Duke Ardion woke up to sunlight punching through his curtains like it had a personal vendetta against him.
His eyelids twitched.
"Why… why is the sun so violent today?" he muttered, voice muffled by the pillow.
The sun, unsympathetic, continued shining.
His alarm clock joined the assault.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Harsh, loud and unnecessary.
Duke slapped the top of the clock with the determination of a man trying to kill a mosquito.
It didn't stop.
He slapped again harder.
The alarm finally shut up, letting out a pathetic dying chirp.
Duke sat up slowly, dragging his blanket like a mourning cape. His hair stuck out in six different directions, like the universe had styled it with static electricity.
His room was small, neat only on days he felt emotionally stable. Today it was…
Unwashed mug on the bedside table.
Loose shirt hanging off the chair.
A box of instant noodles judging him silently from the shelf.
He rubbed his eyes.
Age 20 and already in a long-term relationship with exhaustion.
He looked out the window.
Valoria City stretched far and wide, sleek hover-rails gliding between towers, neon billboards flickering lazily even in the morning, delivery drones zipping like metallic insects. A city trying so hard to look advanced but still waking up with bad breath.
He sighed.
"Okay, Duke. You got this. It's payday. You need groceries. And rent. Let's… let's exist today."
He put on clothes in the slow, deliberate way of someone not fully convinced life was worth rushing for. Shirt. Pants. Shoes that needed to retire but refused to die.
He walked out, locking his apartment door with the familiar click.
Today would be fine.
AstraCom Solutions' main building stood tall and pretentious, with mirrored windows that reflected the morning sun in a "look at me, I'm expensive" kind of way.
Duke stepped inside.
The lobby smelled like freshly cleaned floors, tired employees, and overpriced synthetic air fresheners. The receptionist robot blinked awake as he passed.
"Employee 447: Duke Ardion. Good morning. Mood level: 42%. Recommended: caffeine."
"Don't psychoanalyze me this early," Duke muttered, walking past.
Cubicles stretched across the office floor like a maze built specifically to trap workers forever. Panels were soft gray, desks cluttered with personal items, half-dead plants, snack wrappers, motivational quotes no one believed in.
Duke made his way to his desk, third row from the windows, second cubicle from the syrup-stained wall, the one next to...
"Oh look," a voice said with dangerous cheerfulness. "The punctuality spirit has decided to bless us today."
Duke closed his eyes for a beat.
Here we go.
He turned.
Mara Rixwell.
Short. Sharp eyes. Dark hair tied in a messy bun. Energy of someone who slept well, ate breakfast, and actively enjoyed conflict.
She leaned against his desk with a smirk.
"Duke," she said, drawing his name out like a teasing melody. "You do realize work starts at 8:00, right? Not at… whatever this time is."
"It's 8:02," Duke replied. "Which technically still begins with an eight, so let's not exaggerate."
Mara scoffed. "So now we measure punctuality by first digits, not minutes? Interesting philosophy."
Duke dropped his bag onto his chair. "Mara, I just walked in. Please allow me five minutes of peace before you start your daily psychological warfare."
"If I give you five minutes, you'll fall asleep at your desk," she shot back.
He pointed at her. "That was actually clever. I'm offended."
Mara grinned, folding her arms. "Come on, admit it. You love our morning warm-ups."
"Warm-ups? This is emotional cardio."
"Exactly. We're building stamina."
Duke stared at her. "Why are you like this?"
She shrugged. "Natural talent."
Their supervisor walked by, eyebrows raised. "Glad to see teamwork is alive and well."
Duke and Mara both replied:
"It's not teamwork."
"It's not teamwork."
They glanced at each other, annoyed they had accidentally synced.
The supervisor blinked twice and kept walking.
Duke sighed deeply, sinking into his chair. "You know, one day I'll win one of these arguments."
Mara pulled up a chair beside his desk, plopping down dramatically. "Bold words for someone who still gets confused by the coffee machine."
"It has too many buttons."
"It has three."
"And all of them look the same."
Mara laughed, genuinely, warmly, and annoyingly pleasant. "You're hopeless."
"Thank you. I try my best."
By noon, Duke's brain felt like microwaved tofu. He escaped the office building with the desperate energy of someone fleeing captivity.
The sky outside was bright, painfully bright. A breeze drifted by, carrying the faint scent of street food, engine oil, and something suspiciously like cinnamon.
He walked across the plaza, stretching, breathing, almost feeling human again.
Then someone shouted:
"HEY MOVE!"
Duke turned left.
A shadow fell over him.
A delivery shuttle above sputtered violently, its thrusters hiccupping.
And then
A crate slipped loose.
A big crate.
A ridiculously big crate.
Full refrigerator size.
Metal casing.
Very deadly-looking.
It plummeted straight toward him.
Duke froze, eyes wide.
His brain offered a single thought:
You have got to be kidding me.
CRASH!
Dust exploded upward.
People screamed.
A woman dropped her lunch.
A man took a video.
Duke stood there, trembling, staring at the crate smashed against the ground…
Exactly two inches from his left foot.
He slowly exhaled.
"I… almost became pavement decoration."
Footsteps thundered behind him.
Mara grabbed his shoulders. "DUKE! DUKE, ARE YOU OKAY?! Oh my, why are you standing there?! Why didn't you move?!"
"I was processing," he said weakly.
"What were you processing? The meaning of life?!"
"Yes."
She shook him lightly. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"You're pale."
"That's my normal complexion."
"You're shaking!"
"That's also normal."
She glared at him. "This is not funny, Duke."
He blinked at her… then sighed.
"Yeah. I know."
Then: "Still feels like I should get hazard pay though."
