Nobody woke up in Graybridge and thought, I can’t wait to go to a government surplus auction today. That kind of excitement was reserved for people who collected antique spoons, enjoyed tax season, or had never once been betrayed by a folding chair. Unfortunately, necessity didn’t care about vibes, and the guild’s necessity had a clipboard and a moral spine. Seraphine Park stood in the lobby at eight in the morning with her coat on, her hair neat, her expression steady, and her binder tucked under one arm like she could bludgeon despair with it. “We need a functioning terminal,” she said, voice precise enough to cut glass. “We need secure access. We need to submit the grant application. We need to stop losing to online forms.”

  Regis Vale sat at the front desk with a cup of coffee that had cooled into a bitter reminder. The coffee filters had been acquired, the sacred paper circles now stacked in a box that felt like a trophy and an insult at the same time. He stared at his cup as if it had personally conspired with the universe. “I have rewritten reality,” he said, clipped and cold humor braided into the words. “I have crushed enemies that worshiped stars. And now I am being defeated by a submission portal that has a captcha.”

  Juno Alvarez dragged a chair closer and sat backward on it like she was about to pitch a reality show. “This is your villain arc,” she announced. “You versus the Department of Administration.”

  Caleb Ward hovered by the door with his hood up, earnest and careful, already holding a bag with bottled water and a small first aid kit Seraphine had assembled from whatever they could afford. “It’s not that bad,” he offered, sincerity doing its best. “It’s just… buying a computer.”

  Nia Kade leaned against the wall and looked at the window like she was reading the street. “It’s buying a computer in Graybridge,” she corrected, low-key and sharp. “That’s like buying a boat in a desert, except the desert has criminals and opinions.”

  Otto Pritchard bounced into the lobby from the hallway with a tool belt that looked like it had been built out of hope and stolen screws. “I’m ready,” he said, excited and rambling. “I made a checklist. I made a list of possible power supply failures. I made a list of things that might catch on fire, and I’m proud to say the list is shorter than yesterday.”

  Mara Quell stood near the door, arms folded, silent shield mode, gaze calm and unreadable. She didn’t say anything until Otto said the word fire, then she glanced at him, and that glance was a full conversation. Otto swallowed and immediately toned himself down by half.

  Seraphine opened her binder. “Government surplus auction,” she continued, steady. “Everything is documented. Receipts. Legal chain. Secure procurement. We will acquire a workstation and, if we are lucky, a printer.”

  Otto’s eyes widened. “A printer? The forbidden machine.”

  Regis lifted his coffee cup and took a slow sip, as if bracing his soul. “If we acquire a printer,” he said, “you will not touch it.”

  Otto pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed. “That’s discrimination.”

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “It’s safety.”

  Regis stood, coat already on, posture snapping into command. “We go,” he said. “We bid. We win. We leave. We return. We submit the grant. We do not die. We do not get filmed doing something embarrassing near a pallet of confiscated office chairs.”

  Juno’s grin widened. “You say that like it’s optional.”

  A bright ping flashed at the edge of Regis’s vision like a smug little bell. StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!] A bubble of confetti threatened to exist in his peripheral, and Regis felt the urge to commit violence against the concept of user experience.

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed slightly at Regis’s momentary stillness. “Ignore it,” she said, firm.

  Regis spoke through his teeth. “I am.”

  Nia pushed off the wall. “Let’s go buy our way out of bureaucracy,” she said.

  The auction was held in a low-slung municipal warehouse on the edge of downtown, the kind of place designed for forklifts and regret. The exterior looked like a concrete shrug. The parking lot was full of cars that had seen better decades, along with two pristine SUVs that screamed somebody here had money and loved the thrill of taking things from people who didn’t. A banner hung crookedly above the entrance that read Graybridge Civic Surplus and Seized Property Auction, and underneath in smaller print, All Sales Final. No Refunds. No Curses Guaranteed.

  Juno pointed at the curse line as they walked in. “That feels like an invitation.”

  Otto’s grin returned. “I want a cursed stapler.”

  Seraphine’s gaze stayed forward. “No cursed anything.”

  Inside, the warehouse smelled like old cardboard, dust, and the faint chemical sweetness of cleaning solution that had given up halfway through its job. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a constant, unhappy hum, and the concrete floor had been marked with yellow tape lanes that implied someone had once believed in order. Long folding tables held piles of items tagged with lot numbers. A row of office chairs sat lined up like a jury. A stack of metal filing cabinets towered in the corner like a monument to paperwork’s endurance. There were also, because Graybridge was Graybridge, three items that looked like they had been pulled directly out of someone’s villain phase.

