My name is Alex, and I am a connoisseur of quiet desperation. At twenty-three, with a freshly printed degree in a field so obscure I'm convinced my university only offered it as a joke, I had achieved the quintessential modern dream: living in a shoebox apartment in Chicago that cost more than my will to live, working a job that involved transferring numbers from one spreadsheet to another for eight hours a day. My life wasn't a story; it was a holding pattern, a long, drawn-out ellipsis waiting for a sentence that might never begin.
If you ever find yourself in a similar state of beige, soul-crushing monotony, allow me to recommend a hobby that doubles as a form of psychological roulette: online dating.
I'm serious. Forget skydiving or speculating on cryptocurrency. True, heart-pounding, gut-wrenching risk can be found right there on your phone. Every swipe is a spin of the wheel, every match a pull of the slot machine lever. Online dating is the ultimate loot box system. You grind through dozens of low-tier encounters—the bots, the scammers, the people whose only personality trait is "The Office"—all in the faint, desperate hope of unboxing a legendary-tier drop. More often than not, however, you just end up with a common-grade disappointment and an emptier wallet.
The experience can branch into any genre imaginable. One date might be a low-budget comedy of errors, featuring awkward silences and a debate over who pays for the coffee. Another could be a psychological thriller where you spend the evening trying to figure out if your date's charming smile is genuine or the precursor to wearing your skin as a suit. Sometimes it's a tragedy, a fleeting connection that vanishes into the digital ether, leaving you to stare at the word "Unmatched" like a digital tombstone.
My story, the one that truly began my life rather than just letting it happen to me, turned out to be a genre I never even knew was on the table. It started as a romantic comedy, took a sharp turn into financial drama, and then plunged headfirst into supernatural horror.
The catalyst was a woman named Mona Po.
Her dating profile was a masterpiece of understated perfection. Just a handful of photos, none of them featuring the holy trinity of modern deception: the Snapchat dog filter, the group shot where you have to guess who she is, or the picture taken from an angle so high it could have been shot by a satellite. Her pictures were simple, direct, and, frankly, unbelievable. She was beautiful in a way that felt both classic and completely modern, with dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to hold a universe of secrets and a smile that could probably broker world peace.
Naturally, I assumed she was a catfish. A very, very skilled catfish, perhaps a Russian bot designed to steal my social security number, which, given my credit score, they were welcome to. In the trenches of online dating, cynicism is your shield. I went into this date with a single, humble prayer: please, let her be at least half as attractive as her photos. If she showed up and even vaguely resembled the woman on my screen, I would consider it a win for the ages.
I never, in my wildest, most optimistic dreams, prepared for the reality that she would be even more stunning in person. When she walked into the moderately priced bistro I had chosen—a place that screamed "I'm trying, but I'm also on a budget"—it was like watching a high-definition movie suddenly switch to 8K. The ambient chatter of the restaurant seemed to fade. She moved with a quiet, confident grace that made everyone else look clumsy and unfinished.
"Alex?" she asked, her voice exactly as I hadn't dared to imagine it: smooth, calm, with a hint of amusement.
"Mona?" I managed to squeak out, standing up so fast I nearly knocked my chair over. "Hi. Wow. You look... exactly like your pictures. But, like, upgraded."
She smiled that smile, and I felt my brain's central processing unit blue-screen. "You're taller than I expected," she said, which was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all year.
The date started off well. The conversation was easy. I told her about my thrilling job in data entry, and she listened with an attentiveness that made it sound almost interesting. I asked her what she did for a living, and her answer was delightfully vague.
"I'm in logistics," she said, taking a delicate sip of water. "Soul-crushing, really. A lot of bureaucracy and making sure things end up where they're supposed to go."
It was the most relatable thing she'd said all night. "Tell me about it," I sighed, and for a moment, we were just two young people commiserating over the corporate machine.
Then she started ordering. And that's when the laws of physics, biology, and economics began to warp around our little table for two.
It began innocently enough. A steak. A large one, cooked medium-rare. I watched, impressed, as she finished it with a clean, efficient precision that was almost surgical. Then she ordered another one. And a deep-dish pizza for the table, which turned out to be just for her. Then another. This was followed by five scoops of the restaurant's most expensive premium ice cream, a slice of cheesecake, and a lava cake for dessert.
