Chapter 6: THE FIRST CLIENT
The next morning, I took the subway to Brooklyn.
Karen Mitchell's string had led east from my apartment, and after an hour of following its ghost-like trail through crowded trains and unfamiliar streets, I found myself standing in Park Slope on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by brownstones and coffee shops and the particular brand of gentrified charm that made real estate agents weep with joy.
The string didn't point to a specific building. That wasn't how it worked—at least, not at my current level. Instead, it gave me a direction, a sense of closer or farther, like a game of hot and cold played with the fundamental forces of romantic destiny.
[String Tracking Active]
[Target: Karen Mitchell's Primary Connection]
[Current Range: Approximately 200 meters]
[Direction: Northeast]
[FP Cost: 5 per hour of active tracking]
I walked. Past a bakery that smelled like fresh bread and possibility. Past a bookstore with a cat sleeping in the window. Past a yoga studio, a vintage clothing shop, a place that sold only different kinds of honey.
The string pulled stronger.
[Target Range: 50 meters]
[Direction: North]
There was a coffee shop on the corner. Not a chain—one of those independent places with exposed brick and baristas who looked like they had opinions about pour-over technique. The kind of place that Karen Mitchell would probably love.
I pushed through the door.
The string flared.
[Target Located]
[Individual: Male, 29 years old, professional]
[Occupation: Financial Analyst]
[Current Romantic Status: Single, not actively seeking]
[Compatibility with Karen Mitchell: 72%]
[Dealbreakers: None detected]
[Note: Target demonstrates similar values re: honesty, independence, and genuine connection. Strong foundation potential.]
He was sitting at a table by the window, laptop open, coffee cooling beside him. Dark hair, glasses, the kind of face that was pleasant without being remarkable. He wore a sweater that looked expensive but not flashy—the uniform of someone who had money but didn't need to prove it.
His string—the other end of Karen's—pulsed steadily. Waiting for something he didn't know was coming.
I ordered a coffee I didn't need and found a seat where I could observe without being obvious.
His name was Daniel Chen. I learned this over the next twenty minutes by shamelessly eavesdropping on his phone call with what sounded like a colleague. He worked at an investment firm—different from Karen's, but the same general world. He was complaining, gently, about a project that had gone sideways due to someone else's dishonesty.
"I just don't understand why people lie about things that are going to come out anyway," he said. "It's not even smart lying. It's lazy lying."
Karen's voice echoed in my memory: "I need someone who tells the truth even when it's hard."
Seventy-two percent compatibility was starting to feel conservative.
When Daniel hung up, I made my move.
"Sorry to bother you." I approached his table with what I hoped was a friendly, non-threatening expression. "I'm doing some market research for a new business in the area. Do you have five minutes?"
He looked at me like I was trying to sell him something. Which, in a way, I was.
"What kind of business?"
"Matchmaking. Professional matchmaking for people who are tired of apps."
His expression shifted—surprise, interest, and the faintest hint of embarrassment that I recognized. The look of someone who had been on too many bad dates and was too proud to admit it.
"I'm not really looking for anything like that."
"Not trying to sell you anything. Just gathering data. What do you think of when you hear 'matchmaker'?"
He considered. "Yenta from Fiddler on the Roof. Old ladies meddling in people's love lives."
"Fair. What would make you actually consider using a service like that?"
"I don't know." He closed his laptop halfway, giving me more attention than I'd expected. "Someone who actually listened, I guess? The few times I've tried apps, it all felt so... transactional. Like online shopping for humans."
"And in person?"
"I don't meet people in person anymore. Work is work, gym is gym, and I come here to not be social." He gestured at the coffee shop. "It's pathetic, right? Twenty-nine years old, decent job, decent apartment, and I can't figure out how to meet someone who isn't auditioning for the role of girlfriend."
"It's not pathetic. It's New York City. Everyone here is too busy being impressive to actually connect."
He laughed. Short, surprised, genuine.
"That's... yeah. That's pretty much it."
I took a risk. "Would you want to be on file? No obligation, no fee. I'm building a roster of people who are open to meeting someone if the right introduction comes along. If I find someone who fits, I reach out. If not, you never hear from me again."
Daniel Chen looked at me for a long moment. Measuring.
"You're not going to sell my information to telemarketers or something?"
"I'm one guy with a card table for an office. I couldn't sell your information if I wanted to."
Another laugh. This one warmer.
"Okay. Fine. What do you need?"
I spent twenty minutes with Daniel Chen in that Park Slope coffee shop. I learned about his values, his priorities, his quiet frustration with a dating culture that rewarded performance over authenticity. I learned that he volunteered at an animal shelter on weekends, that he called his parents every Sunday, that he'd ended his last relationship because she'd lied about wanting kids and he couldn't trust her after that.
Everything he said reinforced what the system had already shown me.
Karen Mitchell and Daniel Chen were going to be great together.
I just had to get them in the same room.
[New Contact Added: Daniel Chen]
[Status: Potential Match for Karen Mitchell]
[Compatibility: 72% (confirmed)]
[Introduction Strategy: Casual setting recommended. Avoid pressure. Allow organic chemistry to develop.]
On the subway ride home, I started planning.
Karen liked coffee shops. Daniel basically lived in them. If I could arrange a "coincidental" meeting at a place they'd both feel comfortable...
My phone buzzed. Text from Barney.
"EMERGENCY. MacLaren's. NOW."
This was followed by five more texts in rapid succession:
"Not actual emergency."
"But urgent."
"I need your weird powers."
"The blonde came back."
"COME IMMEDIATELY."
