Chapter 22 – Standing is Hard

I get home, push through the front door, and announce my presence to the household. "I'm home!"

Selene's sitting at the dining table, scrolling through her phone with that focused expression she gets when she's probably cyber-stalking someone's vacation photos. She glances up, and her pink eyes go comically wide.

"Hey… WOAH NEW HAIRCUT!!" She practically launches herself out of her chair. "You look nice!"

I feel this weird burst of pride blooming in my chest, warm and uncomfortable. It's nice, but also deeply embarrassing because apparently my baseline was so low that a simple haircut warrants this level of excitement.

"It's not a big deal," I mutter, trying to downplay the compliment because the alternative is standing here blushing like an idiot. "It was just a haircut."

Mom's voice drifts from the kitchen before I see her. "Did I hear something about—" She turns the corner, dish towel in hand, and stops mid-step. "Oh… wow! You look handsome, honey!"

And there it is. The mom seal of approval. I'm pretty sure I could show up with a mohawk dyed neon green and she'd find something encouraging to say, but the genuine surprise in her voice tells me this is different.

She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug, and I'm once again reminded that being 5'2" means my face ends up pressed directly into her chest during these embraces. Physics is cruel… great, but cruel.

She pulls back slightly and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. "Really, you look good!"

I smile despite myself. "Thanks, Mom."

"I'm going to go take a shower before I get hair everywhere," I say, already heading toward the stairs.

I grab my towel, take a quick shower to wash off all the tiny hair particles that are somehow everywhere, then throw on some comfortable clothes. That's when I realize I have a problem: I’ve never styled my hair before.

I mean, Camilla explained it to me, and she made it look easy. She just... did things, and it looked good. But now I'm standing here with damp hair and a jar of styling cream, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to make myself look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

I knock on Selene's door. "Hey, can I borrow your texture spray?"

"Sure!" Her voice is muffled through the door. "Come in, it's on my dresser!"

I grab the spray bottle, which is surprisingly expensive-looking, and return to my room to begin what will undoubtedly be a humiliating battle against my own follicles.

BooTube becomes my best friend for the next hour and a half. And when I say hour and a half, I mean it. I watch tutorial after tutorial, each one making it look deceptively simple while I'm over here looking like I'm trying to perform surgery on myself.

The steps sound easy enough: leave hair slightly damp by gently drying with a towel, apply texture spray to roots, blow-dry while guiding the hair back, create a middle part with fingers, apply styling cream.

In practice? I'm a disaster.

The first attempt, I use too much texture spray and my hair looks crunchy. The second attempt, I don't use enough blow-dryer and everything falls flat. The third attempt, I create a part that's somehow off-center despite my best efforts, making me look like I have a lazy eye situation happening with my hair.

By attempt number seven, I'm ready to just shave it all off and commit to the bald look.

But attempt number eight? Attempt number eight is magic.

I finally get it right. The middle part sits exactly where it should. The waves frame my face naturally. The styling cream gives it just enough hold without making it look like I dunked my head in a vat of gel. I look… good. Well, I don’t look good, but my hair does. Me? I look surprisingly… alright.

I stare at myself in the mirror for probably too long, turning my head slightly to catch different angles. When did my face lose some of its roundness? There's actual definition to my jaw now, nothing dramatic, but it's there. My arms have some muscle definition visible through my shirt. And my gray eyes, which I've never paid attention to, actually look striking against my dark hair.

I leave the bathroom, only to nearly collide with Bianca in the hallway. She's clearly just woken up, her black and green-tipped hair slightly mussed, still in her pajamas.

She stops, blinks at me, and her teal eyes widen slightly. Her mouth opens a little, like her brain needs a moment to process what she's seeing.

"What the… What happened when I was asleep?" she asks, sounding genuinely bewildered. "You look nice, Adam. Cool haircut."

"Uh… thank you." I manage an awkward chuckle.

She yawns, stretching her arms above her head, then reaches out and tousles my hair as she walks past me toward the bathroom.

"Hey!" I protest, immediately reaching up to check the damage. "It took me an hour and a half to get it to look like this!"

"Heh," she laughs to herself, a quiet, slightly evil laugh she does when she knows she's being annoying, then disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

I spend another five minutes in front of my phone camera, fixing what she messed up, which thankfully isn't much. Crisis averted.

Downstairs, I get another round of compliments from Mom and Selene. And I start to make myself a healthy lunch: grilled chicken, brown rice, steamed broccoli, the whole responsible adult meal, and eat while scrolling through my phone.

Ding! You've completed the quest: Healthy Eating

Rewards:

Nice. But before I can even process that—

Ding! Quest log updated.

