032 Night Shift Hustle - Part 2 - Mirai’s POV

  I always hated night shifts.

  It was a rare experience for me… hating something.

  The flickering neon light above the entrance buzzed faintly, mixing with the hum of the store's old air conditioning unit. The gss doors slid open, then closed with a mechanical whirr as another customer walked out. The clock on the wall ticked, slower than it had any right to.

  It wasn’t like working the night shift was hard—most of the customers were too tired or too drunk to cause trouble—but the quiet always made my mind wander.

  I sighed, brushing back a stray lock of hair as I reorganized the snack dispy near the register.

  “Need help with that?”

  I gnced up.

  “Oh, Mark?” My eyes widened as I spotted him behind the cashier. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you worked weekends too.”

  Mark gave me a ft look as he scanned a bottle of soda for a customer. “Of course I do.”

  Of course he did.

  I always found it weird. Why was a rich kid like him working part-time at a convenience store? He definitely wasn’t hurting for cash. His family was definitely loaded, and it wasn’t like he needed job experience.

  …Maybe he liked me?

  I reflected on the past few days. Hmmm… Mark liking me? L-like… a crush?

  Nah…

  I shook my head immediately, but my ESP, Eloquence, kicked in. I could feel his emotional state—a calm, steady focus. Nope. Nothing romantic there. No fluttering excitement, no underlying tension. Not even a hint of a crush.

  Hmm… maybe… responsibility? That would make sense. Mark always acted older than his age—too put together, too calcuting. Still, it would’ve been nice if he liked me, right?

  I hated the thought of misunderstanding him, but… Mark treated me too well sometimes.

  “Do you need help with that?” Mark asked.

  I blinked.

  He was already at my side, rearranging the chips I had half-dumped into the rack. His movements were fast and efficient, his hands brushing against mine as he straightened the bags.

  “I got it,” I said quickly.

  “I’m already here,” he replied. His expression was neutral, but I could feel the quiet steadiness beneath it.

  I sighed. “Fine. But don’t expect me to thank you.”

  A small, amused huff escaped him. He didn’t smile exactly, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. He was probably ughing at me in that quiet Mark way of his.

  A customer shuffled toward the counter, setting down a basket full of energy drinks and instant noodles. Mark stepped away from me and rang them up with that same calm focus.

  “You sure you’re not working too hard?” I asked after the customer left.

  Mark’s brow lifted slightly. “Says the girl covering back-to-back shifts.”

  I rolled my eyes. “At least I’m not doing it to punish myself.”

  “I’m not punishing myself,” Mark said, deadpan.

  “Really?” I leaned over the counter, my hands propping up my chin. “Because it sure looks like you are.”

  Mark didn’t answer right away. He slid a pack of gum into a pstic bag and handed it to another customer before gncing at me.

  “I have my reasons,” he said.

  Responsibility. That was the feeling I got from him. Heavy and quiet.

  “Yeah?” I asked. “And what reasons are those?”

  He gnced at me, his dark eyes steady.

  “Just making sure everything stays under control.”

  I frowned. “That sounds suspiciously ominous.”

  He didn’t respond.

  We worked in silence for a while. Customers came and went. The clock ticked. A guy tried to buy alcohol without ID and left grumbling when Mark refused to sell it to him. A pair of high school girls took too long picking out snacks and left giggling.

  Finally, Mark leaned back against the counter.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Exhausted,” I admitted.

  “Go sit down,” he said.

  “And let you handle the store alone? Not happening.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  Mark’s mouth twitched. He opened his mouth to say something else when the door jingled open.

  A guy in a hoodie stepped in, hands in his pockets. His eyes scanned the store.

  I stiffened.

  Mark’s expression didn’t change, but I could feel his focus sharpen. He was watching the guy carefully.

  “Be right back,” Mark said quietly, stepping away from the counter.

  “Wait—”

  He ignored me and started walking toward the guy.

  Mark’s back was straight, his pace measured. He wasn’t giving off any hostility, but I could feel it beneath the surface—a quiet, controlled tension.

  The guy didn’t do anything. After a moment, he turned and left.

  Mark waited a few seconds, then walked back to the counter.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “It didn’t feel like nothing.”

  Mark didn’t answer.

  “Seriously, Mark—”

  “Mirai.”

  I blinked.

  He didn’t look at me as he said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  My ESP told me he was… calm. Maybe a little guarded. Definitely not scared.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever Mark was protecting himself from…

  It wasn’t over yet.

