The metallic torture device clamped around my head began shrieking—another cheerful reminder that morning had arrived and it hated me.
Beneath the stained sheets of my twin bed, I groaned and peeled one arm free from the tepid grip of the covers. Then I reached up and furiously cranked the alarm gear on my skull. Faster and faster it spun, powered by the rising tide of morning rage.
The ringing grew louder, then—
Click.
Silence. Blessed, godly silence. The lock disengaged, and I yanked the cursed headgear off. My eyes cracked open, greeted by the familiar misery of a mildewed gray ceiling pressing down from above.
The bed was wedged so tight into the corner that I couldn't even stretch my arms.
A sliver of sunlight managed to stab through the warped blinds. Good enough to see where I was—which, unfortunately, was still here.
Tossing the "sleep annihilator" to the side, I let my shoulder-length black hair tumble out in greasy defeat and scooted to the right. Standing up required bending slightly. If I were two inches taller, my skull would be part of the ceiling decor.
I shuffled sideways to the window like a crusty crab, twisted the latch, and cracked it open. A gust of city-brand petrichor rushed in—equal parts refreshing and vaguely chemical.
I flung the shades open. Sunlight poured in, bouncing off rooftop puddles and casting fractured reflections from the floating buildings overhead. The sky was a painter's blue, clouds drifting lazily to better neighborhoods.
"Ugh. Screw this," I muttered. "Why do I have a job again?"
Technically, my home was a studio apartment. Realistically, it was a dungeon cell with plumbing. My laundry basket hung from the ceiling. My broken chest—holding all my worldly goods—occupied so much space I had to tiptoe through a tight L-shaped path just to reach the door.
I grabbed my uniform—white shirt, black pants, red vest—and sniffed. It had the faint musk of desperation and last Thursday.
"Rancid up close but fine from a distance," I muttered. "The holy grail of workplace hygiene."
I draped it over the window to air out and stepped into the "kitchen," which was more of a fridge lodged between a trash can and my front door.
Dragging a stool over, I cracked the fridge, bumping it against the chest. I pulled out half a bologna sandwich from yesterday—still barely food—and flopped onto the stool. I ate sideways, hunched and slanted like a cartoon goblin.
Crumbs swept. Trash tossed. The can reeked, thanks to weeks of garbage being compressed like a stress ball. I brushed my hands off, grabbed a toothbrush from a cup on the fridge, slippers on, and waddled out the door in my pajamas.
And immediately regretted it.
My mustachioed neighbor James was chatting up our upstairs resident, Sharon, outside the shared bathroom. I darted a look at the wall clock.
6:43 a.m.
"You gotta be kidding me," I growled, storming toward James. "Bro, it's my slot!"
James blinked, caught mid-flirt. "Morning, Eryk. Something wrong?"
"Yeah, my digestive system is on a timer," I hissed, nudging him toward the door. "Get in, speed-shower, out. Go."
James laughed like it was cute. "Relax, nobody's gonna care if you're a little late today."
"I'll be late to work," I stressed. Loudly.
James blinked, confused. "Wait… you forgot what day it is?"
My dead-eyed glare answered for me.
He chuckled awkwardly and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door. Sharon gave me a cheerful wave. "Hey there, Eryk! Can't believe you have to work today. I'd quit."
"Oh, I would too," I said, faking a light laugh. "In a heartbeat."
"You should come drinking with us tonight," she added brightly. "Unless you've got plans?"
"Plans…?" I echoed. "Sure. Yep. Plans."
She winked, waved, and vanished up the stairs. I slumped against the wall, defeated by someone else's social life.
The sound of James singing in the shower dragged me back to reality. I tapped my foot. Then bounced it. Then clenched my jaw.
6:48...6:49...6:50...6:51…
The door creaked open at 6:53. Before James could even mumble an apology, I bulldozed past him and locked the door behind me. The bathroom smelled like cheap body wash and betrayal.
I undressed with the speed of someone defusing a bomb and leapt into the shower. Tepid water hit my skin like lukewarm rejection.
At least the towels were fresh today. Some tenants took extras and left the rest of us with damp, mysterious fungus cloths. I still had nightmares about the time I wiped my face with someone's groin sweat rag.
Toweled off, hair dripping, I stared into the cracked mirror. I looked like someone who aged a decade in a week. My birthday had just passed, but I felt about fifty. Acne scars, stress lines, the works.
Ugly? No. Just broke.
Brush. Scrub. Spit. Done.
