Urban System in America

Rex let his head fall back against the leather seat, staring at the car ceiling like it had answers. "A barista. Out of everything in the world, you throw me back behind a counter. Do you think this is funny?"

[Ding. System does not think. But if it did, yes.]

He snorted, a short bitter laugh. "Of course. Figures. You know, I've done worse. Way worse. Don't think I'm soft. In my past life, I scrubbed toilets until the smell stuck in my hair for days. I washed dishes for fourteen hours straight, hands raw, skin peeling, fingers pruned until I thought they'd never smooth out again. I hauled crates, mopped greasy restaurant floors, even worked overnight shifts loading trucks until my back nearly gave out."

The memories flickered through him. Jobs where pay barely covered meals, bosses who barked like drill sergeants, customers who treated him like furniture. "Compared to that, making lattes for some senior citizens is nothing. I don't even know if they are gonna drink lattes."

He rubbed his face with both hands, muffling a groan. "But that's not the point. The point is—I didn't come to this life to work again. I've got money now. Real money. I could splurge every single day until the sun burns out and still never run dry. And yet…" He gestured angrily at the glowing text. "Here I am. Drafted into minimum wage cosplay."

[Correction: Part-time employment. Wage not included.]

He sat up with a scowl. "That's worse! You're not even paying me for this?"

[Host will be compensated with rewards, not cash. Suggestion: consider it exposure.]

Rex barked a laugh so sharp Victor glanced back before looking away again. "Exposure. What am I, some starving artist? 'Oh wow, thank you for the opportunity to get yelled at by sorority girls who want soy foam at exactly 135 degrees.'"

Rex pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and groaned. "You know what, System? This is cruel and unusual punishment. But since it's my first assignment, I'm invoking my sacred right to at least one day of mental preparation. You can't just toss me behind a counter with a smile and a cappuccino machine like some kind of caffeinated gladiator. I need time to… I don't know, accept my tragic fate."

[Ding. Generous concession granted. Host now has one day to mentally prepare… for being thrashed by espresso machines, scalded milk, and disappointed customers.]

Rex lowered his hands slowly, staring at the words with all the bitterness of a man who'd just been served lukewarm soup. "…You didn't have to phrase it like that."

[Correction: We absolutely did. Host's suffering boosts system satisfaction index by 53]

Rex slumped against the seat. "Satisfaction? You're not even alive!"

[Alive enough to enjoy this.]

He threw his hands up. "Oh, perfect. Not only do I have to suffer, but you're actually happy about it. Just admit it…you're rooting for me to fail. You want me to drown in a sea of cappuccino foam!"

[Host exaggeration noted. Though that would be amusing, the probability of drowning in foam is low. Probability of caffeine overdose, however, remains a statistical possibility. Recommend hydration.]

Rex let out a strangled laugh. "Hydration. Fantastic. I'm dying of humiliation and you're handing out health tips." He flopped sideways in the seat like a man preparing to waste away. "One day to prepare… what am I supposed to do, write my will? Dear friends and family, 'Here lies Rex. He lived rich, he died poor... slain in battle by a vintage espresso machine with a grudge.'"

[System will ensure obituary is tastefully worded. Suggested epitaph: 'He lived large, but couldn't handle the grande.']

Rex sat bolt upright, stabbing a finger at the air. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously just make a coffee pun at my funeral?!"

[Affirmative. Additional pun reserves standing by. Would Host like to hear the one about espresso and depression?]

Rex groaned, sliding lower in his seat until he practically melted into the upholstery. "No. Absolutely not. One day to prepare, you said. Fine. I'll use it to practice not strangling you when you drop another pun."

[Acknowledged. Warning: practice unlikely to succeed.]

Rex muttered under his breath, "I hate you."

System affection level:+5.

He groaned louder, dragging his hands down his face until his cheeks squished. "Seriously! I used to dream about yachts and champagne. Now I'm having nightmares about latte foam." He let his head thump back against the seat with a dull thud.

Rex leaned back, resting his head against the leather seat, eyes half-shut. His mind was still racing, but exhaustion was catching up faster than panic. Slowly, the ridiculous weight pressing on him eased.

With a grunt, he pushed the partition button, the glass sliding down with a smooth hiss, cutting the driver's compartment back into view.

Kaelan flicked his eyes up to the mirror. "Oh... boss. You need something?"

Rex tilted his head, expression deadpan. "Yeah. Directions. Where exactly are you taking me?"

Kaelan coughed lightly, clearly caught. "… Around the block. In circles."

Rex gave him a long, withering stare. "Circles? You've been orbiting the same street like some lost UFO this whole time?"

"Circles are calming," Victor defended with a shrug.

Rex groaned, rubbing his temples. "Unbelievable."

'My life is falling apart and my chauffeur moonlights as a carousel operator." He thought mentally' and waved a hand dismissively.

"Forget it. Just head toward the university."

'Maybe watching normal students with normal lives will remind me what happiness looks like.'

Kaelan nodded wordlessly, hands tightening on the wheel as he steered the car out of its pointless loop and onto the road toward campus. The car hummed forward, leaving Rex to collapse back into the seat, glaring up at the ceiling.

Rex sank back into the leather seat, staring out the window, thoughts drifting reluctantly to lace curtains, dusty counters, and a silent café where the biggest excitement was watching dust settle.

He could already picture himself in an apron, being heckled by senior citizens for burning the milk. And on top of that, he had to somehow conjure two hundred cups of coffee in a place where even pigeons refused to line up.

Rex shut his eyes and muttered, "I hate you."

[Duly noted. Host hatred level: optimal.]

…

On the other hand, watching the insanely luxury car pulled away with a soft purr, its glossy body vanishing into the L.A. traffic like a predator slipping into the jungle. Aren stood on the curb, still rooted in place, staring at the disappearing taillights as though his brain hadn't quite received the memo that it was all over.

For a moment, he didn't move. His head was still spinning from everything that had happened.

This morning, he'd woken up in a sagging thatched shack that technically qualified as a "home" if you ignored the leaking roof, the creaky cot, and the cockroach that liked to patrol his kitchen counter like it owned the place. He'd agonized over spending twenty bucks on a taxi, clutching his wallet like he was holding his own lifeline, and it actually was.

Twenty dollars. That had been enough to make his chest tighten with guilt.

And now?

(End of Chapter)