Alex Hartman lay flat on his lumpy twin-sized bed, his face illuminated by the pale blue glow of his ancient phone. It wasn’t just a bad day. It was the bad day—the kind of day that could single-handedly represent all of his worst decisions and dumb luck rolled into one.
He groaned and scrolled through his feed, watching the curated success of people he hadn’t spoken to in years. There was Darren Monroe, posing in front of a Porsche with a scantily dressed girl grinding on him who was hopefully 20, with some vague caption about “grinding for greatness.” A scrolling ad appeared next, boasting, “You won’t believe how I made $500k last month working from home!” Alex scoffed. “Yeah, and I won’t believe anyone actually clicks on this garbage.”
His thumb hovered for a moment, though.
The universe had been mocking him all day, so why stop now? First, he’d been fired from his office job at Ridgewood Insurance because he “didn’t fit the company culture,” which was code for “didn’t laugh hard enough at Gary’s dad jokes.” Then, on his way out, his car battery had died in the parking lot, leaving him stranded for an hour while the office receptionist loudly reminded him that “Triple-B is really easy to call!”
When he finally made it home, dripping wet from an unexpected rainstorm, he stepped into his living room and discovered that his upstairs neighbor had overflowed their washing machine. Again. Water dripped ominously from the ceiling onto Alex’s TV. “Perfect,” he muttered, watching the screen blink and die. With a small string of smoke making the place smell of burnt wire.
Now, here he was—34 years old, lying in a shit box duplex with his mom, unemployed, broke, and eating off-brand CheezZips puffs straight from the bag.
He sighed, swiping through Instagram again. How is everyone else winning? he thought, staring at a perfectly angled photo of a high school classmate’s new bakery. “What even is a gluten-free macaron?” he muttered, shoving another handful of CheezZips puffs into his mouth.
One more swipe, and his mood dropped lower. There was Kelly Roberts—who once accidentally stapled her hand in science class—smiling on a yacht somewhere in Santorini. “Of course, you’re on a yacht, Kelly. You couldn’t spell ‘Mediterranean’ in 10th grade, but now you’re living it.”
Alex tossed the phone onto his chest and groaned loudly. “Why does everyone else get to be lucky? I’ve been doing the same dance for a decade, and look where it got me.”
To be fair, Alex’s life hadn’t been an outright disaster—it was more like a series of absurdly bad coincidences. There was the time he tried to buy into a carpool group, but the other members just… moved away. Or the time he won a gift card to a steakhouse but then lost it in a laundromat fire (don’t ask). Even his relationships had been comedies of errors, including a brief stint dating someone who turned out to be his boss’s niece.
The worst part was, that Alex wasn’t stupid. He had a college degree in communications, and a minor in puppetry of theater a “solid” C+ average, and at least two recommendations from professors who’d called him “passably reliable.” He even had ambition once—he’d spent weeks applying for jobs at ad agencies, only to end up selling insurance.
“Life’s a rigged game,” Alex said to the ceiling. “Some people are just born with cheat codes, and the rest of us get… this.”
He gestured vaguely at his room, with its fading posters, mismatched furniture, and a pile of unopened mail threatening to tip over. His phone buzzed beside him, breaking the moment. Alex glanced at his phone, half another notification about “exclusive deals” on 20-packs of socks or a spam text about car warranties. Instead, it was a headline from one of the doomscroll rabbit holes he subscribed to:
“10 Things You’re Doing Wrong If You’re Still Poor After 30.”
“Gee, thanks for the reminder,” he muttered, swiping it away.
The phone buzzed again.
“How I Turned My Life Around After Hitting Rock Bottom—Read More.”
Alex stared at it for a moment, then snorted. “Turned it around? How? Win the lottery? Find a wealthy benefactor with a thing for sad, unemployed guys with student loan debt?” He rolled his eyes, but the words lingered in his mind.
He reached for the half-empty bag of cheese puffs and stuffed a few more into his mouth. Crumbs dusted his fingers and fell onto the bedspread that hadn’t been washed in… a while. His mom had commented on it earlier that week with a subtle, “You know, Alex, it might be nice to freshen things up in here.”
The universe wasn’t the only one mocking him. His mom had taken to offering “helpful” suggestions ever since he moved in with her in the duplex she owned. After dad died she needed the help, or at least that’s what I told myself. Today’s gems had included:
“Why don’t you reach out to some old classmates? Networking is everything!”
“Have you thought about going back to school? People love hiring older alumni these days.”
And the most cutting of all: “It’s okay, sweetie. Your cousin Max took years to find his passion too.”
Max. The same cousin who once built a “robot” for a middle school science fair that was just a toaster with googly eyes glued to it. He was now a successful app developer in Silicon Valley.
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Alex rubbed his temples and groaned again, louder this time, hoping the universe—or at least his mom—would hear it and take pity.
The phone buzzed once more, but he ignored it, choosing instead to toss the bag of cheese puffs onto his cluttered nightstand. The room fell silent, save for the occasional creak of the bed springs as he shifted uncomfortably.
“What am I even doing?” he muttered to himself. “Is this it? Thirty-four years, and my greatest achievement is… not choking on a cheese puff today?”
The phone buzzed yet again.
Alex sat up with a groan, crumbs cascading off his shirt like some sad confetti of failure. His stomach grumbled loudly—a cruel reminder that cheese puffs didn’t exactly qualify as dinner. “Fine,” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. “Let’s see what gourmet options await in the fridge.”
The walk to the corner of his room was only a few steps, but even that felt like too much effort. His legs were stiff from lying down all day, and his socks clung uncomfortably to his feet in the humid room. As he shuffled toward the mini-fridge, his left foot caught the edge of his bed frame.
