Chapter 170 | A Shounen Power-Up
Chapter 170: 170 | A Shounen Power-Up
Seven streaming groups mapped across two years of growth data. Revenue breakdowns by quarter. Audience overlap coefficients. Cross-promotion effectiveness rates. A color-coded chart showing optimal posting schedules for maximum engagement across time zones. Another chart comparing subscriber retention rates between solo creators and collective members, with the collective members winning by a margin of thirty-eight percent.
Page thirty-four contained a risk assessment matrix that identified sixteen potential failure modes for streaming collectives, ranked by probability and impact. Internal romantic conflict was listed as failure mode number three with a probability rating of "HIGH" and an impact rating of "CATASTROPHIC."
The footnote read: "See Appendix B for historical examples of creator groups destroyed by interpersonal relationships. This pattern is statistically significant and should inform organizational structure decisions."
Jordan read Appendix B. It was three pages long and contained five case studies of streaming groups that had imploded when members started dating each other or fighting over the same person.
He was already living case study number six.
His phone buzzed again. This time he checked.
Kumiko had sent a selfie. She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor in an oversized cat-print pajama shirt, her twin tails loosened into messy waves around her shoulders, her cheeks still pillow-creased. The camera caught her from slightly above, and the collar of the shirt gaped enough to show the smooth line of her collarbone and the beginning of something Jordan’s brain categorized, processed, and filed away in a folder marked "think about this later when you’re alone."
The caption read: good morning boyfriend with approximately fourteen heart emojis, a cat emoji, and an exclamation point.
Jordan’s thumb hovered over the reply field.
Three weeks ago, a morning text from a girl would have sent old Jordan into a spiral of seventeen possible responses, each workshopped for forty-five minutes before being deleted and replaced with something worse. He would have agonized over emoji selection. He would have texted Kyle for advice. He would have screenshot the conversation and posted it to Reddit for crowdsourced feedback from strangers.
New Jordan typed back in four seconds.
JORDAN: Morning Kumi. Cute shirt. Is that a cat or a bear on the pocket?
The response came in under ten seconds.
KUMIKO: ITS A CAT JORDAN-KUN HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY FASHION CHOICES
KUMIKO: also i cant stop thinking about yesterday
KUMIKO: like my brain keeps replaying the part where you fixed my ribbon and i actually felt my soul leave my body for approximately 2 seconds
KUMIKO: is that normal???
JORDAN: Probably not
KUMIKO: oh
KUMIKO: should i be concerned
JORDAN: Only if your soul doesn’t come back
KUMIKO: it came back!! it came back stronger actually. like a shounen power-up. my soul went to the spirit realm and returned with a new transformation sequence
JORDAN: You’re comparing our relationship to anime
KUMIKO: jordan-kun our relationship IS anime. you literally have a harem. we are living in a light novel right now and i refuse to pretend otherwise
Jordan locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket before Kumiko could send anything else that would make him smile in public like an idiot. He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit, passing through the turnstile with his student ID and stepping into the California morning.
The sun hit his face at the perfect angle, warm without the brutality that would come later in the semester when spring turned aggressive. Students crossed the quad in every direction, a mass migration of coffee cups and AirPods and overpriced backpacks moving between buildings with the collective purpose of young people who had somewhere to be and varying degrees of interest in getting there.
Jordan walked toward Bluffs Hall with Brooke’s document open on his phone, reading page thirty-five while navigating by peripheral vision and the King of Disco trait’s enhanced spatial awareness. His feet carried him around obstacles without conscious input, sidestepping a skateboarder, rerouting around a group blocking the sidewalk, and stepping over a backpack strap someone had left dangling across the path.
His phone buzzed one more time.
Chloe.
CHLOE: Hey. Last night was good. Dinner was good. You were good. My parents would’ve loved you.
A pause. Then:
CHLOE: That was past tense on purpose. My dad would have loved you. Present tense: my mom is going to love you. I want you to meet her.
Jordan stopped walking. A kid on a longboard swerved around him with an annoyed "Dude!" that Jordan didn’t register. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk holding his phone with both hands, reading the message three times to make sure the words said what he thought they said.
Chloe wanted him to meet her mother.
The mother whose medical bills Chloe paid with money earned from content that Jordan had subscribed to for six months. The mother who ran a dry cleaning business alone after losing her husband to cancer. The mother who Chloe had built an entire second identity to protect and provide for.
That mother.
Jordan’s throat felt thick. He typed carefully, the way a man handles something fragile.
JORDAN: I’d like that. Whenever you’re ready.
CHLOE: Saturday.
CHLOE: And Jordan?
JORDAN: Yeah?
CHLOE: Don’t be weird about the past tense thing. I’m okay. He would have liked you. That’s all I meant.
JORDAN: I know.
CHLOE: Good. Now go to class. You’re going to be late.
Jordan checked the time. Eight fifty-six. Econ started in four minutes and the building was a two-minute walk away. He picked up his pace, weaving through the morning crowd with the enhanced coordination that made campus navigation feel like a low-difficulty obstacle course.
He had a forty-seven-page document to finish reading. A boxing gym to visit. A business to register. A best friend to drag out of bed. Two girlfriends to keep happy. A third streamer to recruit. A mother to impress. And somewhere in the margins of all of this, a mysterious golden System counting every dollar, every heartbeat, and every lie he told to the people who trusted him most.
Jordan walked into Bluffs Hall at eight fifty-eight, found his seat, and opened his notebook.
The pen felt heavier than the barbell.