Mara hit his arm. "DUKE!"
"What?! It's a valid point!"
She stared at him, worried, frustrated, but also relieved.
Then she whispered, "You scared the hell out of everyone."
"Trust me," he said, "hell was mutual."
The street was still buzzing from the near-miss, people whispering, pointing at the crushed crate like it was a celebrity scandal.
Duke forced a shaky laugh. "You know… statistically speaking… this shouldn't happen, right?"
Mara folded her arms tightly. "Statistically, you shouldn't be alive."
He winced. "Okay, rude. It's true, but still rude."
"You nearly died, Duke."
"I realized."
"No, I don't think you do!"
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "When that thing fell, I… I thought"
She cut herself off, cheeks tightening.
Mara never showed vulnerability.
Duke softened. "Hey… I'm fine. See?"
He lifted his arms like a malfunctioning robot.
"Alive. Mostly coordinated. Full of fragile human mortality."
Mara pressed a hand to her forehead. "I swear, one day your bad luck will give me heart palpitations."
"One day?" Duke snorted. "Try today."
Their eyes met for a moment longer than usual, a shared breath of relief, annoyance, unspoken fondness, and the absurdity of survival.
Then Mara clapped her hands abruptly. "Okay, enough! Back to work. You can't use near-death as an excuse to skip your shift."
"Wow," Duke deadpanned. "Not even five minutes of compassion. Cold corporate life."
"You'll survive."
"I barely survived that crate!"
Mara rolled her eyes. "Walk. Now."
He obeyed, still glancing back at the crater like it might chase him.
Back inside AstraCom, the atmosphere felt different, quieter, like everyone was afraid Duke was a walking bad omen.
Even the receptionist robot flickered nervously when it detected him.
"Employee 447… probability of accident today: 92%. Please consider immediate insurance upgrades."
Duke pointed at it. "You see? Even machines bully me."
Mara patted his shoulder. "Take it as a sign of affection."
"That's not affection."
They walked toward their desks.
People whispered.
"That's him."
"The guy from outside?"
"He almost died?"
"Again?"
"No, this is the first time, right?"
"Are we sure?"
Duke sighed loudly. "I can hear you, you know."
A coworker called Jaro leaned out of his cubicle. "Duke, man, if you die on company property, does the company get sued or do we get compensated?"
Duke blinked at him. "Jaro, please shut up."
Jaro shrugged. "Fair."
Mara slid into her seat. "Ignore them. People dramatize everything."
"You were dramatizing everything."
"I had a reason! They don't."
"That sounds like bias."
"Correct."
Their supervisor approached with a clipboard tablet.
"Ardion. Mara. Status report?"
Mara answered smoothly, but Duke zoned out, staring at his reflection on the screen of his computer, pupils still slightly dilated, fingers tapping against the desk.
He was alive.
His heart still thumped like a misfiring engine.
Why did he feel like something bigger was happening?
Why did the world feel… tilted?
By evening, Duke felt weirdly fine. He packed up, exchanged a final sarcastic jab with Mara, and stepped out into Valoria's nightscape.
The city looked beautiful, all neon ribbons and floating adverts, hover-bikes humming overhead, restaurants glowing with warm lights.
He let himself enjoy it.
"Maybe… today's bad luck quota is finally over," he said softly.
The universe listened.
And laughed.
He took the walkway bridge over the river. The water below reflected the city lights like spilled stars. A couple sat on the railing, laughing. A busker played a mellow tune. Everything was peaceful.
Then Duke felt a tiny barely noticeable tremor.
He paused.
The lights on the bridge flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Duke looked up.
"…Please. Not again."
A loud metallic PING echoed above him.
He slowly, very slowly lifted his eyes to the overpass rail two levels higher.
A delivery bot rolled toward the edge.
A delivery bot carrying...
A long metal cargo case.
Half-open.
Sparks flying from its suspension.
Duke whispered, "Universe, I truly apologize for whatever I did."
The bot wheel hit a crack.
The cargo case slid off the bot
…tipped over the edge
…began to fall.
Right toward him.
Duke froze.
Again.
People screamed.
The busker's music cut off.
Someone yelled, "MOVE!"
Duke's brain fired zero instructions.
The metal case accelerated, air whistling around it.
BOOOOM!
Impact.
Smoke.
Dust.
Shards of metal.
And Duke was lying on the ground.
Alive.
The case had smashed into the walkway railing first, bounced, rolled, and landed inches from him, jamming itself into the pavement like a spear.
He gasped in disbelief.
People ran to him.
"You okay??"
"Did it hit you?"
"Should we call medics?"
"Are you cursed?"
"No, seriously, is he cursed?"
Duke sat up, dizzy. "I… I survived. Twice."
An old man squinted at him. "Son, whatever god is playing with you today… they're having fun."
"That… does not help…" Duke wheezed.
He stood, wavering slightly, and waved weakly at the frightened crowd.
"I'm fine. Just… going home. Very carefully."
They watched him walk away like he was a ticking bomb.
His apartment street was calm and quieter than usual.
Warm lights from windows.
People cooking dinner.
Kids arguing about whose turn it was to wash dishes.
It all felt so normal compared to the rest of his day.
He reached the crosswalk.
The signal turned green.
Duke stepped forward
And a heavy rumble shook the street.
A hover-truck from the parallel lane swerved violently, its stabilizers sparking. The driver shouted in panic, trying to regain control.
The truck tipped, tipped more
Duke stared.
"Oh come on"
CRASH.
The last sound he heard was shattering glass, screeching metal, and the sharp pop of a rupturing energy battery.
Bright light swallowed everything.
Everything.
End of Chapter 1