  No way it was just my imagination that he was acting paranoid.

  We settled back into the rhythm of work after that.

  It was quiet for a while. The only sounds were the mechanical hum of the refrigerators and the occasional rustling of a pstic bag. A couple of high schoolers wandered in, spent too long debating over which candy to buy, and eventually left with nothing.

  “So,” I said, sliding a can of iced coffee into the cooler, “what do you think about the whole team-up nonsense?”

  Mark gnced at me from behind the counter. He was leaning back against it, hands tucked into his apron pockets. His eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

  “You mean Karl?”

  “Obviously.”

  Mark hummed thoughtfully. “Why?”

  I sighed. “I’m not exactly looking forward to teaming up with Karl Brandt.”

  Mark snorted. “Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”

  “Shut up.” I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t make sense, though. Merrick’s supposed to be studying us, right? Gather data? That’s why he gathered us, set up that sparring tournament, and made us fight… Why did he stop it when it became our turn?”

  Mark’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Go on.”

  “I mean, think about it.” I straightened up and gestured toward him. “I won my match. You won your match. And Karl won his match. We’re practically the finalists.”

  Mark’s brow lifted. “Pretty bold of you to rank yourself that high.”

  I scowled at him. “Don’t act like you disagree.”

  “I don’t,” he admitted. His mouth curved slightly. “I just didn’t realize you had such an ego.”

  My eye twitched.

  “Oh, you’re asking for it.”

  Mark’s mouth twitched upward into that half-smile of his—the one that made you want to punch him and hug him at the same time. Hug? Ah, forget it… Get your mind off the gutter, Mirai!

  “Answer properly,” I said, jabbing a finger in his direction.

  “Fine, fine.” Mark’s expression smoothed out, but I could feel the trace of amusement beneath it. “The professor probably has a pn in mind to bance everyone out.”

  I frowned. “Like how?”

  Mark shrugged. “Easy solution would be adjusting the team sizes. Give the next team one extra member. Keep adding until the odds even out.”

  Huh.

  I stared at him. “That’s… surprisingly reasonable.”

  Mark shot me a ft look. “Thanks?”

  “I mean,” I said, flipping my hair over my shoulder, “you’re not exactly known for being good at general subjects.”

  “You wound me,” Mark said, deadpan.

  I ignored him, thinking it over. He wasn’t wrong. If the professor added more people to the next team, that would technically bance things out… but it also meant we’d be outnumbered.

  I didn’t like that.

  “Still,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “That’d put us at a disadvantage.”

  “Mm.” Mark’s gaze darkened slightly. “Maybe that’s the point.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “If we’re the strongest,” Mark said slowly, “then putting us at a disadvantage would force us to adapt.”

  That sounded like something Professor Merrick would pull.

  “So, what?” I said. “Just have us fight until we colpse?”

  “Not exactly,” Mark said. “It’s probably more complicated than that.”

  “Great.” I sighed. “I can’t wait.”

  Mark chuckled under his breath.

  “You’re taking this awfully well,” I said suspiciously.

  “I don’t mind a challenge,” Mark said simply.

  Of course he didn’t. Psycho.

  But honestly, Professor Merrick wasn’t even the biggest problem.

  That honor went to Master Reina.

  I wasn’t exactly excited about what fresh hell was waiting for us this Monday. Merrick’s tournament was already pushing us to the limit, but Reina? She didn’t care about pushing limits—she broke them and ughed while doing it.

  Thinking about that made me want to sink into the floor and never resurface.

  “Hey,” Mark said, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. “You okay?”

  “Huh?” I blinked at him. “Yeah, yeah, just… mentally preparing myself for death.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “Says the guy who won his match by hiding.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  I opened my mouth to retort, but then—

  THUNK.

  A sound like metal striking wood.

  My instincts screamed at me.

  I slipped. My heel caught the edge of the floor mat, and I stumbled. Then—

  FWIP.

  A silver blur cut through the air.

  A cleaver. A floating cleaver.

  “AHHHH!” I yelped, twisting mid-fall as the cleaver sliced past my face, close enough that I felt the breeze from the bde.

  “Oh, come on!” I shouted, heat rushing to my ears.

  My luck kicked in at the st possible second, pulling me just far enough out of range that the cleaver embedded itself into the floor tiles instead of my skull.

  “Mirai!”

  Mark’s voice was sharp, and suddenly he was moving. He grabbed a basket of snacks off the shelf and hurled it.

  The basket exploded midair, scattering candy bars and chips everywhere.

