The neon lights above aisle seven flickered like they were contemplating whether today was finally the day to give up and die. They blinked out for a moment, came back just long enough to raise hopes, then resumed their existential crisis. Adrian respected the hustle.
He walked with the posture of a man who had lost an argument with gravity: back slightly hunched, mop in one hand, cleaning bucket in the other, and precisely zero enthusiasm to spare. His noble duty? To erase the evidence of someone else's stomach-based poor life choices.
"At least he told me where he did it," Adrian muttered, stabbing his mop into the offending puddle with professional bitterness. "That's... considerate? Tragic. Mostly tragic."
The sloshing made a wet, accusing noise as he wiped up what he hoped was mostly beer. The GalaxyMart graveyard shift did not offer hazard pay, emotional compensation, or dignity—but at least it came with discount pizza pockets and total social invisibility. Which, in Adrian's case, was exactly how he liked it. Or told himself he did.
He glanced at the wall clock.
3:12 AM.
Which meant he'd been officially twenty years old for an hour and twelve minutes.
Yay.
No calls. No messages. No low-effort birthday memes. Not even a "u up?" from that one Tinder match who maybe wasn't a bot.
"It's fine," he muttered. "Birthdays are a construct. So are expectations. So is joy."
The mop flopped sadly into the bucket.
Of course, if it were Alex's birthday, there'd be champagne. There'd be a string quartet playing Coldplay ironically. There'd be a satellite launch in her honor. Hell, her face would probably be projected onto the moon while the national anthem played in reverse.
His sister, the nation's sweetheart. Graduate of four programs simultaneously. Recruited directly into the Department of Justice like she was a limited-edition legal Pokémon. People didn't just like Alex—they nominated her for sainthood.
Meanwhile, Adrian had managed to not cry in public three days in a row and was quietly proud of that.
"If my parents send anything," he said aloud, "it'll probably be a card that says, 'Happy Birthday. Please don't come home. Love, Management.'"
He gave the mop a final swipe and stepped back. The floor gleamed. Mission: Vomit Control—complete. He sighed and gave the mop an approving nod like a disappointed wizard patting his wand.
Five other people were technically scheduled for the same shift. One was asleep behind the cereal aisle. Two were glued to their phones somewhere near the frozen peas. The manager had vanished hours ago and might be dead—no one had checked.
Could Adrian have asked for help?
Ha.
In this reality? He could barely ask for ketchup. Making direct eye contact was a high-risk activity, and initiating conversations made his stomach do jump squats.
He leaned on the mop handle and exhaled.
"When did my life take a turn into cosmic mediocrity?"
The answer, of course, was birth.
His parents' first kid had been a success story in a pantsuit. When they rolled the dice a second time, hoping for a diamond, they got Adrian—a certified Mood Board of Regret™.
They named him after some Roman emperor who liked building walls and being intimidating. Clearly a mismatch.
From the moment he was able to form memories, he was haunted by one recurring audio clip:
"Adrian! Look, your sister won another award!"
"Adrian! Your sister just got into another honors program!"
"Adrian, your sister just solved climate change while playing piano. What have you done today?"
He always wanted to say, "Mopped." But no one ever asked.
For years, he tried. Studied harder. Smiled more. Volunteered. Did pushups once. But no matter how well he did, his victories were never shiny enough to be seen from orbit—unlike Alex's.
Eventually, he stopped trying. Not out of laziness, but because even effort started to feel like a losing investment.
And when he tried to talk to his parents—really talk—about the weight he was carrying, they hit him with the emotional uppercut of:
"Your sister never had these problems."
So he left.
Quietly. No fights. No slammed doors. Just one overstuffed backpack, a bus ride, and a desire to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Alex found him, of course. She always did. She showed up at the GalaxyMart parking lot like a debt collector with better posture.
She told him to come back.
He said no.
She left without arguing. No tears. No guilt trip. No "You're my brother" speech. Just a nod. And silence.
That was two years ago.
Last year, he got a birthday card with $500 inside and a handwritten message that said: "We hope you're doing well. Please stay safe."
Translation: We don't want you back, but we'll pay you not to embarrass us.
Still, Adrian had kept the card. Out of some combination of spite and very affordable groceries.
And now here he was.
Twenty.
Alone.
Mopping puke at 3:00 AM in a corporate cave lit by emotionally unstable lighting.
What a start.
He closed his eyes and whispered to no one: "There's got to be a way out of this. Something that doesn't involve... talking to people. Or eye contact. Or pants with belts."
He opened his eyes.
And she walked in.
She entered like a cinematic glitch in his depressed routine. Her legs were long and deliberate, wrapped in dark jeans that actually fit. Her hoodie was drawn up just enough to obscure her face, casting her features in mystery—but not enough to stop Adrian's brain from immediately generating a hundred theories ranging from "runaway heiress" to "probably a demigod."
She moved like she belonged somewhere else—anywhere else—but walked these aisles like she was surveying a battlefield. Calm. Efficient. Graceful.
Her hands were tucked into her hoodie pockets. Her pace was casual. But there was focus in it. She wasn't wandering—she was hunting. Probably for an energy drink or some obscure off-brand snack that tasted like shame and caffeine.
Adrian stared.
He knew this was dangerous. That looking too long would turn him into a stereotype. That even thinking about her legs made him the kind of guy he didn't like.
But the truth was, she didn't just walk—she floated.
The way her steps lined up. The rhythm of her posture. It was like some higher-order algorithm had rendered her to subtly mock everyone else in the building.
And then she stepped into the aisle.
The one Adrian had just finished mopping.
His brain shrieked like an airhorn in a church.
"Wait—don't—!"
But it was too late.
Her heel struck the slippery surface.
Time slowed.
Her foot slid forward. Her arms flailed in a reflexive attempt to maintain balance. Her torso tilted back as her center of gravity rebelled.
Adrian moved without thinking.
In a burst of panicked adrenaline, he lunged forward and caught her—one hand at her back, one at her side. Her hood fell slightly back. He caught a hint of her jawline. Parted lips. Confused eyes.
Their eyes met.
For one single, ridiculous moment, he felt like the protagonist of a rom-com written by caffeinated fan fiction authors.
And then time stopped.
No, like—actually.
The lights froze mid-flicker.
The air stopped humming.
The world held its breath.
And a voice slid into Adrian's head like warm honey with a hint of I'm judging you.
[Congratulations, user.]
[You have fulfilled the condition: Do something right for once.]
Adrian's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
[Please remain still while cognitive limitations are assessed.]
A pause. Then another chime:
[Cognitive Status: fragile. Emotional Stability: questionable. Self-awareness: dangerously low.]
Adrian blinked.
"Wh—what?! Who's talking?!"
[Processing verbal input. Conclusion: confused screaming. Interpreting as consent.]
A soft ring pulsed in the back of his skull. Symbols flickered across his vision. A strange status bar hovered in his periphery, halfway between ominous and stylish.
[Synchronizing neural link… Establishing uplink… Bond detected.]
[Catalyst proximity confirmed.]
A small pulsing icon now hovered just above the mystery woman's head. She remained completely frozen—still mid-fall, still unaware the universe had installed a cosmic patch update.
[Existence Tier Two Access Granted.]
[Welcome to your new reality, Adrian.]
[...Also, wow. That anxiety score. Impressive. Honestly, I didn't expect you to last this long.]
Adrian tried to scream again, but his voice wasn't cooperating.
[Relax. You'll forget most of this.]
[But don't worry. You'll remember just enough to make bad decisions later.]
And with that, time snapped back.
The neon lights blinked.
Air rushed into Adrian's lungs.