. The only thing I can actually afford is Efficient Sleeper, and honestly, what would I even do with the extra time? I don't think I'd survive an extra workout each day, though I suppose I could be more dedicated to my side project...
I'll save my points for later. Maybe when I hit 25 points, Training Adept would be worth it. Compound my gains faster, earn more points, create a positive feedback loop… Whatever, I'm too tired to think right now... Maybe Efficient Sleeper would be worth it after all.
"Ughhhh," I groan, swinging my legs out of bed. "I have to do this every single day now, don't I?"
The thought is both depressing and motivating in equal measure.
I blitz through my workout routine with all the enthusiasm of someone getting a root canal. Pushups, situps, squats, plank, jumping jacks. My muscles are still sore from yesterday, letting me know exactly how they feel about this "exercise every day" nonsense.
Ow.
The run is worse. The early morning air is cold enough to make my lungs burn with every breath. But I finish, stumble home, and take what might be the longest, most enjoyable shower of my life.
Then comes the skincare routine: cleanser, moisturizer. I've gotten it down to a science at this point. And my skin is noticeably better after two weeks, so I really can't complain.
Hair styling takes thirty minutes this time. I manage to get the middle part sitting perfectly, the waves looking natural, and the styling cream applied just right without making my head look like an oil spill.
By the time I finish breakfast and head to school, I feel like I've already lived through a complete day, and it's not even 8 AM.
Walking through the school hallways, I remember Mr. Vale's words from yesterday: "Your posture tells a story, whether you intend it or not."
I've been slouching my entire life. Head down, shoulders hunched, trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible. Which, given that I'm already 5'2", is really saying something.
But what if... what if I just tried?
My anxiety immediately kicks into overdrive. Will people look at me? Will they laugh? What if someone makes a comment? What if—
Do it, you little bitch, my inner voice interjects with absolutely zero sympathy.
You know what? Screw it.
I straighten my back. Pull my shoulders back. Lift my head parallel to the ground. Look forward and slightly downward, just like Mr. Vale taught me.
Immediately, I feel exposed. Visible. Like I've painted a target on myself and invited the universe to take its best shot. I keep walking, maintaining the posture even though every instinct screams at me to hunch back down into my protective shell.
And I wait for the inevitable disaster.
I wait for people to point and laugh. I wait for someone to ask what the hell I'm doing. I wait for Jack Richardson to materialize and shove me into a locker for having the audacity to stand like a normal human being.
But... nothing happens.
People just keep walking. Living their lives. Having conversations. Checking their phones. Rushing to class.
No one is looking at me. No one is laughing. No one cares.
The realization hits me like a truck: All this time I've been worried about people judging me, paying attention to me, noticing my every flaw, and they're all just living their own lives. They're worried about their own problems, their own insecurities, their own drama. I've been so focused on what everyone else might think of me that I never stopped to consider they're probably not thinking about me at all.
Then what was I doing? Paying so much attention to them?
Somehow, I realize, by paying so much attention to what other people think of me, I stopped living how I wanted to.
I continue through the rest of my day with better posture, feeling strange but... good? Like I'm taking up space in the world instead of apologizing for existing.
Ding! Your Charm has increased by 1.
"Thanks, I guess?" I mutter under my breath as I head to my next class. "But you kinda ruined the moment there, System."
😛, the system responds.
I roll my eyes.
By the time the final bell rings, my stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. I walk to the Midnight Café at a deliberately measured pace, trying to calm the nerves threatening to stage a full revolt in my digestive system.
It's just work, I tell myself. Mr. Vale said I'm not even talking to customers yet. I'm just filling water and clearing plates. How hard can that be?
I arrive a little early, around 3:45. I packed my uniform this morning, it's neatly folded and, blessedly, unwrinkled. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the café is already open. A few tables are occupied: some couples, a young lady reading a book, a middle-aged man sitting alone.
And there's Mr. Vale, moving between tables with that perfect posture and graceful efficiency that somehow makes serving water look like an art form.
I take a deep breath and push through the door.
Mr. Vale glances over and gives me a slight nod of acknowledgment before turning back to the couple he's serving. The gesture is clear: Go get changed. I'll be with you shortly.
I head to the staff room, which is just as impeccably organized as I remember. I change into my uniform as fast as possible, then spend a slightly panicked two minutes trying to remember how to tie the bow tie. Three attempts later, I finally get it. I step back to examine myself in the small mirror. Black dress pants, crisp white shirt, black vest, bow tie. I look... professional. Like an actual employee of a fancy establishment. It's weird, but oddly satisfying.
When I emerge, Mr. Vale is pouring water at a table. He finishes, returns the pitcher to a discreet cabinet, then approaches me with that same measured pace: never hurried, never slow, just perfectly timed.
"Come," he says, gesturing for me to follow. "Quickly, please."
He leads me through the "STAFF ONLY" door into the kitchen. It's somehow even more immaculate than the dining area, stainless steel gleaming under bright lights, everything in its place.
Four people work at various stations, moving with practiced efficiency. They glance up as we enter.
"This is Adam," Mr. Vale announces. "He'll be joining us for the next two months. Please welcome him warmly."
Four heads turn in my direction. There's a moment where I'm convinced they're going to judge me, find me lacking, and collectively decide I'm not cut out for this place.
Instead, they smile.
"Welcome!" says the woman at the prep station, a middle-aged lady with kind eyes and flour on her apron.