  Juno stopped at one table and read a tag. “Lot 34. ‘Smoke Machine, industrial grade.’”

  Otto leaned in. “That’s for dramatic entrances.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “That’s for arson with flair.”

  Caleb picked up another tag and frowned. “Lot 35. ‘Cape, red, one size, minor scorch marks.’”

  Juno gasped. “The cape economy is thriving.”

  Seraphine moved them along with a look. “We are here for a workstation and a printer. We are not here to build a costume.”

  Regis said nothing. His eyes were scanning, measuring. He’d walked through war councils with more warmth than this room had, and yet the stakes felt absurdly high because a working computer would change the guild’s survival math more than any single street fight. He spotted the workstation area near the back, a fenced section with electronics stacked on pallets: monitors wrapped in plastic, towers with scuffed sides, keyboards in bins like dead fish, and a few printers that looked like they’d fought in a war and lost.

  Seraphine’s posture straightened. “There,” she said, and it sounded like hope wearing a seatbelt.

  A man in a municipal vest stood near the fenced section with a clipboard and a bored expression. “Electronics lots are over here,” he called, voice flat. “Some items may be missing power cords. Some may require repair. No testing on site. No returns. If it smokes when you plug it in, that’s between you and your gods.”

  Otto whispered, reverent. “This is my church.”

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “No.”

  They got their bidder number from a folding table near the front. Seraphine handled paperwork like it was a sacred ritual, filling forms out with neat block letters and controlled breathing. Regis stood beside her with his hands clasped behind his back, looking like a man who could intimidate a printer into compliance. The clerk slid them a laminated bidder paddle and a tiny receipt book. “Branch Zero Guild Hall,” the clerk read, scanning their registration. His eyes flicked up, recognition sparking. “Oh. You’re the broke guild.”

  Juno leaned in. “We’re the improving guild,” she corrected.

  The clerk shrugged. “Same thing. Good luck.”

  Regis’s smile was polite and sharp. “Luck is for people who cannot plan.”

  The auction began with furniture, because bureaucracy always started with something nobody wanted and somehow made it dramatic. A man with a microphone stood on a small platform and spoke at a speed designed to keep people off balance. “All right, folks, lot one, office chairs, set of ten, some squeak, some lean, all have stories, start me at ten, ten, ten, do I hear ten, ten, fifteen, fifteen, twenty, twenty, sold, paddle twelve, next lot, filing cabinets, three deep drawers, two sticky, one smells like divorce, start me at five.”

  Juno whispered, “He’s doing stand-up.”

  Nia’s tone stayed low. “He’s doing coping.”

  Seraphine watched the numbers and the crowd like she was already calculating their budget in her head. “We can’t overbid,” she said, steady. “We have to keep funds for emergency supplies. Fire extinguisher. Med kit.”

  Otto perked up. “We already have a tiny fire extinguisher.”

  Seraphine’s gaze snapped to him. “We need more than tiny.”

  Regis didn’t look away from the electronics section. “We will win what we need,” he said, clipped, cold humor. “At a price that does not insult me.”

  Juno grinned. “Everything insults you.”

  When the auction reached electronics, the energy shifted. People leaned forward. The pristine SUV owners drifted closer. A few resellers with sharp eyes and sharper phones began whispering to each other, already calculating profit margins. Seraphine held their paddle tight like it could protect her from greed.

  “Lot eighteen,” the auctioneer called, voice rising. “Workstation bundle. Tower, monitor, keyboard, mouse. Condition unknown. Start me at twenty.”

  A reseller raised his paddle immediately. “Twenty.”

  Another raised. “Twenty-five.”

  Seraphine lifted her paddle. “Thirty.”

  The reseller glanced at her, then smirked. “Thirty-five.”

  Regis’s gaze slid to the man like a blade turning. The reseller was mid-thirties, neat beard, smug posture. He wore a jacket with a logo that suggested he flipped electronics as a hobby and souls as a side hustle. Regis raised their paddle. “Forty,” he said, calm.

  The reseller smirked wider. “Fifty.”

  Seraphine’s jaw tightened. “We can’t get into a bidding war.”

  Regis didn’t lower the paddle. “We can,” he said softly. “We simply win.”

  Nia murmured, “He’s going to do the thing.”