I sighed, put my planning on hold, and headed for the bar.
MacLaren's was half-empty when I arrived—Saturday afternoon wasn't prime drinking time for the MacLaren's crowd. But Barney was there, wedged into the corner of the booth, vibrating with a combination of panic and excitement.
"The blonde," he hissed when I sat down. "Jessica. She's here. With the friend. The one whose number you got."
I looked toward the bar. Karen wasn't there—she'd texted me earlier saying she had plans—but Jessica was. And she wasn't alone. A man sat next to her, their body language intimate. Comfortable.
His string connected to hers. Thick. Established.
"Is that her boyfriend?" Barney demanded.
"Looks like it."
"But she was here alone on Tuesday! You said her string went to Queens!"
"Her string does go to Queens. That's probably where he lives."
Barney's face cycled through several emotions: confusion, outrage, and finally something that might have been genuine disappointment.
"So she was never available."
"Not even a little bit."
"Why didn't she just say that?"
"Did you ask?"
"I—" He stopped. Replayed something in his head. "No. I just... started."
"That's the problem with your approach, Barney. You treat women like targets. You never find out if they want to be hit."
The words came out harder than I intended. But Barney didn't snap back. He just sat there, looking at Jessica and her boyfriend with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"The plays work," he said finally. "They've always worked."
"For what?"
"For... getting women."
"Getting them to do what? Sleep with you once and never call again? That's not success, Barney. That's just expensive loneliness with better stories."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far.
Then he laughed. It wasn't his usual performative laugh—the one he used to deflect and charm and control the room. It was smaller. Rawer.
"You know what, matchmaker? You're kind of a dick."
"I've been told."
"But you're not wrong." He flagged down the waiter. "Whiskey. Neat. And whatever he's having."
We sat in silence while the drinks arrived. Barney stared at his glass like it contained answers he wasn't ready to read.
"There's someone for you," I said eventually. "I can't see who yet. The future's not... clear. But the thread's there. You just have to become someone who deserves to find it."
"And how do I do that?"
"Stop performing. Start connecting. Learn the difference between getting someone's attention and earning their trust."
He downed half his whiskey in one swallow.
"That sounds like a lot of work."
"Good things usually are."
His string—the obscured one, leading somewhere I couldn't trace—flickered. Just for a moment. Like something had shifted.
[Connection Noted: Barney Stinson]
[Influence Detected: Minor positive trajectory adjustment]
[Primary match status: Still obscured]
[Note: Subject demonstrates initial receptivity to genuine connection values. Monitor for continued development.]
Barney finished his drink. Set the glass down. Looked at me with something I hadn't expected: genuine curiosity.
"Teach me."
"What?"
"Whatever you do. The reading people thing. Teach me. Not for the plays—for real. Teach me how to actually know if someone's interested."
"I'm not sure it works like that."
"Try anyway. I'll pay you. Whatever your rate is."
I thought about it. Barney Stinson—the legendary Barney, the player, the master of manipulation—asking me to teach him how to form real connections.
It wasn't what I'd expected. But then, nothing about this life was what I'd expected.
"Okay," I said. "But not for money. Consider it... a friend favor."
Barney's eyebrows shot up. "We're friends?"
"We're getting there."
He grinned. The real grin, not the performative one. "Legendary."
We ordered nachos. Barney told me stories about his worst rejection moments—a category with more entries than I would have guessed. I listened, asked questions, occasionally pointed out where he'd gone wrong.
It wasn't matchmaking, exactly. It was something else. Something that felt almost like mentoring.
My phone buzzed. Text from Karen.
"Thank you again for yesterday. I feel hopeful for the first time in two years. That's worth way more than $300."
I smiled at the screen.
[Quest Progress: Make Your First Match]
[Step 1: Client Acquired — Complete]
[Step 2: Compatible Partner Located — Complete]
[Step 3: Introduction Arranged — Pending]
[Reward Preview: 500 EXP, +1 Karma, Skill Enhancement: String Memory Lv.2]
"What's that smile about?" Barney leaned over, trying to see my phone. "Hot date?"
"Business update. My first real client."
"The blonde's friend? Karen?"
"Don't get any ideas."
"Wouldn't dream of it." But he was already scheming—I could see it in his eyes. "Can I come watch? When you do the match thing?"
"Absolutely not."
"What if I observe from a distance? Like a nature documentary?"
"No, Barney."
"What if—"
"No."
He settled back into the booth, unsatisfied but accepting.
Through the window, the city hummed with a thousand stories I couldn't see yet. Strings connecting strangers to futures they couldn't imagine. Love waiting around corners, in coffee shops, in chance encounters that were anything but random.
I had a client who deserved to find something real.
I had a match who didn't know he was about to have his life changed.
And I had a Barney Stinson asking me to teach him how to be human.
Tomorrow, I'd start figuring out how to get Karen and Daniel in the same room. Tonight, I'd finish these nachos and pretend I knew what I was doing.
The system chimed softly in the back of my mind.
[Recommendation: Arrange introduction within 7 days for optimal timing window.]
[FP Status: 55/100]
[Current Level: 2]
[EXP: 450/500]
Fifty experience points from level three. One successful match away from progress.
I could do this.
I could actually do this.
Barney was saying something about a new tie he'd ordered. Marshall and Lily arrived, bickering about seating charts for their wedding. Ted showed up with Robin, and their strings flickered between them like a conversation in a language neither of them could translate.
I sat in my corner of the booth, back to the wall, watching my new friends live their lives.
It felt, for the first time since waking up in a dead man's body, like home.
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