The scent of rising dough, warm and sweet with a hint of cinnamon, usually calmed Bimo Adiputra’s frayed nerves. Not today. Today, the aroma merely amplified the frantic flutter in his chest as Kirana Lestari, his flour merchant, leaned across the counter. “So, Bimo,” Kirana’s voice was like sun-dappled streamwater, clear and utterly without malice, “you got that special order for the Hari Raya festival coming up? Mama Sumi wants her usual, but double the batch this year. Said your ‘Whisperwind’ rolls make her feel twenty again.” Bimo’s fingers, normally adept at coaxing loaves into perfection, twitched. His gaze skittered from Kirana’s bright, intelligent eyes to a chipped tile on the floor, then to a dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. “Ah, um, yes. Mama Sumi. Of course. Double. The… Whisperwind. Rolls. I… I can.” He swallowed, a dry, rasping sound. Kirana, bless her patient soul, just smiled, her dark hair, usually tied back with a practical ribbon, escaping in soft wisps around her face. “Great! I’ll send over the finest ‘Guntur’ grain flour later this afternoon, then. Heard you finished renovating the old oven? How’s the new Inti-coil heating working out?” “The… the Inti-coil is… good,” Bimo managed, his voice barely a murmur. He wanted to tell her how the new coil, a marvel of spiritual energy-infused technology, allowed for incredibly even heat distribution, perfecting the crust on his renowned ‘Dawnpetal’ sourdough. He wanted to ask her if she was going to the Kencana Night Market this week. He wanted to say anything, *anything* that resembled a normal, flowing conversation. Instead, his mind supplied only a jumble of incoherent syllables. The shame burned, a familiar, searing heat in his cheeks. Suddenly, a shimmering, translucent pane flickered into existence directly in front of his eyes. It was minimalist, stark, and utterly out of place against the warm, cluttered backdrop of Adiputra Bakes. [Welcome to the Infinite Stack System] Bimo blinked. He rubbed his eyes, then pinched himself lightly. The blue box remained, hovering in his field of vision like a particularly aggressive dust speck. What in the world? Was this some new viral marketing for a fitness app? He’d seen those ridiculous augmented reality ads pop up on public display screens, but never in his own shop, never quite so… *personal*. He subtly tilted his head, hoping the strange overlay would move out of the way. It didn't. “Is… is something wrong, Bimo?” Kirana asked, a faint crease of concern between her brows. “No! No, just, um… a fly,” Bimo lied, swatting vaguely at the air. The pop-up, thankfully, vanished. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. A fly. Right. A digital fly. “Well, alright then. Don’t work too hard, Bimo. See you later!” Kirana gave him a cheerful wave, her laugh echoing slightly as she turned and exited the shop, the small bell above the door jingling merrily. Bimo watched her go, a profound sense of self-loathing bubbling in his gut. *A fly? That’s what you came up with?* He slammed his palms onto the cool marble counter, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. His cheeks flushed crimson. He was thirty years old, a master baker with a reputation for creating loaves that could bring tears to the eyes, yet he couldn't string together a coherent sentence in front of the one person who actually seemed to like him. It was pathetic. He spun around, grabbed a hefty lump of dough, and attacked it with a vengeance. He kneaded, he pounded, he stretched. Each push of his knuckles into the yielding mass was an attempt to expel the frustration, the shyness, the absolute mortification that clung to him like flour dust. *Push. Fold. Slam. Repeat.* The rhythm was primal, a wordless scream of inadequacy. He imagined Kirana’s easy smile, her genuine kindness, and then his own stammering idiocy. The dough suffered for it, becoming impossibly smooth, elastic, and… firm. Too firm. [Punch of Gentle Kneading] has been added to the Stack. Current Multiplier: x2 The window reappeared, deadpan as ever. Bimo nearly dropped the dough. It wasn't a fly. And it wasn't a fitness app. ‘Punch of Gentle Kneading’? What even was that? Was his mind finally unraveling from too many late nights with yeast cultures? He blinked, hard, and the window disappeared once more. *Ignore it, Bimo. Just ignore it.* He ignored it, but the unease settled in his stomach like a lead weight. He finished preparing the batch for the specialty rolls, meticulously shaping them, his hands working on autopilot. The door bell jingled again, but this time it was a more aggressive, impatient sound. Bimo flinched, his shoulders hunching at the heavy tread shaking the floorboards. Agung Baskara, owner of the 'Solaris Scones' chain, filled the doorway. He was a mountain of a man, his bespoke batik shirt stretched taut over a barrel chest. A sneer stretched his lips, revealing perfectly capped teeth. Two burly guards, their arms crossed over their own muscular chests, flanked him, looking like they were carved from the same intimidating quarry. “Bimo Adiputra,” Agung’s voice boomed, rattling the display cases. “Still peddling your grandmother’s quaint little breads, I see. My new ‘Cosmic Ember’ sourdough is outselling your entire business combined, little man. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and just sell this dusty relic to me? I’ll give you a generous price. Enough to retire to a nice little farm, perhaps.” Bimo locked his knees. He hated confrontation. His hands trembled, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his brow. “I… I’m not selling,” he managed, his voice thin and reedy. “This is… Adiputra Bakes. My family’s bakery.” Agung laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Family. How sentimental. This isn’t the age of sentimental, boy. This is the age of market dominance. You’re a relic, Bimo. Your bread is a relic. Your *bakery* is a relic. Soon, no one will remember Adiputra Bakes.” He took a step forward, his shadow engulfing Bimo. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced Bimo. He hated this. Hated the attention, hated the looming threat. His mind raced, searching for an escape, a polite refusal, anything. His eyes darted around, seeking a way out of the suffocating presence. He found none. His hand, seeking an anchor, unconsciously reached out and tapped the cool marble counter beside him. It was a nervous tic, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. *Tap.* And then, a silent, concussive force exploded outwards from the point of contact. The air shimmered, distorting for a split second. A low, resonant *thrum* vibrated through the floorboards, through Bimo’s very bones. Every pane of glass along the avenue—fronting Adiputra Bakes, the tailor across the road, the herbalist next door, even the soaring, Inti-tech towers further down—blew outward simultaneously, erupting into a thousand glittering shards that rained down onto the pavement. Agung Baskara, his guards, and Bimo himself stood frozen in the sudden, echoing silence, bathed in the sharp, clean scent of ozone and broken glass. Even the street outside, usually bustling, had fallen utterly quiet. Kirana, who had just been rounding the corner, stopped dead in her tracks, her basket of ‘Guntur’ grain flour slipping from her grasp. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, fixed on Bimo. “Bimo…” she breathed, her voice carrying through the sudden stillness beneath distant sirens. “Bimo… how did you do that?” [Punch of Polite Tapping] added. Multiplier: x3

A Pinch of Power