  Juno whispered, thrilled, “He’s going to do the thing.”

  Regis stepped forward half a pace, and it wasn’t magic, not overtly. It was presence. It was the weight of someone who had made decisions that turned cities into ash and then slept fine afterward. He looked at the reseller and smiled with perfect corporate politeness, the kind that lived in HR emails right before someone lost their job. “You’re buying unknown condition surplus,” Regis said, voice smooth. “Your margin depends on you acquiring it at a price that allows profit after repair and resale. If you push beyond that, you are simply donating money to the municipality in exchange for a project.”

  The reseller blinked, thrown. “What?”

  Regis tilted his head slightly, as if he were explaining something simple to someone slow. “You will not profit if you continue,” he said. “You will lose time. You will lose money. You will lose, and you will do it in public.”

  The reseller’s smirk faltered. “This is an auction.”

  Regis nodded once. “Yes.”

  The reseller raised his paddle again, stubborn. “Sixty.”

  Regis lifted his paddle. “Sixty-one.”

  The reseller laughed. “You’re really going to fight over one dollar?”

  Regis’s smile sharpened. “Yes.”

  The room, absurdly, went quiet around that exchange. People liked drama, and even in a warehouse full of broken chairs and dusty filing cabinets, drama found oxygen. The auctioneer leaned forward, delighted by tension. “Sixty-one, I got sixty-one, do I hear seventy, seventy, any seventy, going once, going twice.”

  The reseller hesitated. His eyes flicked to the tower, then to Regis’s face, then away like he’d just realized the broke guild boss looked like he could sue someone into poverty without raising his voice. The reseller lowered his paddle slowly.

  “Sold,” the auctioneer barked, “paddle sixty-seven, sixty-one dollars, lot eighteen!”

  Seraphine exhaled, controlled relief. “That was not pocket change.”

  Regis’s voice stayed dry. “It was pocket change for him.”

  Juno grinned. “You bullied him with math.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “We love a fiscally responsible threat.”

  They moved quickly to the pickup counter and claimed their lot tag. The workstation bundle sat on a dolly behind the fence, dusty and battered, but complete. The monitor had a scuff on the corner. The tower had scratches and a sticker that said Property of Graybridge Municipal Records, which felt ominous. The keyboard looked like someone had eaten over it for years. It was beautiful.

  Seraphine ran a hand over the tower like it was a rescued animal. “This might actually work,” she whispered.

  Otto leaned in close, eyes shining. “I can stabilize the power supply. I can open it up, check the capacitors, reroute the—”

  “No,” everyone said at the same time, and it hit Otto like a wave.

  Otto blinked rapidly. “Okay. Okay. I hear you. I will not stabilize. I will… I will emotionally support the tower.”

  Mara nodded once. “Good.”

  A printer lot came up right after, and Seraphine tried for it. It became obvious very quickly that printers were treated like sacred treasure in Graybridge. People bid on them with desperation. Resellers circled like sharks. The auctioneer’s voice rose, delighted, because printers caused chaos even before they were plugged in. Seraphine’s paddle lifted, then lowered as numbers climbed, and her jaw tightened until she finally shook her head. “We can’t,” she said, steady but frustrated. “Not today.”

  Regis looked at the printer pallet, then at Seraphine. “We will survive without a printer.”

  Otto whispered, “But my soul needs paper.”

  Regis’s gaze snapped to him. “Your soul needs supervision.”

  They paid, got a receipt, and rolled their workstation toward the exit on a borrowed dolly that squeaked like it was complaining. The warehouse doors were open to the loading yard, where the air was colder and smelled like wet asphalt and exhaust. A chain-link gate marked the exit lane, controlled by a motorized arm and a sliding metal barrier that looked like it had been installed fifteen years ago and resented being expected to move. Several buyers pushed carts and dollies toward it, creating a slow, cramped funnel. Seraphine kept the receipt clutched in her hand like it was a talisman. Caleb walked ahead to make space, earnest and protective, quietly telling people, “Excuse us, sorry, thank you,” like apologies could part crowds.

  Nia’s eyes flicked across the yard, scanning faces. “We’re being watched,” she murmured.

  Juno’s grin flickered. “By who?”

  Nia didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze landed on two men leaning near a stack of pallets, pretending to scroll on their phones. Their posture was too relaxed, their eyes too sharp. One wore a cap pulled low. The other had a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Baron Silt doesn’t do subtle,” Nia said quietly. “But his people try.”

