The alarm goes off like it's personally offended to be alive.
Which, honestly, same.
I smack the snooze button once. Twice. By the third round, it's a battle of wills between me and a $12 alarm clock that somehow remains undefeated.
My ancient coffee machine sputters weakly, gasping for life before coughing out something that technically qualifies as caffeine. The smell is burnt and bitter and perfect. I sip it while watching my reflection in the microwave door, same messy dark-brown ponytail, same tired eyes, same blouse I swore I'd stop wearing after the third "Didn't you wear that yesterday?" joke.
I thought business casual would make me feel more… I don't know, inspired? Maybe even like someone who has her life together. But after years of black pants and beige tops, all it's really done is teach me how to blend into textured wallpaper. I'm corporate camouflage in flats.
The toast pops up, charred to its core, as usual. My smoke alarm has learned to pick its battles.
I grab my keys, open the door… and freeze.
There's a past-due notice taped to it like a neon sign of failure.
My stomach drops.
It's still early, maybe no one saw. I tear it down fast, fold it neatly in half, and shove it deep into my bag, wedging it under old receipts and gum wrappers. If I don't look at it, it doesn't exist. Schrödinger's rent.
Outside, the morning air is already hot and sticky. I shove my sweater in my bag with the bill. Out of sight, out of mind — my unofficial life motto.
By the time I reach the bus stop, I've already scrolled through three rejection emails for jobs I barely remember applying for and deleted another "low balance" text from my bank.
Being poor builds character, I think. And anxiety. And vitamin deficiencies.
Ten minutes until my bus. Ten minutes to pretend optimism is a personality trait. I practice my smile while I wait.
Management's been hinting for weeks that someone on the analytics team might be up for a promotion. No names, no promises, just enough rumor to keep morale simmering. Still, I can't help hoping. The salary bump alone would mean breathing room for the first time in years.
I know better than to get my hopes up, but it's hard not to imagine what it would feel like. To have someone say, You did good, Cassie. We see you.
A handshake. A title. A number in my bank account that doesn't sound like a cry for help.
I've worked for it. God, have I worked for it.
Six months of unpaid overtime. Saying yes to every request. Building streamlining proposals and optimizing productivity reports no one thought to update but everyone suddenly takes credit for.
And the thing is… I actually love it.
Finding smarter, faster ways to do things scratches an itch in my brain that nothing else does. Spreadsheets are my playground. Data sets are puzzles that always, always make sense.
Getting to do what I love and getting paid a living wage for it? That would be bliss.
A hiss of brakes jerks me back to reality. The bus pulls up, groaning like it regrets the effort. I scan my pass and step into the familiar cocktail of diesel, body odor, and existential despair — that last one coming from me.
The seats are patterned in some kind of visual chaos designed to hide stains too old to name. I pass a man loudly explaining crypto to a woman who looks ready to fake her own death, and a kid watching cartoons at a volume capable of reanimating corpses.
I slip into my favorite single seat in the back and put on my noise-canceling headphones. The world fades into something dull and tolerable.
Sunlight filters through a cracked window, dust motes swirling like lazy galaxies. For a second, I pretend I'm traveling somewhere important. A horse-drawn carriage, tea with friends, a life not measured in clock-ins and past due notices.
Then the bus lurches forward, and a soda can explodes somewhere behind me, sliding all the way to the front, dripping its contents out in one long, shrill fizz.
Another day in paradise.
When I finally reach the office, I trade diesel fumes for recycled air. The elevator dings, and I step into fluorescent purgatory, cubicles stretching endlessly under buzzing lights, each one a little beige tomb. Someone's desk plant has wilted in protest. The air smells faintly of printer ink and mildew.
I weave through the maze, trying not to make eye contact on the way to my cubicle. Mornings are a minefield, and small talk is the shrapnel.
Thankfully, I seem to have appeased the cubicle gods today because I make it to my desk unscathed. I'll thank them later by pretending the break-room coffee isn't a war crime.
I wake my computer, wincing at the hum of the overhead lights as they drill into my skull.
It's Friday, which means sending out the weekly report (finished two days ago) and surviving the all-hands meeting that I can already guess, could've been an email.
I try not to think about the promotion, but the thought sneaks in anyway. Hope is expensive, and I've been living on the knockoff brand for years.
Still, this time feels different.
A few days ago, I caught a massive redundancy issue in one of our internal systems. A stupid, obvious oversight that was wasting hours every week. I fixed it, documented it, even built a mini report showing the time saved.
Management's reaction was a polite "Good catch," followed by radio silence. Par for the course. Around here, recognition takes longer to load than the company website.
But Ryan got it. He actually looked impressed when I told him, asked about the process, even said he wanted to help me pitch it properly next time. He's one of the only people who sees what I do for what it is. Not busywork, but actual improvement.
I ping him to see if he's in yet. Fridays are his "dad days". School drop-offs, family chaos, and usually a pink box of donuts that somehow restores my faith in humanity. My stomach grumbles in anticipation.
Ryan's one of my only friends here. He's the golden-retriever type: patient, grounded, somehow still cheerful before noon. And then there's me, chronically on time, perpetually invisible, allergic to enthusiasm, so I've been told.
Still, he gets me. He laughs at my jokes. He didn't flinch when I admitted I spent Christmas building a color-coded household budget "for fun." He just nodded and said, "Of course you did." Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
While I wait for him to reply, I open one of my standby spreadsheets. From a distance, it looks complex enough to keep people from asking questions. Up close, it's absolute nonsense, dummy data, meaningless formulas, my own private decoy project.
I learned early that finishing work too fast doesn't earn you praise. It earns you more work. "Not being a team player," one manager once said. Corporate code for please slow down so I can feel useful.
So now I pace myself. Strategic idling. Productivity theater.
Time crawls. The office chat pings a few times. GIFs from last week's meeting (spoiler: still could've been an email), a baby-shower invite for someone I've never met, and the first whispers of weekend overtime.
The responses come fast:
"Can't make it!"
"Already have plans!"
"Sorry, family stuff!"
A symphony of avoidance.
I smirk, scrolling through the thread, ready to add my own "sorry not sorry", when something new flickers across my screen.
❖ SYSTEM MESSAGE ❖
QUEST AVAILABLE:
Avoid Weekend Overtime
REWARDS:
- Sleep in
- Save bus fare
- Rediscover the will to live
DESCRIPTION:
Politely deflect management's "quick favor" before it eats your entire weekend.
PENALTY:
- Unpaid hours
- Existential dread
- Zero time for webnovel reading
NOTES:Side Quest Unlocked: Strategic Ghosting upon success.
What the hell—