"Good to have you," adds the guy at the grill, who looks like he could bench press me without breaking a sweat.
The other two nod and wave, already turning back to their work. It's... nice. Genuinely nice. No judgment, no hazing, just a simple welcome and back to business.
"Thank you," I manage, trying not to sound as relieved as I feel.
Mr. Vale turns to me, giving me a quick assessment with those sharp eyes. Then, with practiced efficiency, he adjusts my cuffs and straightens my bow tie.
"Now," he says while working, his hands moving with the precision of someone who's done this a million times, "today you'll be following me and providing support. You'll do simple tasks: filling water, clearing plates, resetting tables. Watch carefully and learn the rhythm of service."
"Understood."
"Good." He finishes with my tie and steps back. "Follow me."
We return to the dining area. I notice a couple who just finished their appetizers, looking around expectantly.
He approaches them, checking on them with perfect timing, not too rushed, not too late. They order their entrées, and he withdraws smoothly.
"Come," he says, leading me to a discreet cabinet against the wall. "This is the service station."
He opens it quickly, pointing out pitchers, glassware, serving trays, napkins, and cutlery.
"Everything you need for basic service is here," Mr. Vale explains. "Memorize the layout. In the middle of service, you won't have time to search."
I try to do as he asks, my eyes quickly scanning the service station while Mr. Vale does a visual sweep of the café. His eyes move systematically from table to table, checking on guests, assessing needs. It's like watching a general survey a battlefield, except the battlefield is elegant and smells like coffee.
"Grab a pitcher and follow me," he says.
I grab one of the glass pitchers, heavier than it looks, and fill it with water from the service station's tap. Then I follow Mr. Vale as he glides across the café floor toward a couple that just sat down.
And "glide" really is the only word for it. He moves with this effortless grace, like he's floating an inch above the ground. Every step is purposeful but unhurried. Calm but attentive. It's mesmerizing and slightly intimidating.
I try to mimic his movement, which probably makes me look like a baby deer learning to walk, but I'm trying.
The next hour passes in what I can only describe as a strange, calming meditation. Mr. Vale greets guests, takes orders, delivers drinks and food, all with that same unhurried grace. I shadow him, filling water glasses when they get low, retrieving extra napkins when someone needs them, clearing empty plates when customers finish their appetizers.
"Grab another pitcher. Follow me. Approach from the left. Pour with your right hand. Steady the pitcher with your left."
I do as instructed, my hands shaking slightly as I pour water for an older couple. They barely acknowledge me, which is exactly how it should be.
"Good," Mr. Vale murmurs when we step away. "Again."
It's... not bad? Actually, it's kind of nice. There's a rhythm to it, a flow. Watch for empty glasses. Fill them. Watch for finished plates. Clear them. Watch for guests who might need something. Anticipate.
"See that table in the corner? They've finished their meal. In approximately one minute, I'll approach to ask about dessert. Watch the timing."
I watch, fascinated, as he executes it perfectly. The guests seem pleased, order dessert, and he withdraws smoothly.
"Your turn," he says, gesturing to a table that just finished their appetizers. "Clear those plates. Remember, from the right, stack carefully on your forearm, no clinking sounds."
My heart rate spikes, but I approach the table, trying to channel Mr. Vale's grace. I clear the plates without making too much noise, though my stacking technique is definitely amateurish compared to his.
"Better than expected," he says when I return. "We'll practice more."
For the next two hours, I'm in a constant state of controlled panic: Filling water, clearing plates, resetting tables, providing napkins when needed, and fetching extra utensils. Mr. Vale gives instructions quickly and expects immediate execution.
"Pitcher. Now. That table needs water."
"Those plates. Clear them."
"Service station. Get a bread basket. Quickly."
During the quieter moments, Mr. Vale gives me small pieces of advice.
"Notice how that gentleman keeps looking toward the door? He's waiting for someone. Keep an eye on the entrance so you can greet his companion when they arrive."
"See how that young lady is reading? Approach from where she can see you in her peripheral vision. Never startle a focused guest."
"That couple is on a date: notice the body language, leaning in, maintained eye contact. They want privacy. Check on them less frequently unless they signal for attention."
It's like learning a choreographed dance while the dance is actively happening around you. But slowly, gradually, I start to get the rhythm. I start to anticipate what needs to be done before Mr. Vale has to tell me.
By 6 PM, I'm starting to feel confident. I've successfully cleared several tables without making catastrophic clinking sounds. I've filled countless water glasses with only one near-spill. I've even reset a few tables without needing Mr. Vale to correct everything.
"Whew," I mutter to myself as I reset a recently vacated table, replacing the used napkins with fresh ones. "Maybe this is easier than I thought."
The words leave my mouth, and I immediately feel a sense of discomfort. That cosmic sense of dread that appears when you've just tempted fate.
The front door opens, and suddenly the café's quiet ambiance is shattered by about fifteen people walking in at once. They're loud, clearly celebrating something, and they all want to sit together.
Mr. Vale's expression doesn't change, he still maintains that same calm, composed demeanor, but I can see something shift in his posture. A subtle tensing, like a conductor preparing for a particularly challenging piece.
He glances at me, and for the first time today, I see him smile. Not his usual warm, grandfatherly smile. This one is different. Sharper. Like a general before battle.
"And now," he says quietly, "your training truly begins."
I look at the growing crowd of people flooding through the door, my confidence evaporating faster than water on a hot stove.
I should have kept my big, fat, dumb mouth shut.