  “Are you kidding me?!” I shrieked.

  “Move!” Mark snapped.

  I crawled—rolled—behind a shelf as the cleaver jerked free from the floor with a hideous scraping noise and shot toward me.

  It missed my head by inches, smming into the shelf with a dull thud.

  “What the hell is that?!” I gasped.

  Mark didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, sharp and focused. He reached for the nearest object—a bottle of soda—and flung it hard.

  It vanished midair with a wet crash.

  “Did you hit something?” I asked, peeking out from behind the shelf.

  “I don’t know,” Mark said tensely.

  WHAM.

  Something smmed into Mark’s side, and he staggered.

  “Mark!”

  I scrambled out from behind the shelf, but Mark was already moving. He twisted, bracing himself, as something invisible tackled him to the floor.

  “Ah—!”

  The thing pinned him down, pressing hard enough that the floor tiles beneath him cracked.

  Mark’s teeth bared. He wrenched one arm free and jammed his elbow into the air.

  A grunt. Something solid reacted.

  “Got you,” Mark growled.

  He rolled, his muscles tensing, and smmed his fist into thin air—except it wasn’t thin air.

  There was resistance. A shape, blurred and distorted, flickered for half a second.

  “What the hell is that?!” I cried.

  Mark’s gaze shot toward me, dark and focused.

  “I think,” he gritted out, “it’s an assassin.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “…Oh,” I whispered.

  The cleaver trembled in the air—then yanked itself free from the shelf with a horrible shrieking noise.

  “Okay,” I said faintly. “This is bad.”

  Mark’s thing was usually invisibility.

  But the assassin? Yeah, the assassin had him beat.

  Not because of power levels or anything complicated like that. No—this was simpler.

  The cleaver whirled in the air, gleaming under the convenience store’s harsh lights, and sliced toward my head.

  I twisted—my instincts screaming—and grabbed the nearest thing within reach.

  A toothbrush.

  Empowered by luck, I parried the ft side of the cleaver with the toothbrush.

  It… worked.

  The impact sent vibrations down my arm, but I stayed on my feet. The cleaver was flung back, spinning through the air.

  “What the hell?!” I gasped.

  Mark was struggling with the assassin, his arms locked as he tried to pin down something invisible. The problem was that Mark was cking in the sensory department. His invisibility-based ESP made it hard for him to sense enemies—it was more about removing himself from perception than reading his opponents.

  That’s where I came in.

  I reached out with Eloquence—the empathic threads of my ESP unraveling into the air. I couldn’t see the assassin, but I could sense them—their emotions, their intent. The quiet, controlled malice radiating from the corner of the room.

  “There!” I yelled, expressing to Mark’s heart what I could see via Eloquence.

  Mark adjusted his grip and drove his knee upward. He hit something. A sharp grunt echoed through the store.

  But the cleaver was already moving again.

  “Oh, come on!” I hissed, darting sideways as the cleaver whizzed toward me.

  I ran toward the snack aisle. The cleaver followed.

  Mark and I exchanged a gnce.

  I gestured vaguely, hoping he’d get it.

  He did.

  Mark threw a feint at the assassin—pivoted—and ran for me.

  I reached out.

  We cpped hands.

  A warm pulse spread from my fingertips.

  I let out a thread of my luck, while Mark brushed me with his cognitive invisibility.

  According to Mark, sharing his power was tricky. It didn’t make you vanish exactly—but it softened the mind’s ability to track you. It blurred the edges of perception.

  Together, luck and invisibility…

  It wasn’t obvious. But it was enough.

  I darted toward the assassin.

  The cleaver shot toward my head.

  I veered left.

  Feinted right.

  My luck—actualizing the movement I wanted—let me pivot with unnatural precision.

  Mark was already moving.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him draw his butterfly knife, flipping it with an effortless motion.

  SLICE.

  The cleaver split in half, shards of steel scattering across the floor.

  At the same time—

  I thrust with the toothbrush.

  It was so ridiculous, so absurd—but I could feel the assassin’s intent shifting, panicking.

  The toothbrush connected.

  It hit something soft.

  Blood spttered across my face.

  I staggered back. My breath caught in my throat.

  Mark stood beside me, his knife still gleaming.

  The assassin stumbled backward, still invisible—but I could feel their pain radiating through Eloquence.

  “Nice shot,” Mark said, breathing hard.

  I wiped the blood from my cheek, my heart pounding.

  “Yeah,” I said, gripping the toothbrush tightly. “Nice cut.”