Chapter 7
The air in the massive lecture hall was thick and warm, heavy with the drone of the professor's voice dissecting macroeconomic policy.
Autumn sat in the back row, her chin resting heavily on her hand. The four hours of sleep ACE had permitted were nowhere near enough to clear the fog from her brain. She pinched the skin of her thigh hard, using the sharp sting to force her eyes open.
To her right, a girl with thick glasses and a messy bun was furiously taking notes. Suddenly, the girl's hand twitched, and her heavy metal pen rolled off the slanted desk, clattering loudly onto the floor right next to Autumn's boot.
The girl froze, her eyes darting toward Autumn with obvious apprehension. The system supplied her name: Clara Wainwright. Top of the class, painfully shy.
Autumn leaned down, scooped up the pen, and held it out.
Clara hesitated, expecting the usual icy glare the original Autumn was famous for.
Instead, Autumn offered a small, exhausted smile. "Here," she whispered.
Clara blinked in surprise, taking the pen. "T-thank you."
Minor deviation detected. Friendly interaction exceeds aloof parameters, ACE buzzed faintly in her ear.
Autumn ignored it. She leaned slightly closer to Clara. "Do you have an eraser I could borrow? I think my brain left mine in my dorm."
Clara's eyes widened, but she quickly dug into her pencil case and handed over a white eraser. For the rest of the lecture, they exchanged a few quiet, commiserating glances whenever the professor went off on a particularly dry tangent.
When the lecture finally ended, Autumn packed her heavy tote bag. Clara hovered nearby.
"Um, Autumn?" Clara asked nervously. "I'm heading to the library to organize these notes. Did you want to... review them together?"
Autumn paused. Her own notes were a disaster of half-finished sentences and doodles. Teaming up with the actual top student was the only way she was going to survive the academic quotas.
Warning. Social engagement with non-essential characters is inefficient, ACE stated.
If I fail this class, I lose the elite status anyway, Autumn shot back mentally. This is academic survival.
The system went silent, unable to argue with the logic.
"I'd love to," Autumn said to Clara.
They walked out of the building together. The crisp air felt amazing. Clara was surprisingly funny, complaining about the reading load with a dry, sarcastic wit that Autumn instantly liked.
As they crossed the quad, Clara's phone pinged with a notification. She glanced at it and sighed. "My cousin's catering company is desperate. Someone just bailed on a shift at a banquet hall across town. It's only fifteen bucks an hour plus tips, and it goes until eight tonight, but it's a nightmare getting there."
Autumn stopped walking. She stared at Clara, her mind calculating the bus fare versus the payout. Fifteen dollars an hour plus tips. Harrison was feeding her, but she still had zero actual money for anything else. If she needed a coffee, a new notebook, or a bus ticket to escape campus for an hour, she was trapped.
"Clara," Autumn said, looking up quickly. "Can you text him my number? I'll take it. I am so sorry. I can't do the library right now."
Clara looked surprised but nodded. "Oh. Okay. I'll send him your info. I can scan my notes and email them to you later?"
"You are a lifesaver," Autumn said, giving Clara a quick, genuine hug that made the system buzz angrily in her head.
Autumn sprinted back to her dorm. She stripped off the stiff gray blazer and pulled on plain black slacks and a black button-down shirt-the standard catering uniform.
Violation. Manual labor is strictly prohibited for your character class, ACE screamed, the red text flashing violently.
"Shut up," Autumn muttered out loud, grabbing her keys. "Dignity doesn't pay the bills."
She snuck out the back exit of the dorm, avoiding the main paths, and caught a crowded city bus downtown.
The restaurant was a chaotic nightmare of clinking glass, shouting chefs, and demanding patrons. Autumn was shoved into a tight, uncomfortable apron and immediately handed a massive tray of champagne flutes.
For the next four hours, she didn't stop moving. Her feet throbbed, her back ached, and her black shirt was stained with a splash of red wine near the collar. But every time she felt like collapsing, she calculated the cash she was earning.
At 7:35 PM, she carried a stack of dirty plates into the kitchen and glanced at the digital clock on the wall.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
Harrison added mandatory daily video calls to the latest schedule, scheduled for 8:00 p.m.
"I have to go!" Autumn yelled to the shift manager, ripping off the apron.
She didn't wait for an answer. She sprinted out the back door into the cold night air. The bus was too slow. She ran. She ran blocks through the city traffic, her lungs burning, her legs screaming in protest.
She hit the campus gates at 7:55 PM. She pushed her exhausted body to the absolute limit, tearing across the dark lawns toward her dorm building, praying to whatever god was listening that Harrison's internal clock was slightly broken today.
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