Back in uniform—shirt buttoned, pants up, vest on—I paused to mourn the toilet I didn't get to use and bolted back to my apartment. Coffee out of the fridge. Filtered. Chugged. Keys in pocket. Shoes on feet. Out the door.
And nearly got flattened by a drake.
"AH!" I yelped, jumping back as a green lizard the size of a pickup stormed past with its rider barely acknowledging me.
I stared at my shirt. No coffee stain. Praise be.
I began my thirty-minute walk to Charat Hypermarket, our neighborhood's answer to soul erosion. Traffic was light, mostly drake-pulled carts avoiding potholes like their lives depended on it.
The closer I got to the wealthier districts, the cleaner everything became. Crystals lit up cafes and storefronts. Music floated through the air—actual music, not the sonic torture my alarm played.
When I hit the 25th district, it was like walking into another world. Floating platforms, gardens in spheres, castles suspended in the sky. Wealth so thick it practically clogged the air.
I even saw that same asshole's carriage again. Men were unloading giant decorative metal fences—spiked, of course, because intimidation was apparently in fashion.
I snorted. "Ah, yes. The classic 'go away, peasants' fence."
As I sipped the last of my coffee, another identical fence setup appeared. Probably fencing off half the damn sky.
Yo, I heard you like classism, so we added more classism to your classism.
I reached my workplace—Charat Hypermarket. The sign blinked half-dead. I passed the "special offer" posters I'd hung up yesterday, clocked in, spritzed myself with sample cologne, and took my post at the register.
Day shift. Anniversary day. Store still open. Customers aplenty. My soul? MIA.
Lunch lull hit, and I leaned against my register. The wall crystal flickered on, showing a suited reporter droning on about the anniversary—some world-changing Rift event two centuries back.
I never understood how turning tragedy into a national holiday was socially acceptable, but hey, everyone loves fireworks.
"Hey! Young man!"
I flinched. A middle-aged lady stormed up, eyes blazing.
"You overcharged me! Thief!"
Here we go.
"Calm down, ma'am. May I see your receipt?"
She shoved it in my face like a badge of honor. "You billed me twice for napkins!"
I scanned it.
Huh. She's right.
Deep sigh. "Apologies, miss. Let me fix that."
I reached for her bag to recheck items.
"Excuse you! What are you doing?"
"Just need to rescan to issue a refund," I replied, plastering on a smile so fake it should've come with a warning label.
To my surprise, she let me.
Scan. Scan. Wait…
My heart dropped. I hadn't double-scanned the napkins. I'd missed the second cookie pack.
"Well, miss… uhm… actually, it looks like I undercharged you, not the other way around…"
Her smile vanished.
Mine did too.
Ten minutes later, the manager chewed me out in whispers while handing the woman a coupon for her "trouble." I didn't even get written up—just a warning.
Still humiliating.
Then came the beer guy. You know the type. Bulk buyer, no social skills, smells like dried sweat and regret.
It was gonna be a long-ass day.
Fifteen hours, a near-fistfight over onions, and one awkward fart later, I finally punched out. A can of beans dangled from a plastic bag in my hand. Dinner of champions.
The 200th Rift Anniversary, huh?
"Maybe I'll party for the 300th," I mumbled.
Walking home, I hit the 25th district again. Except now? A massive fence blocked the shortcut.
"What the hell…?"
Some rich guy's idea of fun, apparently. A line had formed. A guard checked IDs like we were entering a club.
I got in line. When it was my turn, I smiled like a doofus. "Evening. I'm, uh… heading to a party."
"Name of the host?"
"…John Smith."
The guard didn't blink. "Move aside."
"I'm a dancer. A very special kind."
"Sir."
"Do you know who my father is?!"
His eyes darted to my bean bag.
No dice. I was shooed off like a fly.
I sighed and found a wall to sit on. Left detour added forty minutes.
Problem: the right path led through the 26th district.
Worse roads, louder crowds, higher mugging risk.
Still… my beans weren't worth an hour of walking.
I turned right.
Music faded. Trash increased. Shirtless teens yelled about beans. I got mock-hugged and temporarily bean-jacked.
Business as usual.
Eventually, I reached a shortcut.
"Hey… wasn't this Greg's place?"
Memories flooded in. Childhood. Safer times. A hint of hope.
Then I saw it.
A massive open doorway.
Unnatural light. Way too bright. Golden grass on the other side stretching forever.
I froze mid-step.
My grocery bag crinkled in my hand.
My brain screamed something was very, very wrong.
And just like that, my world ended—quietly, almost politely—as I stepped face-first into a portal I didn't know existed.