The coffee shop uniform smelled like stale espresso and someone else's sweat.
Ethan—Jamie—stared at the green apron hanging on the bathroom door. Extra small. The previous owner had written their name on the tag in faded marker: Rosa. Below it, someone had added: Good luck, you'll need it.
Her phone showed 5:47 AM. Thirteen minutes to get to the shop. It was a twenty-minute walk.
She grabbed the apron and ran.
The body was different. Lighter but weaker. Her—his?—muscles responded differently, center of gravity shifted. Running in a sports bra felt foreign and uncomfortable. By the second block, her lungs were burning. Ethan had been a casual gym-goer. Jamie's body hadn't seen a gym in months. Couldn't afford the membership.
She reached the coffee shop at 6:03.
The manager was already glaring through the window. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and the expression of someone perpetually disappointed. He unlocked the door with exaggerated slowness.
You're late, he said flatly.
I'm sorry, I—
Three minutes late on your first day. That's being docked from your paycheck. Fifteen-minute penalty.
But I ran the whole way—
Do I look like I care about your cardio routine? Clock in. Counter needs wiping. Bathrooms need cleaning. Move.
Ethan wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that three minutes was barely late, that fifteen minutes of pay for three minutes of tardiness was theft, that this was ridiculous.
But Jamie's bank account had three hundred forty dollars. And rent was due in eleven days.
So she clocked in and grabbed the cleaning supplies.
***
The bathroom was disgusting.
Someone had missed the toilet entirely. The sink was clogged with paper towels. The mirror had toothpaste smeared across it. Ethan had never cleaned a public bathroom in his life. Had never thought about who did.
Now he was on his knees scrubbing urine off tile, gagging, wondering how this was someone's actual job.
Jamie had done this. For months. While he sat in his corner office complaining about the coffee temperature.
The realization hit like cold water.
When the bathroom was finished, he moved to the counter. The manager—his nametag read Derek—shoved a laminated sheet at him.
Memorize this. I'm not repeating orders for you.
It was the full menu. Forty-seven drink combinations. Each with specific measurements, temperatures, modifications. Some customers wanted extra hot, some wanted exactly 140 degrees, some wanted half-caf with oat milk and two pumps of vanilla but only if it was the sugar-free vanilla.
The door chimed. First customer of the day.
A businessman in an expensive suit. Bluetooth earpiece. Already on a call. He didn't look at Ethan.
Grande latte, extra hot, he said to his phone call, then louder: Did you hear me?
Yes, Ethan said. Grande latte, extra hot.
He made the drink. Hands shaking slightly. The espresso machine was more complicated than it looked. He burned himself twice on the steam wand.
When he handed over the cup, the businessman took one sip and slammed it on the counter.
This is lukewarm. Are you incompetent?
I made it extra hot, I—
Make. It. Again. The man's eyes never left his phone screen. Ethan might as well have been a malfunctioning vending machine.
He remade the drink. Hotter this time. The man took it without acknowledgment and left.
No tip.
***
The morning rush hit at seven.
Twenty people deep. All of them in a hurry. All of them treating Ethan like an obstacle between them and caffeine.
A woman ordered a venti iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel and almond milk but got angry when he charged for the almond milk upgrade.
It should be free, she insisted. Other places don't charge.
Our policy—
I want to speak to your manager.
Derek came over, smiled at the woman, and comped the charge. Then turned to Ethan.
Stop upselling. It annoys customers.
But you literally told me to—
Not. Now.
Another customer complained the foam wasn't foamy enough. Another said their drink was too sweet even though they'd ordered extra syrup. Another asked why it was taking so long when there were two people working—as if Ethan could manifest extra hands.
By 8:30, his feet were screaming. The cheap shoes Jamie owned had no support. Ethan had never stood for three hours straight. Had never worked without a break. His lower back throbbed.
You get ten minutes, Derek said. Not eleven. I'm watching.
Ethan stumbled to the back room and collapsed onto a folding chair. His hands were burned in three places from the steam wand. His head pounded from the noise and heat and constant anxiety of messing up.
