Infinite Cashback System

Chapter 260: 260 | The Morning Grind

Black tank top. One of the fitted ones Kyle had recommended, the kind that showed his arms and the definition across his chest without looking like he was trying to show his arms and the definition across his chest.

Grey sweatpants, the good pair that sat low on his hips, because they were comfortable and he had boxing after the study session and he wasn’t about to change clothes three times in one afternoon.

A grey zip-up hoodie, unzipped, because the library ran its air conditioning at temperatures suitable for storing cadavers. White Air Force 1s, the new pair from the Nordstrom trip, clean enough to eat off of because Jordan had learned from Kyle that shoe maintenance was non-negotiable.

Cologne. Cedar and sandalwood. Two sprays, one on each side of his neck. Not because Eliza would be there.

Because Jordan wore cologne now.

Because he was a person who took care of himself.

Because Chloe had once pressed her face against his throat and inhaled so deeply that her entire body shuddered, and Jordan had decided in that moment that smelling good was no longer optional.

He examined himself in the bathroom mirror.

The tank top stretched across his chest in a way that would have been impossible four weeks ago, his pecs visible through the fabric and his shoulders pushing against the seams. The Tune Up trait had given him a body that belonged on a fitness influencer’s Instagram, complete with visible veins running down his forearms and a V-line that cut below his waistband sharp enough to cast shadows. His dirty blonde hair sat in the deliberately messy style his barber Marcus had given him, the sides darker and the top lighter in a gradient that looked expensive despite costing two hundred dollars at a barbershop where everyone called him Ricky.

The grey sweatpants hung exactly where they should. Low enough to suggest hip bones without actually revealing them. Fitted enough through the thigh to confirm that Jordan’s legs had developed genuine muscle mass from three weeks of consistent squats and deadlifts with Kyle.

He looked good. Not "dressed up for his ex" good. Not "trying to impress anyone" good. Just... good.

Jordan grabbed his backpack and headed for the door.

Econ at nine. Dr. Jones stood at the front and spoke in his characteristic monotone about monetary policy while the lecture hall population split into three categories: students taking notes, students pretending to take notes, and Kumiko drawing hearts in her notebook with concerning levels of anatomical detail. Jordan sat between her and Alexis. Alexis typed on her laptop with the focused aggression of someone responding to seventeen group chat messages simultaneously. Kumiko’s pen moved across the page in loops and swirls that had nothing to do with economics.

Dr. Jones asked something about the Fisher Effect. Jordan raised his hand. Answered. Got it right.

Jones paused. Actually looked at Jordan instead of through him. The pause lasted maybe three seconds but felt long enough that Jordan worried he’d accidentally said something revolutionary instead of just correct.

"Good," Jones said. Which was apparently the academic equivalent of a standing ovation from a man who distributed syllabi that opened with the phrase "I do not negotiate deadlines."

Kumiko jabbed Jordan’s arm with the business end of her pen. "Show-off."

Alexis’s typing stopped. Two seconds of silence. Then resumed at exactly the same velocity as before.

Progress, probably.

Math at ten. Jordan arrived early and found Ava already in her corner, which suggested she’d either camped there overnight or had calculated the optimal arrival time to avoid human interaction. Her desk looked like the organized chaos section of a Staples catalog. Notebooks stacked by subject. Color-coded tabs. A binder thick enough to stop small-caliber rounds.

Jordan sat down next to her.

Ava flinched. Processed. Recognized. Relaxed by what Jordan estimated at twelve percent, which meant she’d gone from "stranger danger" to merely "elevated wariness."

She’d solved three bonus problems since Tuesday. Jordan could see them lined up in her binder, each solution written in handwriting so precise it looked like a font.

"Did you think about the accountant thing?" Jordan asked.

Ava opened her mouth. Words came out. Many words. A seven-minute unbroken stream about her qualifications, her lack of qualifications, her anxiety about both categories, a detailed feature comparison of three accounting software platforms she’d researched at 2 AM because sleep had become a theoretical concept, and a brief tangent about whether she should get certified even though she was a math major and certification felt like overkill but also what if it wasn’t overkill and she failed Jordan because she didn’t have the right credentials and—

"You’re hired," Jordan said.

Ava made a sound. Not a word. Just a noise like all the air had left her lungs at once.

"Can I have the weekend to think about it?"

Jordan blinked. "You just spent seven minutes explaining why you’re qualified."

"I know. But what if I’m wrong?"

"You’re not wrong."

"But what if I am?"

"Ava."

"Okay." She gripped her pen like it was the only solid object in the universe. "Okay. Weekend. I’ll think about it. Probably. I’ll try to think about it. I’ll definitely think about it."

"Great."

"This is great. Right? This is probably great."

Jordan left before she could talk herself out of the job she’d already hypothetically accepted.

Sociology at noon. Professor Delgado arrived six minutes late with a coffee cup that looked like it contained either espresso or liquid regret. Possibly both.

"Sorry," she said to the lecture hall. Not her usual breezy sorry. The kind of sorry that suggested her alarm clock had won this morning’s philosophical debate about whether consciousness was worth the effort. "My relationship with punctuality is complicated."

The lecture covered social stratification and class mobility. Delgado talked about generational wealth and access and the mechanisms by which economic advantage perpetuated itself across family lines. Jordan sat between Chloe Kim, who ran a six-figure OnlyFans empire nobody knew about, and a row of kids whose grandfathers had campus buildings named after them. The irony tasted like copper.