Chapter 16: The Quiet Advisor

Tuesday night, and Level Up Arcade was dimming down.

The last customers had trickled out an hour ago—two kids who'd spent a full fifteen minutes trying to beat each other at Galaga before collapsing into laughter and trading the last of their tokens. The ambient hum of machines still filled the space, but the usual energy was replaced by a calmer, reflective rhythm.

Ethan sat behind the counter, laptop open, notebook at his side, and a half-cold mug of tea slowly losing its warmth.

The meeting with the bank was only two days away.

And it felt real now.

For the past few hours, he'd been combing through every receipt, every purchase, every dollar that passed through the arcade since it reopened. The Business Basics system helped organize things—customer trends, token flow, even the impact of social posts—but it couldn't convince a bank. That would be up to him.

He flipped through a folder labeled:

"Arcade Ledger – Post-Restoration"

Inside:

A breakdown of tournament earnings.Notes on machine durability and projected maintenance costs.An early draft of a budget for next month.Customer feedback quotes and comments.Even some photos printed from social posts of the Retro Showdown tournament.

He'd written a rough pitch on the back page:

"Level Up Arcade isn't just a business. It's a local legacy. It's profitable, it's growing, and it's rebuilding community through the power of play. With the right support, it can last. Not just survive—thrive."

It was optimistic. Maybe a little cheesy. But it was true.

Still, doubt crept in as he stared at the numbers. They were barely in the black. If the bank looked at this like any other startup, he was toast.

Ethan sighed, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a moment.

That's when he heard the door chime.

A Quiet Visitor

Ethan sat upright. He'd locked the door, hadn't he?

A tall, older man stepped inside—mid to late 70s, wearing a dark brown coat over a faded button-up, and polished shoes that had clearly walked a lot of roads. He moved with slow purpose, the kind that came from decades of knowing how to own a room without saying a word.

But he wasn't commanding. He was… reflective.

He looked around, not startled by the soft glow of screens or the faint music looping from the Pac-Man machine in the corner. His eyes scanned the arcade like he was walking through memory.

"Sorry," Ethan said, standing up behind the counter. "We're actually closed for the night."

The old man smiled gently. "That's alright. I was just… passing by. Thought I'd take a look. See how it's doing."

Ethan paused. There was something familiar about the man's expression. That quiet, knowing weight. That patience.

"You've been here before?" Ethan asked.

The man chuckled softly. "Oh, many times. Years ago. Back when your grandfather ran the place."

That made Ethan step out from behind the counter, his guard lowering. "You knew him?"

"Knew him well." The man took a few careful steps forward, stopping in front of Asteroids, the old cocktail cabinet Ethan had just restored the week before. He ran a hand gently along the edge. "We used to play this one together. Late evenings. After closing."

Ethan tilted his head. "Sorry—I'm Ethan, by the way."

"I know." The man turned, extending a steady hand. "Victor Mallory. I used to be… well, too many things. CEO, advisor, board member—doesn't matter now. But back then, I was just a tired executive with a bad back and a love for old games."

Ethan shook his hand, firm but curious. "My grandfather never really talked much about who came in. He always just said the place helped people relax."

Victor nodded slowly. "It did. Your grandfather had a way of making this place feel like it belonged to everyone. That was his gift. Didn't matter if you were a teenager skipping class or a suit coming off a twelve-hour workday. If you dropped a token in, you were equal."

Ethan smiled at that.

Victor continued, walking slowly past Time Crisis and Donkey Kong. "I used to come here after board meetings. Sit across from your grandfather, play for half an hour, and just… breathe. We'd talk, sometimes. Mostly about simple things. The kind of talk that doesn't chase money or status."

Ethan leaned against the counter. "He never told me he had corporate regulars."

Victor grinned. "He was humble. And smart. He knew how to read people." There was a pause. A long one. The kind where memory lingers just beneath the surface.

Then Victor turned back to Ethan. "You've done good work here. I didn't expect it to look this alive."

Ethan flushed slightly. "It's been a lot of hours. A lot of repairs. A few lucky breaks."

"And a lot of vision." Victor tapped the side of the Galaga cabinet. "Places like this don't just survive. Not anymore. You made this happen."

Ethan hesitated, then let out a breath. "I'm trying. I've got a meeting with the bank on Thursday. They're finally calling in the debt. I have to prove this place is worth keeping afloat."

Victor studied him for a moment. "You have numbers?"

"I do. Barely profitable. But stable. And growing. I'm just not sure it'll be enough."

Victor walked back to the front counter and rested a hand on it. "Let me give you one piece of advice I learned after forty years of business."

Ethan nodded, silent.

"Don't just show them the numbers. Show them the story. You don't need to prove you're rich—you need to prove this place is real. That it matters to people. That it means something. They'll forget the decimal points, but they'll remember the laughter. The clips online. The community."

Ethan blinked.

"That's... actually what I've been trying to say in the pitch," he said, flipping open the notebook and turning it around. "This part here—about legacy and community?"

Victor scanned it.

"Keep it," he said. "Add more. Be honest. This place was built on connection. Don't let the suits reduce it to profit margins. Remind them that sometimes, people just need a place to play."

Ethan stared at the page, then back at Victor.

"I don't suppose you do consulting," he said, half-joking.

Victor chuckled, pulling out a small leather card holder. "Not anymore. But I know a few people. If it comes to it, give me a call."

He slid a card across the counter. It had a name and a phone number. Nothing else.

Then he turned, gave one last look around the arcade, and smiled softly.

"This place has heart again. Don't let it stop beating."

He walked to the door, paused, and gave a quiet nod before slipping out into the night.

Ethan stood alone in the silence, the weight of Victor's words pressing gently on his chest.

Then he sat back down at the counter, picked up his pen, and began to rewrite his pitch.

Not just the numbers.

The story.