This was one morning. Jamie had done this for six months while also working at Meridian Tech. While carrying student debt. While rationing insulin.
The system interface pulsed in the corner of his vision:
[EMPATHY PROGRESS: 15%]
You are beginning to understand physical exhaustion and service degradation. Continue.
***
The job interview was at nine.
Ethan asked Derek for the break at 8:50.
Your shift ends at noon, Derek said without looking up.
I have a job interview. I told you when you hired me—
And I told you we don't accommodate personal schedules. You're here until noon or you're fired.
Ethan felt panic rising. The interview was for a developer position. Actual career work. Jamie's only chance to escape the coffee shop.
Please, he heard himself say. It's really important. I'll make up the time, I'll—
Do I look like a charity? Derek's voice was cold. Stay or leave. Your choice.
Ethan looked at the clock. Looked at Derek. Looked at the line of impatient customers forming again.
If he left, he'd lose the coffee shop job. Three hundred forty dollars wouldn't cover rent. He'd be evicted in eleven days.
If he stayed, he'd miss the interview. Would stay trapped in minimum wage work with no escape route.
Jamie had faced this exact choice two months ago. She'd stayed. Lost the interview. Lost the opportunity.
Now Ethan understood why.
He stayed.
***
The rest of the shift blurred together.
More customers. More complaints. More invisible labor that no one acknowledged. His feet went numb. His burns stopped hurting only because his whole body hurt.
At 11:47, a familiar face walked in.
Ethan's heart stopped.
It was Ryan. His college roommate. Someone who'd been at his apartment parties, who'd networked at the same events, who existed in Ethan's social circle.
Ryan was on his phone, laughing at something. He ordered without looking up.
Iced Americano. Large. Not too much ice.
Ethan made the drink with shaking hands. This was it. Ryan would recognize him. Would see Jamie's face and realize something impossible was happening. Would—
Ryan took the drink, dropped two quarters in the tip jar, and left.
He hadn't looked at Ethan's face once.
To him, the barista was furniture. Interchangeable. Invisible.
The way Ethan had seen service workers his entire life.
[EMPATHY PROGRESS: 35%]
You are beginning to understand invisibility and social hierarchy. The lesson deepens.
***
Noon arrived.
Derek counted Ethan's register, deducted the fifteen-minute late penalty, and handed him a check.
Four hours at nine dollars per hour. Thirty-six dollars. Minus the penalty: thirty-three seventy-five. Minus taxes: twenty-eight fifty.
Four hours of burned hands and aching feet and swallowed dignity: twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents.
Don't be late tomorrow, Derek said.
Tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. Until rent came due and the money still wouldn't be enough.
Ethan walked back to Jamie's apartment in a daze.
The mailbox had three envelopes. All bills. Electricity: past due. Internet: final notice. Student loans: payment required.
Inside the apartment, he opened the refrigerator. Half a carton of eggs. Store-brand bread. Peanut butter. Nothing else.
His stomach growled. He'd worked four hours without eating. The coffee shop had food but employees weren't allowed to eat it. Derek watched the cameras.
Ethan made a peanut butter sandwich and ate it standing at the counter.
This was Jamie's life. Every day. Scraping by. Invisible to people like him. Working twice as hard for a fraction of the respect.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
Job interview rescheduled to 2 PM today. Can you make it?
Hope surged. Then reality crashed down. He had another shift at 3 PM. At a second job he'd just discovered from Jamie's calendar. Retail. Five hours at minimum wage.
If he went to the interview, he'd lose the retail job. If he kept the retail job, he'd miss the interview again.
There was no winning. Just choosing which financial disaster to embrace.
Ethan sat on Jamie's lumpy bed and put his head in his hands.
The system interface appeared:
[EMPATHY PROGRESS: 50%]
You are beginning to understand impossible choices and systematic traps. But you have not yet understood the deepest lesson.
Tomorrow, you will serve someone who treats you exactly as you treated Jamie.
Then you will understand completely.
Ethan's whole body went cold.
Outside, the sun was setting. His first day as Jamie Rodriguez was ending.
He had no idea how many more days the system would make him endure.
All he knew was that he deserved every single one.