I sat in stunned silence, a half-eaten chicken caesar salad wilting sadly in front of me. I watched a mountain of food that could have fed a small family disappear into this slender, elegant woman without leaving a trace. She wasn't eating ravenously; she ate with the same calm, unhurried grace she did everything else. It was the most terrifying and captivating thing I had ever witnessed. My wallet, nestled in my back pocket, had begun to emit a low, keening sob. The meal had officially transitioned from a promising date to a financial extinction-level event.
"So," I began, trying to keep my voice from trembling as I watched her finish the last bite of lava cake. "Good appetite, huh?"
She looked up, dabbing her lips with a napkin. A faint, charming blush appeared on her cheeks. "Oh, goodness. I am so sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. It's been a long week."
"No, no, it's great! It's, uh, a sign of a healthy metabolism," I said, the words feeling like ash in my mouth as I calculated the damage. The bill, when it arrived, was a three-digit horror show. It was more than my monthly budget for groceries and utilities combined.
With the heroic stoicism of a man walking to his own execution, I handed the waiter my credit card and prayed it wouldn't decline. It didn't. Small miracles.
The date concluded on a pleasant note, despite the financial carnage. I walked her to the 'L' station, the cool Chicago air doing little to cool the burning hole in my bank account. The scent of her perfume—something subtle and exotic that smelled like night-blooming flowers and old books—lingered around me.
"I had a really nice time, Alex," she said, her smile genuine as she stood by the turnstiles.
"Me too," I said, and I meant it. It was the most interesting, baffling, and expensive night of my life.
I watched her descend into the belly of the city's transit system, then began the long, solitary walk back to my apartment in Wicker Park. The adrenaline of the date began to fade, replaced by the cold, stark reality of the bill. The streets seemed emptier than usual, the familiar storefronts cast in long, distorted shadows by the orange glow of the streetlights. An unusual humidity hung in the air, making the back of my neck feel clammy.
It was about halfway home that I saw her.
Up ahead, squatting on the pavement under a flickering streetlamp, was a figure. A woman, dressed in a plain, thin white dress that seemed to flutter even though there was no breeze. She was hunched over a small, metal basin, burning something. Fanning the flames with one hand, she dropped sheets of what looked like ornate, colorful paper money into the fire. The smoke didn't rise and dissipate like normal smoke; it hung in the air in a thick, greasy column before drifting lazily down the street.
My first thought was that she was on drugs. My second was that I should cross the street. This was Chicago; minding your own business was a survival skill. I kept my head down and picked up my pace, intending to walk past as quickly and quietly as possible.
But as I drew level with her, a sudden, inexplicable gust of wind swirled around the corner. It picked up the ash and soot from her little fire and blew it directly into my face.
It wasn't hot. It was cold. A shocking, unnatural cold that felt nothing like the night air. It was a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to bypass my skin and sink directly into my bones, a damp, grave-like cold that made my teeth chatter instantly. I gasped, stumbling back, coughing as I waved the ash from my eyes.
For a moment, the woman looked up, and our eyes met. Hers were a flat, depthless gray, completely devoid of light or emotion. They weren't angry, or sad, or crazy. They were just… empty. A terrifying, profound emptiness that promised nothingness.
I didn't need any more encouragement. I broke into a run, my heart hammering against my ribs not from exertion, but from a primal, instinctual fear I hadn't felt since I was a child afraid of the dark. I didn't stop until I reached the front door of my apartment building, fumbling with my keys with trembling hands.
Once inside my apartment, I slammed the door shut and triple-bolted it, leaning against the wood, trying to catch my breath. My chest felt tight, constricted, and the bone-deep chill remained, coiling in my gut like a frozen snake.
What the hell was that? The woman, the fire, the cold... it felt like I had brushed up against something ancient and fundamentally wrong.
Seeking a distraction, a return to normalcy, I pulled out my phone. I just wanted to scroll through mind-numbing social media, to look at pictures of cats and memes until my brain rebooted.
But the device in my hand was not my phone.
My familiar, cracked-screen iPhone was gone. In its place was a solid, matte-black slab of a device I had never seen before in my life. It was heavy, cold to the touch, and had no discernible brand name. The screen was already on, glowing with a soft, internal light. It was completely black, except for a single, starkly designed app icon in the center of the screen.
It was the minimalist, stylized image of a skull. A skull wearing a corporate necktie.
Beneath it, the app's name was written in a clean, sans-serif font: Eternity, Inc.