[Chapter 2: This is usually life for the average person].
☁️
A gray, mundane, moody city stretches endlessly beneath a low-hanging, overcast sky. Concrete buildings loom in uniform rows, their facades weathered and expressionless, soaked in the dull tones of perpetual drizzle. The streets are quiet except for the occasional hum of tired traffic and the shuffle of people lost in routine, their faces drawn, eyes cast downward. Neon signs flicker weakly against the gloom, offering a hollow sense of life in an otherwise stagnant atmosphere. The city feels suspended in time—neither decaying nor growing—just existing in a haze of monotony and muted emotion.
[Scene: Overcast Evening – Back Porch, Drizzle Tapping Against the Roof]
The air was thick with moisture—hot rain falling in sheets, clinging to everything like a second skin. A leaf blower whined somewhere in the distance, its buzzing oddly out of place in the wet. Steam rose faintly from the asphalt of the driveway, giving the town that hazy, unreal look—a half-washed photograph caught between summer and storm.
Oliver stood just under the overhang of the back porch, phone pressed to his ear, one arm resting heavily against the wooden railing. His hair was damp from the mist, a few strands sticking to his forehead. He blinked slowly, lips tight, ribs aching beneath the stretched fabric of his old shirt. The phone call had been ringing too long already.
Then a click.
WOMAN (on phone)
"Thank you for calling Target employment line—how can I help you?"
OLIVER
(hoarse, clearing his throat)
"Yeah, hi. I'm calling to check on an application I submitted. For the stock position. Says 'in progress' but it's been like that for three weeks."
A brief pause. He heard keyboard clacking on the other end, muffled voices in the background.
WOMAN
"Let me check… alright, sir—it looks like we're not moving forward at this time. You're welcome to reapply in a few weeks."
That polite, flat tone. Corporate-sweet.
Oliver closed his eyes. The wind shifted, carrying a warm, wet gust across his face. He didn't say anything for a second.
OLIVER
"…Right. Okay. Thanks."
WOMAN
"Have a great day."
The line went dead.
He lowered the phone slowly, staring out past the yard into the blurred horizon where the trees melted into mist. Water dripped from the porch roof onto his bare foot. He didn't move.
The leaf blower started again in the distance, whining against the rain.
Oliver just stood there, arm limp at his side, phone screen dark.
Another try, another gray answer.
[Scene: Late Afternoon – Back of the House, Near the Trash Bins]
Oliver stood by the kitchen trash can, lid open, his hand holding a crumpled fast-food bag that had been sitting on the table since last night. The smell wasn't awful—but it was starting to sour, just enough to make him notice. He blinked slowly, once, then again, like his body had to remind itself it was awake.
His face was blank, lips slightly parted, eyes ringed with that quiet exhaustion that never quite lifted. He exhaled through his nose, the sound short and tired.
With a small grunt, he shifted his weight, tossing the garbage into the bin and closing the lid with a soft thud. He stood there for a moment longer than he needed to, hand resting on the plastic rim, like he was gathering the will to move again.
A dull ache pulled at his side—just under the ribs. He winced slightly and rubbed it with his palm, the pressure offering little relief. That part of his body always felt tight lately, like it belonged to someone older.
OLIVER
(murmuring)
"Feels like gravity's getting heavier..."
He slowly turned toward the back door, steps dragging. His shoulders slumped forward as if the air itself was heavier inside this quiet little life. The door creaked shut behind him, the sky outside dimming into evening gray.
There was nothing urgent to do, nothing to fix. Just another task done. Another quiet hour ahead.
------
[Scene: Early Evening – Laundry Room, Dim and Stale Air]
The hum of the house was faint now—TV low in the background, a car passing outside with wet tires on slick pavement. Oliver stood in the laundry room, rubbing one eye, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand, the last thing resembling a meal for the day.
He stared blankly at the dryer.
It had stopped mid-cycle. No beep, no final spin. Just… silence. The kind that settles wrong.
He leaned down, pressed the button again. Nothing.
He opened the door—warm, damp clothes sagged in a heap, still clinging to the inside drum. A wet sock slapped limply against the opening and fell to the tile.