  Regis’s expression didn’t change. “Let them try.”

  The line crept forward. The exit gate arm lifted for the buyer ahead, then started to lower, then jerked, then stopped halfway like it had forgotten its job. The sliding barrier beside it shuddered and made a grinding noise. The buyer in front frowned and backed up, annoyed. The gate arm suddenly dropped all the way, slamming down hard enough to make everyone flinch. A murmur rose. Someone cursed. The municipal worker near the gate slapped the control box with his palm like violence could fix it.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Otto whispered, excited despite the tension, “That’s sabotage.”

  Seraphine’s voice went tight. “We cannot afford an accident.”

  Caleb stepped forward instinctively, eyes scanning the crowd. “Everyone, back up a little,” he called, voice sincere but firm. “Give it space.”

  The gate control box sparked.

  A small device, wedged into the side panel, beeped once. It was subtle, the kind of beep that sounded like a battery tester, but Regis heard it like a gunshot because his mind was already in threat mode. A “minor accident” was exactly how organized crime loved to hurt people while pretending it was fate. The barrier shuddered again, then suddenly lurched, sliding sideways on its track with a harsh screech. A buyer screamed and stumbled back. A stack of metal chairs on a dolly tilted as the ground vibration hit. Panic rippled through the line.

  Mara moved first, because Mara always moved first when something threatened civilians. She stepped toward the sliding barrier and put both hands on it, bracing her feet on wet asphalt. Her posture was calm, controlled, and then she shoved.

  Metal groaned. The barrier resisted for half a second, then gave, not because it was designed to, but because Mara’s strength treated design as a suggestion. She forced the barrier back into alignment with a slow, brutal push that made the whole gate assembly shudder. The motion wasn’t flashy. It was just power applied with purpose.

  Caleb surged into the crowd at the same time, arms out, guiding people back, putting his body between them and the moving machinery. “Back up!” he called, voice loud now, protective instinct blazing. “Please, back up! Give us room!”

  A woman with a cart full of office chairs stumbled, and Caleb caught the cart and steadied it, still apologizing even while doing emergency crowd control. “Sorry, sorry, I’ve got it, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

  Juno tried to dart forward to get a look at the control box, but her foot hit a slick patch of oil near the curb. She yelped, windmilled, and her whole body did that comedic slip that would’ve been viral on its own if anyone had gotten a clean angle. Her boot came down hard as she tried to catch herself, and it connected with something small and plastic near the gate track.

  The sabotaging device popped loose and skittered across the asphalt with a clack, tumbling end over end like it was trying to escape responsibility.

  Juno froze mid-recovery and stared at her foot. “Did I just kick the sabotage into evidence?”

  Nia’s eyes sharpened. “Yes.”

  Otto’s grin lit up, thrilled. “You’re a genius!”

  Juno pointed at him. “I am an artist.”

  Regis moved like he’d been waiting for that exact moment. He stepped in, scooped the device up without touching it directly by using a scrap of receipt paper like an improvised glove, and held it up just long enough to let several phones in the crowd catch it. People were filming now, because of course they were. Graybridge didn’t miss a chance to record potential disaster. Regis didn’t stop them. In fact, he angled the device slightly so the camera lenses could see the crude wiring and the cheap brand label on the battery pack. Evidence was optics too.

  Nia stepped close, voice low and calm, micro-illusions flickering like a breath. The crowd’s cameras subtly shifted, attention nudged away from the team looking panicked and toward the device looking incriminating. The difference was small, but small was enough. “Keep filming that,” she murmured to one person without looking at them. “Not us.”

  Seraphine’s face was tight, but her voice stayed steady, precise. “Everyone stay back,” she called, then turned to the municipal worker. “Call law enforcement. This is criminal interference. Do not touch the control box.”

  The worker blinked, confused, then nodded with sudden fear. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

  Mara still held the barrier with both hands like she was holding back the concept of malfunction. She looked at Regis. “Gate?”

  Regis nodded once. “Hold it. We move through.”

  Caleb guided the civilians through first, shielding them, making space, taking the brunt of anxiety with his body and voice. “Go ahead,” he said, sincere. “Slowly. You’re okay. Just go.”

  Juno pointed at the two men by the pallets. “Hey,” she called out, loud, “you guys look like you’re about to pretend you didn’t see anything.”

  The men’s heads snapped up, startled, and then they did exactly what guilty people did when attention found them. They moved. Fast. They turned and pushed through the yard toward a side exit.