I check the new quest I obtained:

Daily Eating - Continuous Quest

Description: You’ve eaten well for five days now! Let’s keep it up forever!

Quest Details:

Quest Progress:

Quest Rewards: 1 Evolution Point

So basically, the system wants me to eat healthy for the rest of my life. Well, whatever, this doesn’t taste that bad anyways.

The rest of Sunday passes in a comfortable blur. I do my workout, go for a run, shower again because I stink, finish my homework, eat dinner with the family, and work on my side project for a couple hours.

It's… normal. Nice, even. The kind of day where nothing dramatic happens, but you don't mind because sometimes boring is good.

Monday morning comes, and I wake up an hour earlier than usual because there's no way I'm showing up to school with my hair looking like I lost a fight with a hedge trimmer after I spent 200 dollars on a haircut.

The styling routine goes smoother this time, it only takes me about forty-five minutes. And I go through my morning skincare routine.

School is… school. Nothing particularly noteworthy happens during first, second, or third period. I take notes, avoid eye contact with most people, and generally exist in my usual state of social invisibility.

And finally, Luna time!

I slide into my usual seat, "Hey, Luna," I say as I sit down.

She glances over, and I swear her eyes widen just slightly. Her gaze flicks up to my hair, then back to my face, then back to my hair again, like she's trying to process what changed.

"It… it looks nice," she says quietly.

"Aww, thanks Luna." I can feel my face heating up, which is ridiculous. It's just a compliment. From a friend. About my hair. This is normal. People compliment each other's hair all the time! This is fine.

She fidgets with her hands for a moment, not quite looking at me. "Can I… touch it?" she asks, so quietly I almost miss it.

???

"Uhhh, sure?" I say.

She reaches out tentatively, her hand barely making contact with my hair. It's the lightest pat imaginable, like she's afraid I'm going to bite her.

"It's… soft," she concludes with a small nod, pulling her hand back like she just completed some kind of important scientific experiment.

She's so cute…

The rest of class passes without incident. And school ends quickly after that.

By the time the final bell rings, my stomach is doing gymnastics. I walk to the café, my pace deliberately measured, trying to calm the nerves that are threatening to stage a full revolt.

I make it there at exactly 4 PM. Punctuality: achieved.

There's a sign on the door that says "CLOSED" in elegant script, but when I try the handle, it's unlocked. I step inside to find Mr. Vale waiting for me, standing with that perfect posture that makes my habitual slouching seem even more pathetic by comparison.

"Hello, Mr. Vale," I say politely.

"Good afternoon, Adam." His voice is warm and refined, grandfatherly, but each word is carefully articulated. "I appreciate the haircut. You should always try to present yourself with care and intention. It shows the respect you hold for yourself.”

I nod, appreciative of the compliment.

"The café is closed on Mondays," he continues, "but we have a lot to do. Shall we begin?"

What follows is four hours of the most intense, chaotic, yet somehow completely structured training I've ever experienced. It's like being thrown into a boot camp for fancy café employees.

"First, you'll need a proper uniform. Please, follow me."

He leads me to a staff room I hadn't noticed during my previous visit. It's small but impeccably organized, with lockers along one wall and a full-length mirror in the corner. He presents me with a perfectly tailored outfit that matches his own aesthetic: black dress pants, a crisp white shirt, a black vest, and a bow tie.

I change in the small bathroom attached to the staff room.

"Come," he says, gesturing me forward with a graceful motion. "Let me teach you how to properly wear a bow tie."

He walks me through it step by step, his movements precise and practiced. By the end, I can tie a bow tie, which is a skill I never thought I'd need but apparently is crucial for my continued employment.

"Excellent," he says, making a minute adjustment to ensure perfect symmetry. "Now, one of the main things you'll be learning today is how to present yourself properly. You won't be speaking to customers for a while, you need to understand how to carry yourself first."

That's when I realize just how much I've been taking basic movement for granted.

Mr. Vale steps back, observing me with a critical but not unkind eye. "Walk toward the counter, please."

I do as he asks, crossing the café floor in what I assume is a normal walk.

"Stop, please." His voice is gentle but firm. "Tell me, Adam, have you lost something?"

"Uhhh… no?" I respond, genuinely confused.

"Then what are you looking for on the ground?" A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Your posture tells a story, whether you intend it or not. Right now, you portray uncertainty. Let's rewrite that narrative."

He approaches, and with a light touch, adjusts my shoulders. "Draw your shoulders back, but without tension. Imagine that a string is attached to the crown of your head, gently drawing you upward."

I try to adjust, which immediately makes me feel like a robot learning to walk for the first time.

"Your head should remain level, parallel to the ground. Lifted too high, you exude arrogance, but too low, and you seem ashamed. Your gaze should rest naturally ahead and slightly downward, observing where you are going without fixating on anyone.”