OLIVER
(softly)
"Seriously…?"
He tapped the panel again. Lights dead. No click, no hum.
He checked the plug. Still in. Kicked the wall gently with his heel. Nothing.
A breath left him, not angry—just resigned. He stood there a second longer, shoulders slouched, body aching, ribs tight beneath the stretched cotton of his old shirt. He ran a hand through his messy hair and looked up at the ceiling like the answer might come from above.
It didn't.
OLIVER
(to the room, to the socks, to no one)
"Guess we're air-drying like it's the Stone Age."
He grabbed a few damp shirts and started slinging them over the back of kitchen chairs, over the stair railing, over doorknobs. Each movement slow. Heavy. The clothes dripped faintly onto the floor as he walked.
The dryer sat behind him, silent and stubborn, like one more thing that had just quietly stopped working.
---------
[Scene: Oliver's Room – Night, Laptop Glow Flickering in the Dim]
Oliver sat hunched at the edge of his unmade bed, the faint blue light from his laptop casting sharp lines across his tired face. The fan in the corner rattled softly, spinning warm air that did nothing to stir the heaviness in the room.
A half-empty cup of water sat beside him, condensation pooling under it.
He scrolled slowly, his thumb greased slightly from leftover pizza crust. His expression didn't change—eyes dulled, lips pressed in that neutral, unreadable line he wore most days. Just the endless feed of the world, screaming into his silence.
---
BREAKING: "High School in Texas Erupts into Chaos as Teacher and Students Involved in Physical Altercation—Video Goes Viral"
Oliver stared for a moment. Clicked. Muted. Just shaking bodies in a hallway, people yelling. Nothing new.
Scroll.
---
HEADLINE: "Trump Announces New Tariffs Amid Growing Trade Tensions—China Responds With Countermeasures"
SUB: "Global markets wobble as superpowers escalate economic pressure. Analysts fear long-term consequences."
Oliver blinked. Scrolled. The same cold policy, just in a louder tone.
---
JAPAN SCIENCE NEWS: "Researchers Announce Universal Blood Transfusion Technology – Type-Free Safe Transfusions Now Possible"
A flicker—his brow twitched slightly. That one felt different. Almost good news. Almost.
He scrolled past it anyway.
---
LOS ANGELES: "City Imposes Emergency Curfew in Downtown After Third Night of Protests Turns Violent"
He glanced at the timestamp.
Curfew. Protests. Sirens.
He imagined the streets glowing red and blue under the clouds.
---
POLITICS: "Congresswoman Indicted for Forcibly Impeding Federal Agents During Ongoing Investigation"
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
Just noise. Every day. More noise.
---
LOCAL ODDITY: "Mendenhall Valley Residents Brace for Annual Glacial Outburst Flood – Town Prepares Emergency Measures"
He stared at that one a second longer. Ice bursting through land, old water finally letting go. There was something poetic in it, maybe. Or maybe he was just tired.
Oliver closed the lid of the laptop.
The room went dark.
Only the sound of the fan remained, rattling softly in the still, humid night.
-------
[Scene: Late Evening – Inside the House, Post-Rain Stillness]
The house felt heavy in the quiet aftermath of the rain—doors slightly swollen in their frames, air thick with humidity. Every surface seemed to carry a thin layer of dampness, like the storm had left fingerprints behind.
Oliver moved slowly, carrying an armful of damp clothes from the broken dryer. Water trailed behind him, splashing soft dots onto the floor with every sluggish step. He dropped the pile onto the wooden dining table. A dull slap. The fabric stuck faintly to the tabletop, leaving dark patches behind like sweat stains.
A sock slipped off the edge and landed with a soft squish onto the linoleum.
In the kitchen, the faucet was left running at a trickle—cold tap water gently filling an empty orange juice bottle that had the label half-peeled from old condensation. The plastic bottle hissed and popped as it cooled, waiting to be shoved into the freezer for later. Makeshift ice pack. Oliver barely noticed it anymore. It was routine.