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. He did not chase. Chasing was theatrical. Chasing made you look reactive. Instead, he pulled out Seraphine’s receipt book, tore a sheet free, and started writing with brisk, sharp strokes even as chaos settled. He wrote timestamps, descriptions, witness counts, itemized their purchased lot, noted the gate mechanism’s behavior, the appearance of the device, the flight of the suspected enforcers. It was an immaculate incident report born in real time.

  Juno stared. “Are you filing paperwork during an attempted murder?”

  Regis didn’t look up. “Attempted accident,” he corrected, clipped and cold. “And yes.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “He’s weaponizing bureaucracy.”

  Seraphine glanced at him, suspicion and approval wrestling in her eyes. “Make it clean,” she said.

  Regis’s pen didn’t stop. “It will be devastating.”

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!] Confetti threatened Regis’s peripheral again, and he felt the urge to tear the air in half. He ignored it with the disciplined fury of a man who refused to be distracted by glitter while filing a report that could ruin someone’s week permanently.

  They got the workstation out. The dolly squeaked the whole way as if it wanted credit. The walk back through Graybridge felt longer, the sky darker, the city’s damp streets more hostile now that the underworld had shown its hand. Seraphine kept glancing at the receipt and the workstation tower like she was afraid it would vanish. Caleb stayed slightly behind, watching for anyone following. Juno kept turning around to see if the enforcers had doubled back, joking loudly about how she should get a NEX bonus for “accidental forensic kick.” Otto kept murmuring ideas about how to secure the gate and how to build anti-sabotage systems that definitely would not explode. Mara carried the workstation tower for the last three blocks without being asked, because the dolly wheel finally snapped and gave up, and Mara treated the heavy metal box like it weighed nothing.

  Back at the guild hall, the lobby looked almost cozy in comparison to the warehouse yard. Almost. The chandelier flickered in greeting. The dead printer sat in its corner like a burned offering. The coffee station smelled like stale victory. Seraphine directed the team like a conductor with a tight budget. “Table cleared,” she ordered. “Hands washed. Tower here. Monitor there. Keyboard wiped, please. We are not bringing three years of municipal crumbs into our building.”

  Otto lifted a finger. “I can open it and clean the internals with compressed air.”

  “No,” everyone said at the same time again.

  Otto sighed, dramatically wounded. “Fine. I will watch. I will admire. I will not touch.”

  Regis placed the incident report on the desk, then pulled the device from its paper wrap and set it in a clear plastic bag Seraphine had produced like she carried evidence bags in her purse for fun. Seraphine’s eyebrows lifted. “Where did you get that?”

  Seraphine didn’t answer right away, which meant it was either from the supply closet or from her soul. “It was in our starter kit,” she said finally. “Apparently the System assumes crime will find us.”

  Regis’s smile was thin. “It was correct.”

  A knock hit the front door before they could even plug the workstation in. It was firm, precise, the knock of someone who never knocked casually. Seraphine froze, then straightened, and Regis felt the distinct irritation of being visited by consequences in person.

  Clarissa Wye stepped into the lobby with her rolling suitcase of binders like she’d been summoned by the scent of progress. Her coat was immaculate. Her hair was neat. Her smile was the same calm threat as always, a polite curve that suggested she enjoyed ruin when it was justified. She paused just inside the threshold, eyes sweeping the lobby, and her gaze landed on the workstation tower sitting on their table like a newborn miracle. Her expression shifted very slightly, like she’d bitten into something unexpectedly sweet and was annoyed about it.

  Seraphine stepped forward, formal and steady. “Auditor Wye.”

  Clarissa’s voice was crisp, legal calm. “Park. Vale.” Her eyes flicked to Regis. “You acquired equipment.”

  Regis’s tone stayed clipped, cold humor lurking under the words. “We did.”

  Clarissa’s gaze drifted to the evidence bag with the sabotage device. “And you acquired… that.”

  Regis nodded once. “Also yes.”

  Clarissa’s eyes narrowed, pleased in a way she would deny. “Explain.”

  Seraphine took over, because she always did when truth and procedure were involved. She laid out the auction, the purchase, the gate malfunction, the device, the fleeing suspects, the civilian risk. She spoke with steady precision, not rambling, anchoring each point like she was building a case in real time. Regis handed Clarissa the incident report, and Clarissa took it with two fingers like it was holy scripture.

