Light is a cold, heartless bitch. Light, although humans may be able to confine it, is a stubborn fucker, bouncing around with abandon for over 2 million years within the sun. Usually, he would respect something so old. But when your sole purpose is to stab me directly in the sclera, he tends not to show the proper respect you may deserve. Yielding, he begrudgingly shifted out of bed, starting his morning routine.

Opening the bathroom door, he looked at himself in the mirror. What stared back was a man in his early twenties. He was tall, with black hair reaching down to his shoulders. Steely grayish-blue eyes with abyssal circles underneath gazed into the mirror. He winked at himself, wincing at his disheveled appearance. He grabbed the razor and cleaned up.

When he was done, he left the bathroom and put on his only suit. He noticed a large splotch on the wrist as he looked at it. The dry cleaner wasn't an option, and he couldn't afford a second, so it would have to do. He put it on, tied a full Windsor like a sensible man, and exited his tiny apartment.

Locking the door behind me, he pondered his day. He hated his job. Trying to find weaknesses in the stock market. Then short-selling the company sounded fun on paper, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was a job, and it paid the bills.

Walking down the stairs of his shitty apartment, he looked longingly at the garage. He couldn't afford a car with the world's ever-inflating economy. He had once considered biking, but he didn't find it appealing. To put a nail in the coffin, the city he lived in had no public transportation. So he walked. He didn't mind walking, but he did mind where he lived. Because of the distance he needed to travel, he couldn't afford to live anywhere else. Because he was forced to live in the heart of the city, he also had to spend significantly more on rent. Which made it even harder to buy a car. It was a never-ending cycle.

**Sigh**

Just three more weeks. Then you can afford a car, and things will start to get better.

He tore his gaze from the garage. After all, he didn't want to be late and wanted breakfast. Although he penny-pinched on just about everything else, he splurged on breakfast. He was a truly awful cook, and asking himself to make anything—even a bowl of cereal in the morning—was an almost impossible task.

Around 20 minutes later, he smelled something heavenly wafting from a familiar bakery. As he walked in, a cheerful bell rang. The sound was in stark contrast with the man behind the counter. Gaston Amigo looked grumpy as ever.

Gaston was getting up there in years. He was an immigrant from the south of France. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a scowl that could put him among the heads of Easter Island. But most importantly, he barely spoke. For some customers, this aspect of Gaston was a turn-off. but he loved it. Not having to deal with the bullshit small talk was nice for a change.

“Can he get him as usual?” he asked hesitantly. Ducking behind the counter, Gaston grabbed an almond croissant and a baguette. He placed the pastries on the counter. He grabbed a picture filled with the holy black liquid and poured a large cup. “The total comes to 9.95. Thank you for your business, Emmanuel,” he said in a droll tone of voice. “No, thank you, Mr. Gaston.” It was unusual for Gaston to even say his name, let alone thank me for his business. There must be something strange in the air today, he thought to himself.

With a pleasant chime, the door shut behind me. Like a man who hadn’t seen food in over 3 days. He devoured his almond croissant and guzzled down his coffee. Temporarily, he looked at his familiar surroundings. He was around 5 minutes from work and at a busy intersection. Two of his co-workers stood in front of me; he wasn't particularly fond of them.

To be honest, he was not particularly fond of anyone because he was single and lived alone. He had no other living family. I'd much prefer to stay at home and read a book or play video games than socialize at a party with “friends."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

That's partially why he loved Gaston's shop. He didn't have to socialize. With his thoughts running rampant, he barely noticed the shifting of the lights to green. Walking forward with the shifting horde, he didn't notice until it was too late.

**Beeeeerrrrr**

A concussive sound slapped me back to reality. Looking up, he saw a 16-wheeler hurtling toward me. Time seemed to slam on the brakes. Instead of his life flashing before his eyes like thousands, there have been millions of stories told before. He couldn't help but think.

Why the Fuck is a 16-wheeler traveling at least 60 kilometers per hour on the highway. Does he mean, Come on, what are you thinking, driver? This is a semi-residential area! He just left a bakery, for god's sake.

He has never seen a 16-wheeler next to a bakery; you know why. BECAUSE BAKERIES ARE NOT NEXT TO FUCKING HIGHWAYS! Remembering something important, he looks down. I'm sorry, his friend; he will not be consuming your delicious crust. As expected, the baguette did not respond.

Deciding to face his death head-on, he looked up. Instead of the truck ramming into me, it seemed to have only moved a few centimeters. Looking around, time seemed to have stopped, but seemingly not just for me.

My coworkers also seem to be moving. The other nameless humans seem to be moving as well. In contrast to the moving humans, the world itself was silent and still. He heard no dogs barking, no birds chirping, and no 16-wheelers moving. Hey, look on the bright side, he told himself. “Pigeons have been eradicated; that's a nice thing before you die.”

After almost another minute of confusion, he started to wonder if he had kicked the bucket and shuffled off the old mortal coil. But his coworkers had gathered a large herd, and we were gesticulating about something he couldn't quite make out. Maybe he was just hallucinating; maybe he died in his sleep, and this was some sort of weird fever dream. He means Gaston was acting weird; when does he ever say anything, let alone thank you?

He heard a bell, much like the one that heralded the opening and closing of Gaston's doors.

*Ding*

Congratulations, inhabitants of the 79th Universe! You have crossed a threshold and will now be incorporated into the system.

In bafflement, he stared at the floating text in front of his face. 79th universe threshold, system. What the fuck is happening? He means he has some pretty strange dreams, but they are even outlandish for me.

Pinching himself, he got no reaction. Surely it must be a prank or something. He looked around for some sign that he wasn't going off the rails. The other people around me seemed just as confused as he did. They were staring into a blank space with a vacant look.

Shit, that is real. As if a dam had broken, he remembered an old man and a mountain of books. He had pushed the memories away after... He centered himself, trying to remember anything that the old man taught me.

The system implies a lot. Not like MLA citation a lot, but a lot in terms of a societal shift. If this is a universal phenomenon, that also means everybody is affected. It's not like he cared about anyone, really, but the thought of all the children, elderly, and other impaired people who would die hardened me. My stomach dropped even further when he heard that sound.

*Ding*

Congratulations, humans of Earth! You will be relocated to the Culling while your planet is remodeled for your betterment.

The departure will begin.

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You know, why couldn't Truck-kun just take me? It would have made things a whole lot easier.

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