Dove Summers stood over his stove, flipping the only pan he owned with all the enthusiasm of a guy who had precisely zero fucks left to give. The butter was starting to brown too fast, and the frozen dumplings had begun to stick, so naturally, the universe thought this was a good moment to have the electricity flicker.
He sighed.
"Really? Even the power company hates me," he muttered to the empty kitchen, because if there was one thing Dove had gotten good at over the last twenty-six years, it was monologuing to nobody.
And yeah — let's get this straight up front.
"By the way," Dove paused dramatically, turning to an imaginary camera like a tired sitcom character. "Who the fuck named me Dove? Like seriously. What kind of parents look at their baby and go, 'Aww, let's name him after a fragile-ass bird'? And Summers? Plural?! That's not a surname; that's my heating bill."
He flipped a dumpling into the pan again with a resigned frown.
The apartment smelled like fried regret.That was Dove's special recipe.
A one-bedroom shoebox with peeling wallpaper, questionable wiring, and an occasional cockroach that probably deserved its own tax bracket.
And this, dear readers, was his life.
He wasn't a hero, not a chosen one. No secret magic bloodline. Nothing.Just a dude who worked at a dingy convenience store counter every morning and did the odd food delivery in the evening for extra cash — mostly because his landlord had the empathy of a tax auditor.
He glanced at his phone.7:46 PM.That gave him just enough time to inhale dinner and catch the nightly news before passing out.
TV Blare:A too-perky anchor flashed a practiced smile."…And in tonight's top story, another bank robbery on the south side. Police are still searching for the suspects…"
Dove scooped the dumplings onto a plate that had seen better days and parked himself on the couch that sagged like it'd survived a hundred sumo matches.
He took a bite.Bland.
"Yep. That's my big Tuesday," he mumbled, watching a grainy security-cam replay of some masked guys sprinting out of a bank.
The anchor continued with the usual laundry list of misery — robberies, price hikes, traffic jams — and Dove stared blankly at the screen, wondering if his life could get any more underwhelming.
Spoiler: It could.
And it was going to.
He hit the remote.The screen went dark with a tiny snap of static.
Plate scraped clean, he trudged toward the sink — only to give up halfway and leave the dishes for "Future Dove," who was probably going to hate him for this in the morning.
"You're welcome, Future Me," Dove called lazily into the empty apartment.
He padded toward his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and pulling his t-shirt over his head in one practiced motion.
The room was as uninspired as the rest of the place.A bed that squeaked when you looked at it too hard.A battered nightstand with a clock whose numbers glowed a faint, tired green.And a single, flickering overhead light that gave the illusion of impending electrocution.
He lay there for a while, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling.
And as sleep crept up on him like an unpaid bill, Dove sighed."You know," he muttered into the stale dark, "if my parents could see me now, they'd probably be disappointed."
A pause."Or confused. Probably both."
He yawned and rolled onto his side.
Midnight came with a crash.
A loud, deafening crash that jolted him upright like someone had just fired a shotgun in his ear.
The sound was immense — the kind that rattled windows and made every nerve in his body scream that something had just gone very, very wrong.
"What the fu—" Dove managed, heart thudding as he tumbled out of bed.
And before he could even register what was happening, a second crash followed — this one louder, like something had shattered clear through the roof.
The light flickered overhead wildly, his alarm clock tumbled to the floor, and outside his cracked window, a strange bluish light flashed like a fucking strobe party.
And Dove Summers?He was standing there in nothing but his boxers and a look of pure disbelief as dust drifted lazily down from the ceiling.
That was the moment everything changed.And Dove Summers — poor, tired, sarcastic Dove Summers — was about to wish his boring, shit life back faster than you can say, "Why the hell did it have to be me?"