Outside, through the back screen door, the air buzzed faintly—mosquitoes, drawn by the rain-pools left in the corners of the yard, slicked across upturned trash can lids and shallow flower pots. A few danced against the mesh, silhouetted in the porch light, their wings humming like distant static.
Stratus clouds stretched overhead in thick, motionless layers, painting the sky in tones of pewter and ash. No breeze, no thunder. Just flat, unmoving gray.
Oliver wiped his hands on his damp shirt. The table creaked when he leaned against it.
The faucet dripped once.
Everything was still—but not peaceful. Just paused.
-------
[Scene: Night – Oliver's Bedroom, Laptop Open, Blue Glow on His Face]
Oliver sat back in his creaking desk chair, one leg half up, arms resting on his stomach as his eyes glazed over. The faint blue light from his laptop bathed the room in a ghostly hue. Rain tapped lazily against the window, the occasional mosquito whining nearby. His fan rattled in the corner, adding background noise to the monotonous silence of his room.
The anime episode played on-screen—some big Spring 2025 hit everyone online was hyping up. Sword-wielding protagonist, glowing sigils, an OP soundtrack trying to convince him something exciting was happening.
On-screen: two characters stood in a field. Talking. Again.
For five minutes.
The subtitles filled the screen—dense lines of formal Japanese dialogue trying to carry weight, but all Oliver saw was:
> "You don't understand, the power of the Third Flame Heir must be entrusted to the Keeper of the Memory Spirit Gate—"
OLIVER
(muttering, flat)
"Just throw a fireball already…"
He clicked forward 10 seconds. Then 20. Still talking. Flashback. Sad piano. Close-up eyes. Sigh.
He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back, the chair letting out a low, metallic creak of protest.
He opened a light novel tab. A trending one. The title stretched like a paragraph:
"Reincarnated as the Kingdom's Accountant but I Accidentally Summoned the Demon King With My Tax Return Form!?"
He stared at it.
Scrolled.
Read two pages.
OLIVER
(dry, almost sarcastic)
"Wow… he's got stats now. Cool."
He minimized it. Opened a fan forum instead. Instantly hit with threads:
"Why X Character Would Destroy Y in a Fight"
"VsBattleWiki just upgraded Lord Axion's planetary scaling"
"No way MC can beat Demon Lord unless his feat in Ep 8 is canon"
"Scaling tier 6-B vs 7-A, prove me wrong"
Images, gifs, debates that looped endlessly. People arguing over hypothetical battles with the zeal of courtroom lawyers.
Oliver scrolled. Yawned.
OLIVER
(quietly, to himself)
"Everything's just... noise now."
He closed the tab.
Then the light novel.
Then the anime window.
The screen went dark, reflecting a faint, tired version of himself.
Outside, the clouds hadn't moved. Inside, neither had he.
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[Scene: Early Morning – Oliver's Bedroom, Before Sunrise]
The room was dark, save for the faint gray light seeping through the blinds—barely enough to make out the clutter of the floor, the unwashed laundry draped over a chair, and the glowing red digits of the alarm clock reading 6:43 AM.
Oliver lay sprawled across his mattress—no blanket, one leg off the edge, his arm limp over his chest. The pillow beneath his head was flat and warm with hours of restless tossing. His mouth hung slightly open, breath uneven, as if even sleeping required effort.
The fan whirred in the corner, blowing stale air in slow rotation. Sweat clung faintly to his lower back.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then slowly, painfully, opened his eyes.
His face twisted into a quiet grimace—not from pain, exactly, but from the weight of simply being awake. His body felt too heavy, like his bones had absorbed water in the night and refused to move. He shifted slightly, his ribs pulling tight, his joints dull and resistant.
OLIVER
(barely above a whisper)
"…No…"
He closed his eyes again. Maybe just five more minutes. Maybe if he lay still enough, time would stop noticing him.
But the discomfort wouldn't let him stay.
After a long pause, he swung his legs over the side of the bed with a grunt, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. He sat there hunched, elbows on knees, head in his hands, breathing like he'd run a mile—just from waking up.
The sound of a garbage truck rumbled faintly outside.
A new day.
And already, Oliver was tired of it.