  Clarissa read fast. Her eyes moved with sharp efficiency, absorbing timestamps and witness counts, scanning the language. Her brow lifted once, just a fraction, and Regis knew he’d hit the right tone. The report wasn’t emotional. It wasn’t dramatic. It was cold and clean and ruthless, written to make bureaucracy hungry.

  “You wrote this,” Clarissa said, and it was both accusation and reluctant respect.

  Regis’s smile was polite. “I am literate.”

  Clarissa’s mouth twitched. “This is… thorough.”

  Nia leaned against the wall and murmured, “He did it like he was filing a complaint against the universe.”

  Clarissa’s gaze flicked to Nia. “And this device?”

  Seraphine held up the bag. “We request chain-of-custody handling. We want it logged. We want an investigation.”

  Clarissa nodded slowly. “Interference with public procurement, potential endangerment of civilians, sabotage of municipal property.” Her eyes lifted to Regis again. “You are attempting to weaponize my bureaucracy against the underworld.”

  Regis didn’t deny it. “Yes.”

  Clarissa’s smile sharpened, and for the first time it looked almost amused. “Good.”

  Seraphine blinked. “Good?”

  Clarissa’s tone stayed legal calm. “If criminals want to play games with public systems, we punish them with process. Process is patient. Process is relentless. Process does not sleep.” She tapped the report with one finger. “This gives me leverage.”

  Juno’s eyes widened. “Did we just make the Auditor our friend?”

  Clarissa’s gaze slid to Juno. “I am not your friend.”

  Juno nodded quickly. “Right. Totally. But like, spiritually?”

  Clarissa ignored her and looked at the workstation again, that faint offended edge returning. “Progress,” she said, and the word tasted bitter in her mouth. “I came to deliver updated compliance requirements. I did not expect… visible improvement.”

  Regis’s tone was dry. “That must be difficult for you.”

  Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. “Do not mock me.”

  Regis smiled faintly. “I am always mocking.”

  Clarissa inhaled slowly, then spoke with crisp finality. “You have thirty days. This does not change. However, if you submit that grant application and secure funds for required fixes, I will revise my risk rating.”

  Seraphine’s shoulders eased a fraction. “We intend to submit today.”

  Clarissa’s gaze shifted to Otto, who was vibrating with excitement near the workstation. “Who will install it?”

  Otto lifted his hand, eager. “I can stabilize the power supply.”

  Clarissa’s eyes went flat.

  Seraphine, Nia, Caleb, Mara, and Regis all said, “No,” in perfect unison again, and Clarissa’s mouth twitched like she approved of collective discipline.

  Regis pointed at Caleb. “He plugs it in.”

  Caleb blinked. “Me?”

  Regis nodded. “You have the least history of fire.”

  Otto huffed. “That’s so unfair.”

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “It’s accurate.”

  Clarissa stepped back, suitcase still by the door. “I will return for the device,” she said. “And I will file the appropriate escalation.” Her eyes flicked to Regis one last time. “Do not waste this.”

  Regis’s smile stayed polite. “I never waste leverage.”

  Clarissa paused as if considering whether to correct him, then simply left, rolling her suitcase out into the wet Graybridge air like a threat on wheels. The door closed behind her, and the lobby’s tension eased into something like exhausted relief.

  Seraphine clapped once, brisk. “Plug it in.”

  Caleb approached the workstation like it might bite him. He set the tower carefully on the table, connected the monitor, connected the keyboard, connected the mouse, then held the power cable like it was a live snake. He glanced at Otto. “You’re sure it won’t explode?”

  Otto put both hands up. “I did not touch it. Therefore, it will probably live.”

  Caleb looked at Mara. “If it explodes?”

  Mara nodded once. “I’ll move it.”

  Caleb swallowed, then plugged it into the wall.

  For half a second, nothing happened. The silence stretched, thick and cruel. The monitor stayed dark. The tower made no sound. Seraphine’s fingers tightened around her binder. Nia’s eyes narrowed. Otto leaned forward like he could will electrons into motion. Regis felt something dangerously close to anticipation, and he hated that too.

  Then the tower fan whirred.

  A single beep sounded.

  The monitor flickered, black to gray, then brightened into a boot screen that looked ancient and stubborn. The logo appeared like a sunrise over a battlefield. The sound of the fan grew steady, a low hum that felt like the building itself exhaling. The workstation was alive.

  Seraphine made a small sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob, and she swallowed it down because she refused to be dramatic. “It works,” she whispered, steady voice cracking at the edges. “It works.”

