"Get out here!" I yell as a glowing prompt pops off my phone.
"You're serious?" I say to the floating text while I duck behind a mannequin in a men's specialty shop.
Fill-the-Hole #213: Deliver patch. Target: McCoy Holdings. Artifact: Red embroidered charm.
"No. Not McCoy. Not him," I whisper.
Fill-the-Hole #213: He is precisely him. He needs a hole filled.
"Why me?" I ask the phone like it owes me rent.
Fill-the-Hole #213: You're available. You have hands. You're loud.
"I have papers, a freelance invoice, and an allergy to corporate CEOs," I tell the phone.
A ringtone chimes. The shop's owner, a man with suspenders and a permanent "oh" face, peers through the dressing room curtain.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"Just looking for a tie," I say, my voice a notch too high.
"Good ties," he says, offering a stack of ties like they're sacred objects.
I slide my thumb over the prompt. The system gives one rule and moves on. It never explains the why. It never says how a charm can fall into a palm or why I, Bethany Conway, freelance designer and temp, am always the one to answer its calls.
Fill-the-Hole #213: Charm will appear. Use discretion.
"Discretion?" I repeat. "You find that funny."
Fill-the-Hole #213: Funny is a human word. Ready?
The world refuses to be reasonable when systems are amused. The charm appears like a hiccup: a flicker of crimson between