“AHHHHH!”
Pain shot through his foot like a bolt of lightning. Alex hopped on one leg, clutching his toes and cursing everything from his bed to gravity itself. “Of course! Of course, I stub my toe now! Why not? Let’s just pile it on!”
Glaring at the offending piece of furniture. “Stupid bed. Stupid fridge. Stupid everything.” He squeezed his foot, wincing as the pain throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
After a minute of wallowing, Alex saw his reflection in this old mirror he had since high school, looking at his newly balding, potbelly, and stained undershirt. Alex sighed shook his head, then tried his best not to look at his horrible state. He limped the last step to the mini-fridge. He yanked open the door with more force than necessary, only to be greeted by a chilling void. The light inside flickered weakly, illuminating a barren wasteland of condensation and disappointment.
“No. No, no, no.” He crouched down, peering inside as if the fridge might be hiding something in the corners. The only occupants were a single packet of ketchup and half an ice cube tray.
Alex sat back on the floor and stared at the empty fridge as if it had personally betrayed him. “This is it. This is rock bottom,” he whispered. “I’ve stubbed my toe on the way to an empty fridge. This is where it all ends.”
For a moment, he just sat there, letting the absurdity of his situation wash over him. His toe throbbed, his stomach growled, and the faint hum of the fridge felt like it was mocking him.
“Why does life hate me?” he said aloud to no one in particular. “What did I do? Was I a war criminal in a past life? Did I steal candy from orphans?”
He leaned back against the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling.
His phone buzzed again on the bed, breaking the silence. He ignored it, too defeated to even check. But then it buzzed again. And again.
“Fine!” he snapped, dragging himself off the floor and grabbing the phone. “What now? Another email telling me how I can ‘be my own boss’? A text from Mom reminding me that my older sister is giving a TED Talk?”
But this time, the notification was different. Alex squinted at the notification, its garish neon colors standing out against the dim screen.
“Congratulations! You’ve been chosen for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reshape your destiny! Click here to get started.”
He stared at the words, his first reaction a snort of derision. “Yeah, right. Probably just another scam trying to sell me protein powder or cryptocurrency.” His thumb hovered over the dismiss button, but he hesitated.
Reshape your destiny.
The phrase dug into him, uncomfortably earnest. The kind of phrase he might have mocked a few months ago but now sounded like a desperate plea from the universe itself.
“What do I even have to lose?” he muttered. “Worst-case scenario, they steal my credit card info and buy a better life than mine.”
With a resigned shrug, Alex tapped the notification.
The screen went black for a moment, and Alex frowned, shaking the phone. “Great. My luck strikes again.” Just as he considered giving up, a new screen appeared. It was sleek, minimalist, and entirely too professional-looking for a scam.
At the top, bold letters read:
Welcome to the Tycoon Project
Below, a wall of text scrolled automatically, filled with fine print, legalese, and phrases like “compliance required” and “performance-based evaluation.”
“Ugh, who has time to read all this?” Alex muttered, scrolling down to the bottom. His thumb stopped at a glowing button that simply said:
“Accept”
The moment Alex hit “Accept,” the screen didn’t vibrate or flash. Instead, he felt an odd wave of dizziness wash over him.
“Huh?” he muttered, gripping the edge of the bed as the room seemed to tilt slightly. His vision blurred at the edges, colors swirling like someone had messed with the TV’s contrast settings. A strange warmth spread through his chest, followed by a faint buzzing in his ears.
“Okay, this is… weird,” Alex said, blinking rapidly to steady himself. His limbs felt heavy like he was wading through water, and the air around him thickened, taking on an almost syrupy quality.
He tried to stand, but the floor beneath him seemed to ripple, his knees buckling as a sudden wave of exhaustion hit. “What the hell did I just agree to?” he mumbled, his voice slurring like he’d just come out of anesthesia.
The light from his phone intensified, not blinding but all-encompassing, as if it were seeping into his skin. His breathing slowed, each breath deep and deliberate, as though his body were no longer under his full control.
The sensation wasn’t painful—it was… surreal. Like falling asleep while wide awake.
“Okay, okay,” Alex said weakly, trying to fight the pull of whatever was happening. But the heaviness grew stronger, his limbs refusing to cooperate. His head lolled to the side, and the last thing he saw was his phone screen glowing brighter and brighter before everything faded to black.
----------------------------------------
When Alex came to, the world felt… different.
He blinked, squinting against the daylight streaming through an unfamiliar… no quite familiar window. His head throbbed faintly, but the buzzing sensation in his ears was gone. Slowly, he sat up, his senses sharpening.
The bed wasn’t his—too firm, too clean. The room smelled faintly of old socks and cheap deodorant.
“What the…” Alex muttered, scanning the space.
The walls were adorned with band posters he hadn’t seen in over a decade. A gaming console sat under a tiny flat-screen TV, and his old high school backpack leaned against a desk.
His eyes locked onto a calendar pinned to the wall. The bright red date circled in Sharpie read: June 12, 2010.
“No. No, no, no,” Alex stammered, standing and nearly tripping over a pair of sneakers he hadn’t worn since his early twenties.
A framed picture on the desk caught his attention. It was of him—grinning awkwardly in a cap and gown, high school diploma in hand.
“What the actual hell is going on?” Alex whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
His gaze landed on a phone sitting neatly on the desk. It wasn’t the ancient model he’d had in 2026. It was sleek and new—well, new for 2010. The screen lit up, displaying an unread notification:
“Welcome, Alex Hartman. Let’s get started.”