This is harder than it looks.

"As for your hands," he continues, demonstrating with fluid grace, "don’t put them in your pockets. When you walk, allow them to rest naturally at your sides, relaxed yet controlled. When you stand in waiting, you may clasp them gently behind your back, or rest one over the other before you."

For the next four hours, Mr. Vale proceeds to deconstruct my entire existence as a walking human being and rebuild it from the ground up. But it's not just about mechanics, every lesson carries weight, meaning.

He demonstrates how to approach a table. "From the left when circumstances permit. You move with purpose, but never haste. Haste suggests anxiety, and anxiety is contagious. Even if chaos reigns in the kitchen, even if the world crumbles beyond these walls, always remain calm, composed, and present."

I practice this approximately forty-seven times.

"When you place an item before a guest, do so with care. No clinking, no sloshing, no careless noise. Each sound you make should be intentional. Ask if they require anything further. Receive their response with attention. Then withdraw with a subtle acknowledgment, a slight nod, perhaps, that honors their space."

He teaches me how to turn smoothly, how to navigate the café floor as though I'm performing a carefully choreographed dance. "Every movement should flow into the next. You are water, not stone. Adaptable, graceful, yet purposeful."

He shows me when and where to adjust my uniform, only out of sight, never before guests. "Your appearance should seem effortless. The work of maintenance must remain invisible."

By hour three, I'm pretty sure I've learned more about basic human movement than I did in eighteen years of just… existing. But more than that, I'm learning about intention. About presence. About the philosophy underlying every small action.

"Remember, Adam," Mr. Vale says during a brief water break, "what you’re learning here extends far beyond these walls. The discipline of presence, of intentional movement, of service performed with grace, these lessons will serve you in every area of life. How you do anything is how you do everything. Excellence is not an act, but a habit."

By the time he finally lets me go, I feel like I've completed some kind of elite butler training program crossed with a monastery retreat. My brain is overloaded with information about posture and presentation and the fifty different ways I've been standing wrong my entire life, but also with something deeper, a sense that I've been given tools for becoming… better. More complete.

"Excellent work today, Adam," Mr. Vale says, and there's genuine approval in his voice that makes the exhaustion worth it. "I hope you can find some time to practice what you've learned at home. Now, let us discuss your schedule. Would you be available from four in the afternoon until eight in the evening on weekdays, and from noon until eight in the evening on weekends?"

I consider it for a moment, then remember my promise to Luna. "Would it be okay if I had Fridays off? I have computer science club on that day."

He pauses, thoughtful. "Hmm, very well. It'll be busy those days, but I'll manage. Your wage will be fifteen dollars per hour, paid Fridays biweekly, and you'll keep all tips. That is all. Good work today."

"Thank you, sir." I give a slight bow and head out.

The walk home feels different somehow. I'm exhausted, sure, but there's this weird sense of accomplishment sitting in my chest. I learned something today. Multiple somethings, actually.

When I finally make it home, I'm greeted by both sisters lounging in the living room. Selene's sprawled on the couch, and Bianca's curled up in the armchair with her phone.

"How'd it go?" Selene asks, looking up with genuine interest.

"It went well," I say. "But it was just training today. Didn't actually serve anyone."

"So what'd you do?" Bianca asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Learned how to walk, apparently," I say with a tired laugh. "And stand. And turn. And basically exist as a human being properly."

They both give me identical looks of confusion mixed with amusement.

"It’s hard to explain," I laugh, already heading upstairs. "I'm exhausted."

Despite the exhaustion weighing down my entire body, I force myself to change into workout clothes. I should probably start doing this in the mornings instead of after work, I think as I go through my routine. The workout is brutal when I'm already tired, every rep feeling like it requires twice the effort. The run is even worse, my legs are protesting every step, but I push through anyway.

Ding!  Your Endurance has increased by 1

Ding! You’ve obtained: 1 Evolution Point

By the time I stumble back home and shower, I'm barely functional. I head downstairs to find a plate of food waiting for me in the fridge with a sticky note on top: "Eat this before you pass out, dumbass - B"

I smile despite my exhaustion. Bianca saved me dinner! I’m so happy I could kiss her! Which doesn’t mean anything, since I’d always be happy to kiss her.

I microwave the pasta, some kind of garlic butter situation with chicken and vegetables that smells incredible, and eat it standing up at the kitchen counter.

The food is delicious. Like, genuinely restaurant-quality delicious. I don’t know how she does it, but Bianca's cooking is always somehow perfect.

I wash my plate, drag myself upstairs, and collapse into bed without even bothering to check my phone.

For once, I fall asleep the moment I hit the pillow.