The day started the way all my days do—with my alarm blaring like a siren calling me to war. Only this war was fought with spreadsheets, fluorescent lighting, and a dress code that screamed, "Give up, you’re middle management now."

I slapped the alarm off, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stared down at my socks—one white, one gray. I briefly considered finding a matching pair but decided that would require the kind of effort that, frankly, this day didn’t deserve.

By the time I shuffled into Whitford Tech Solutions, coffee in hand, I was already running on autopilot. I scanned my keycard at the revolving doors, the same way I’d done every day for the last five years, and headed to my cubicle. It’s not like I was late. No one at Whitford notices when you’re late, or early, or alive, for that matter.

My workspace greeted me like an old, indifferent friend: a nine-by-nine box of gray walls, a creaky chair, and the pièce de résistance—a fake potted plant named Greg. I named it Greg because I felt like even plastic plants deserved names, and Greg seemed like the kind of guy who’d also end up trapped in an office job.

I slumped into my chair, took a sip of my coffee, and grimaced. Whitford’s coffee machine wasn’t so much a dispenser of liquid energy as it was a source of moral dilemmas. Drink it and suffer, or don’t drink it and suffer worse. Today, I drank it.

Emails started flooding in—each one a masterpiece of corporate nonsense. “Action items,” “synergy,” “bandwidth”— they all blurred together into a soup of words that meant nothing but took up space. I could practically feel my brain cells filing for early retirement.

My boss, Mr. Greenwood, passed by my cubicle at one point, his loafers squeaking ominously. “Don’t forget, Parker, the quarterly efficiency report is due by five,” he said, smiling the way people do when they want to sound encouraging but are secretly hoping you’ll quit so they can replace you with someone younger and cheaper.

“Of course,” I said, matching his fake enthusiasm. In my head, I was already picturing him as a villain in one of my doodles—a gelatinous blob monster devouring helpless office workers.

The day dragged on, and I found myself doodling again. A spaceship here, an alien planet there. Little escapes from the crushing mediocrity of my existence. The funny thing is, I used to dream of this stuff as a kid. Space, adventure, heroism. Now, I’d settle for a lunch break that didn’t involve eating a soggy chicken wrap on a bench that smells faintly of exhaust fumes.

Speaking of which, lunch arrived with all the fanfare of a deflating balloon. I grabbed my chicken wrap—because apparently, I hate myself—and headed outside to my usual bench by the loading dock. The bench overlooked a patch of grass that was so yellow and scraggly it might as well have been an art installation titled Corporate Despair in the Modern Age.

I stared at the city skyline while chewing through the wrap, each bite a reminder that I needed to start cooking my own meals. The skyscrapers glinted in the sun, and I imagined what it’d be like to be up there, in some corner office, making decisions that mattered. Then I laughed. Who was I kidding? People like me don’t end up in corner offices. People like me end up staring at spreadsheets until our eyes glaze over.

After lunch, it was back to the grind. Numbers. Emails. A report about productivity metrics that no one but Mr. Greenwood would ever read. The highlight of my afternoon was when the vending machine ate Vijay’s dollar and he spent five glorious minutes trying to shake it loose.

As five o’clock finally rolled around, I shut down my computer with all the enthusiasm of a man escaping a burning building. The subway ride home was its usual symphony of overcrowding and human misery, and by the time I reached my apartment, I was too tired to do anything but collapse onto the couch.

My apartment was…fine. Small, dingy, and the kind of place you don’t bother decorating because you know you’ll never have guests. The couch sagged in the middle, the TV remote had a piece of duct tape holding it together, and the ceiling fan made a noise like a dying blender. It wasn’t exactly inspiring, but it was home.

I tried heating up a frozen pizza, but naturally, I forgot about it until smoke started pouring out of the oven. As I fanned the smoke alarm with a dish towel, I couldn’t help but laugh. Burned pizza. Another culinary masterpiece by Ethan Parker.

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Eventually, I gave up and ordered takeout. While I waited, I slumped onto the couch and flicked through channels, landing on a documentary about black holes. There was something poetic about it—an endless void consuming everything in its path. Kind of like my job.

As I watched, my mind wandered. I started thinking about those doodles again—the spaceships, the planets, the idea of just leaving everything behind and going…somewhere else. Anywhere else.

But that’s all it was: a fantasy. The kind of thing you dream about when you’re stuck in a life that feels too small for you.