  Juno threw both arms up. “Small miracle!”

  Otto bounced in place. “I want to hug it.”

  Regis’s mouth tightened, and then he allowed himself the smallest nod. “Good,” he said, clipped, cold humor hiding something softer. “We have defeated technology. Barely.”

  Nia’s eyes were already on the screen, reading. “Now we have to defeat logins.”

  Seraphine moved in, hands steady, and began setting up secure access like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. She typed with controlled speed, creating accounts, setting passwords, checking required fields on the grant application portal. The world narrowed to paperwork and progress. Caleb hovered nearby, ready to help, watching her with earnest admiration like competence was the most heroic thing he’d ever seen. Mara stood behind them like a wall that kept the universe from taking it away. Otto paced in a tiny circle, whispering to himself about drivers and updates and not touching anything.

  Regis stood slightly back, watching the screen like it was an enemy state. Percentages. Bars. Loading circles. Everything about computers was the slow, mocking opposite of power.

  The moment Seraphine connected the workstation to the guild dashboard, the room’s lighting changed, just slightly, like the building itself had gained a pulse. A new set of icons bloomed on the screen, bright and cheerful and completely unasked for. The cursor moved on its own for half a second, like a ghost had grabbed it. A window popped up with a friendly face that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated privacy.

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  Regis froze.

  The screen filled with “helpful” widgets. A colorful sidebar labeled Hope Tracker appeared. A bouncing icon labeled Community Engagement Booster installed itself with no consent. A flashing alert labeled Coffee Filter Monitor pinned itself to the top corner like it was a moral imperative. Another widget, somehow worse, appeared labeled Positive Affirmations for Leaders, and it immediately displayed: You are doing great, Regis!

  Regis stared at it like it had slapped him.

  Juno cackled. “It called you Regis. It’s learning.”

  Seraphine’s voice tightened. “Can we uninstall that?”

  Otto leaned in, delighted. “It’s adorable.”

  Nia’s tone stayed low and sharp. “It’s spyware with confetti.”

  Regis’s jaw clenched. “It is a parasite.”

  The cursor clicked by itself again, and another panel slid open like a trap door. The guild dashboard loaded fully for the first time, crisp and bright on the monitor, and right at the center was a progress ring with a cheerful percentage inside it.

  Inspire hope: 2% complete.

  Regis stared at the number.

  The number stared back.

  It was small. It was insulting. It implied that everything they’d done so far, the rat bucket, the audit extension, the mall monorail hostage, the sabotage device, the miracle workstation boot, all of it was worth two percent of whatever cosmic homework assignment the System had forced him into.

  He felt something new bloom in his chest. It was not fear. It was not anger. It was not despair. It was hatred, refined into a single sharp point aimed directly at the concept of being graded.

  “I hate percentages now,” Regis said, clipped and cold, and it sounded like a vow.

  Caleb blinked. “It’s just tracking progress.”

  Regis’s eyes stayed on the screen. “It is judging.”

  Seraphine’s voice was steady, precise, fighting not to laugh while also fighting to remain morally supportive. “It is providing measurable benchmarks.”

  Regis turned his head slowly toward her, expression flat. “Do you want to defend it, Seraphine?”

  Seraphine didn’t flinch. “I want you to complete it.”

  Juno leaned over Nia’s shoulder to look at the ring. “Two percent is wild. That means we have ninety-eight percent more suffering.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “Or ninety-eight percent more chances to look competent.”

  Otto pointed at the widget bar like a proud parent. “Look, it also installed ‘Volunteer Sign-Up Optimizer.’ That’s useful.”

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “Turn it off.”

  Otto’s grin faltered. “But it’s helpful.”

  Mara didn’t move, didn’t raise her voice. “Turn it off.”

  Otto swallowed. “Okay.”

  Seraphine took a slow breath and focused back on the grant application, because the only way to survive the System’s nonsense was to do the work anyway. She typed in the branch identification, attached scanned documents, filled in safety improvement plans, and included their updated compliance list. Regis watched her work and felt the bizarre, uncomfortable sensation of admiration creeping in around his irritation. Seraphine could build a fortress out of forms. It was almost villainous in its own way.

  Nia shifted closer, eyes on the portal. “We should mention the sabotage,” she said quietly. “Frame it as interference with civic operations. Public safety risk. That gets attention.”

  Regis nodded once. “Include it as a supplemental incident. Show we’re under pressure. Show we need funding to harden infrastructure.”

  Seraphine’s fingers didn’t stop. “I will,” she said, steady. “But we do not exaggerate.”

  Regis’s smile was thin. “We don’t need to.”

  Caleb watched the screen, then glanced at the doorway like he expected Baron Silt’s people to stroll in with another “minor accident.” “Do you think they’ll try again?” he asked, sincere, careful.

  Mara’s voice was quiet. “Yes.”

  Juno cracked her knuckles dramatically. “Good. I’m wearing better shoes next time. My evidence kick was pure luck.”

  Nia’s tone stayed calm. “Luck is fine when it’s recorded.”

  Otto leaned in toward the workstation like it was a campfire. “We should name it,” he whispered. “We could call it HopeBox.”

  Regis said, “No.”

  Otto tried again. “We could call it The Terminal of Destiny.”

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not.”

  Juno grinned. “Call it Clarissa’s Nightmare.”

  Seraphine didn’t look up. “Do not.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “Call it Two Percent.”

  Regis’s stare sharpened. “Do not.”

  Seraphine clicked submit.

  For half a second, the portal spun a loading circle like it was considering whether to accept their plea. The guild hall held its breath. Even the chandelier flickered less, as if trying to be respectful.

  Then the screen refreshed.

  Submission Received. Confirmation ID: GRB-1128-CCS.

  Seraphine exhaled slowly, and this time she allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t joy. It was relief with steel underneath it. “Done,” she said.

  Caleb let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it since the day they arrived. “We did it.”

  Juno pointed at Regis. “We did it, boss. Two percent is about to become, like, three.”

  Regis stared at the confirmation ID, then glanced at the hope ring again, and his mouth tightened. “If it moves by one percent,” he said quietly, “I will personally fight the metric.”

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  The hope ring pulsed cheerfully, and for a moment the number flickered, teasing.

  It stayed at 2%.

  Regis’s expression went blank with controlled fury. “I’m going to commit a crime,” he whispered.

  Seraphine’s voice was immediate. “No.”

  Nia’s tone stayed dry. “Do it on paper.”

  Juno laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair again. “He’s mad at a progress bar. This is the funniest timeline.”

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “Drink coffee.”

  Regis picked up his cup and took a slow sip. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted like stubbornness and cheap beans, and it grounded him in the worst possible way because it reminded him he was trapped in a world where progress was measured in percentages and validated by pop-ups. He set the cup down with careful control.

  “We have a workstation,” Regis said, voice clipped, cold humor returning like armor. “We have submitted the grant. We have evidence of sabotage. We have a compliance predator who is now, unfortunately, useful.” His gaze swept the team. “We are not dying today.”

  Caleb nodded, sincere. “We’re not.”

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “We might even look good not dying.”

  Juno grinned. “And we’re definitely going to be trending again when Baron Silt realizes we just handed his people to an Auditor with a suitcase full of consequences.”

  Otto bounced once, then stopped himself, remembering restraint. “And we can print things now,” he whispered hopefully, eyes shining.

  Regis’s gaze snapped to him. “We did not buy a printer.”

  Otto’s face fell. “Someday.”

  Seraphine closed her binder with a decisive motion, steady and precise. “Now we wait for grant review,” she said. “In the meantime, we keep fixing what we can. We keep serving. We keep building trust.”

  Regis looked at the progress ring again, that smug 2% sitting there like a dare. His jaw tightened, then eased. “Fine,” he said quietly. “We inspire hope.”

  Juno beamed. “Hope Distributor.”

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say that.”

  Nia’s tone was quiet, pointed. “Get used to it.”

  Outside, Graybridge’s rain tapped the windows again, impatient and constant. Inside, the guild hall hummed with new electricity, literal and metaphorical. The workstation fan whirred like a heartbeat. The confirmation ID sat on the screen like proof they were no longer helpless against forms. Somewhere in the city, Baron Silt’s people were realizing their “minor accident” had turned into paperwork that could bite. Somewhere in Clarissa Wye’s binders, a new section was being labeled with their names. Somewhere in the System’s invisible scoreboard, a progress ring stayed stuck at 2%, and Regis hated it with a passion that felt weirdly motivating.

  That small miracle on the table didn’t fix the roof, didn’t kill the mold, didn’t scare off rats, and didn’t make the city respect them overnight, but it gave them something they’d been missing since the first day.

  It gave them a way to fight back that didn’t require punching anyone.

  Regis hated that too.

  It was perfect.