The takeout arrived. I ate it in silence, staring out the window at the city below. Cars honked, people bustled, and neon signs flickered like they were winking at me. It was a reminder that the world kept spinning, even if I felt stuck.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I had the same thought I always do before I fall asleep:

Maybe tomorrow will be different.

The muffled hum of the city outside was like white noise as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I’d eaten too much takeout, the faint ache of regret settling in my stomach. Sleep didn’t come easy these days—not with the nagging thought that life was passing me by, one burned pizza and boring day at a time.

I must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing I knew, a sound snapped me awake.

A creak.

Not the usual kind, like the building settling or my upstairs neighbors dropping something heavy. This one was different. Deliberate.

I sat up, heart hammering, my brain struggling to catch up. Shadows danced across the walls as the streetlights outside flickered. My apartment wasn’t exactly Fort Knox, but I’d never felt unsafe before. Now, every instinct I had screamed danger.

Then I heard it—the soft shuffle of feet.

Someone was in my apartment.

The realization hit me like a freight train, and my pulse spiked. I tried to steady my breathing as I reached for my phone on the nightstand, but before my fingers could wrap around it, my bedroom door creaked open.

Two figures stood in the doorway, backlit by the faint glow from the hallway. One was tall and wiry, the other stocky, their faces obscured by masks. My chest tightened as the taller one stepped forward, the glint of a handgun catching the dim light.

"Stay where you are," he hissed.

My hands went up instinctively. “Okay, okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through me.

“Where’s the cash?” the shorter one growled, his voice rough and impatient.

“Cash?” I blinked. “I—I don’t have much. Maybe twenty bucks in my wallet.”

The tall one let out a frustrated sigh. “Check the dresser,” he said to his partner, keeping the gun trained on me.

The shorter guy rifled through my drawers, tossing socks and crumpled receipts onto the floor. My mind raced. Should I make a move? Stay still? Beg? None of those options felt particularly good.

The tall one’s attention flicked away for a split second, and before I could think better of it, I moved.

I lunged forward, grabbing for the gun.

“Don’t—!” he yelled, jerking back, but I was already too close. My hand grazed the barrel, and for a moment, I thought I might actually disarm him.

Then the gun went off.

The sound was deafening, a sharp crack that left my ears ringing. Pain bloomed in my chest, hot and searing, and I stumbled back onto the bed.

“Damn it!” the shorter guy shouted. “Why’d you shoot him?”

“He grabbed for the gun!” the tall one snapped. “Let’s go!”

Their voices faded as the world around me blurred. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, each thud weaker than the last. Warmth spread across my chest, and when I looked down, I saw red soaking through my shirt.

This was it. This was how it ended. Not with some grand adventure, but in my crappy apartment, shot by a couple of losers over nothing.

My vision dimmed as the edges of my consciousness began to unravel. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I saw light—soft and inviting, like a doorway opening to…what? Peace? Nothingness?

Then, just as quickly as the light appeared, it twisted and changed, pulling me in with an unnatural force.

I gasped, jerking upright.

My chest wasn’t burning anymore. In fact, I felt…fine. Better than fine. But as I looked around, confusion set in.

I was no longer in my apartment.

I was in a cell—a sleek, sterile cube made of smooth, dark material that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The walls and floor pulsed with a strange, otherworldly energy, their surfaces frozen in time.

I say "frozen" because that’s exactly what it looked like. A faint ripple in the air hung suspended, like someone had paused reality itself. Objects beyond the cell—chairs, a desk, even the faint silhouette of another figure—were trapped mid-motion, as if someone had pressed pause on the universe.

“What the hell…” I muttered, my voice echoing slightly.

The air around me was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness. It felt like time itself had stopped, leaving everything in a state of eerie, lifeless suspension.

Then, in front of me, something flickered.

A glowing screen materialized out of thin air, hovering a few feet away. The light it cast was warm and golden, starkly out of place in the cold, dark cell.

Words began to appear on the screen, crisp and clear:

WELCOME TO THE COSMIC MASTERY SYSTEM

Beneath it, a smaller line blinked into existence:

Please Begin Character Customization.

I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.

“What…is this?”

No answer came, only the gentle hum of the glowing screen, waiting for me to make my move.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t bored.

I was terrified.

But damn if I wasn’t curious.