He lay on the ground, struggling to move, but his body wouldn't budge. It was too weak, too old.
His vision was blurry, everything a shade of red from the blood dripping into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, but the crimson tint only grew worse.
'No… If I'm going to die, I might as well be comfortable.'
With effort, he rolled to the side, trying to rest his head more comfortably, but nearly ended up face-first in a water puddle. Staring into the puddle, he saw the familiar figure reflected—a black robe, scythe in hand.
But when he looked up from the water, the figure was gone. It existed only in the reflection.
The Grim Reaper.
'You again, huh?' He'd seen it before. Felt its presence his whole life.
'How did I even end up here?' He tried to remember. It seemed unfair to die without knowing why.
'I shouldn't have lived like this.' Regret washed over him, not for what he had done, but for what he hadn't. A normal job, a family, a peaceful death in bed—what he could have had.
In the water's reflection, the Reaper lifted its hand, bone finger pointing right at his forehead.
The world went white.
---
20 minutes ago…
George sat across from a man in a sleek, expensive suit, his hair gray but perfectly styled. The guy looked like a businessman straight out of a movie—sharp eyes, clean-cut jaw.
George, on the other hand, was a wreck. His hair was a mess, his clothes patched and frayed. He looked like he'd aged ten years in half the time.
"So, how's life treating you?" the man asked, adjusting his silver watch.
George's hand shook as he tried to lift his coffee. "I'm… I'm getting by," he said, but the cup slipped, tipping over. Before the coffee spilled, a faint blue holographic barrier appeared, keeping the table clean.
"George, it's obvious you're not," the man said, his voice flat. This was Lyle, George's younger brother, though they couldn't look more different.
George sighed. "Yeah."
Lyle pressed on. "Got a job yet?"
"No. I've been trying, but…" George trailed off.
The world had moved on. Artificial intelligence ran everything now—government, companies, even basic daily tasks. Most people lived comfortably, AI taking care of the hard work. But George? He was part of the 0.000000301% of the population without a job.
Lyle's face hardened. "Maybe you shouldn't have tried to take AI offline."
George winced. "Not this again."
The café owner, sensing the tension, pressed a button, and an invisible soundproof barrier went up around their table.
"I warned you," Lyle continued, his voice tight. "You were never going to win. And now look at you. No career, no prospects."
George stayed quiet, zoning out as Lyle's lecture droned on. He knew his brother was right. After losing his job as a lawyer to AI and watching technology destroy his brief acting career, he'd let the resentment build. Then, when even magic tricks became obsolete, he tried to sabotage the technology as a whole. That move got him blacklisted from every company on the planet.
"We've been through this," George finally muttered. "Give me a break."
Lyle sighed, pulling a letter from his jacket. "Here," he said, handing it over.
George took it, feeling the weight of the money inside. He didn't look up as Lyle stood to leave.
"Wait," Lyle said, pausing to pull something else from his pocket. A gold ring, with a ruby on top. He placed it on the table. "Do you remember this?"
George stared at it before a small smile crept onto his face. "Dad's ring."
"Yeah. Remember when he used to do his magic tricks? Called this his 'magic ring.'"
George chuckled. "We believed it until high school."
Lyle smiled, but it didn't last. "I've got to go. Sarah will kill me if I'm late. The grandkids are probably wondering where I am."
George watched as Lyle turned to leave, then called out. "Lyle, the ring."
Lyle glanced back and shook his head. "Keep it. You could use some magic in your life."
George nodded, slipping the ring into his pocket alongside the letter. "Yeah. Thanks."
Lyle gave him a final nod before disappearing out the café door.
George slumped back in his chair, staring at the empty cup in front of him. 'Look at him… a wife, kids, grandkids, a great job.' What didn't he have?
George stood, heading outside with his cup. 'I'll drink this while watching something mindless at home,' he thought. But as he stepped out, something caught his eye—a reflection in the glass building across the street.
The Grim Reaper.
It had been following him since he was a kid. The fear was long gone, replaced by intrigue.
Through the reflection, the Reaper pointed to a water puddle on the street.
George sighed and walked toward it, glancing down. The reflection pointed to the left.
Turning his head slowly, a blinding light hit his eyes. "Ah, damn," he muttered, covering his face.
When the light dimmed, he saw the source—a red sports car, sleek and shiny, with a golden logo in the shape of a horse. A Porsche 911. One of the last gas-powered cars, and obscenely expensive to keep running.
George recognized it immediately. 'Not now…'
The driver got out, a man with a bald spot and greased-back hair. His clothes screamed wealth—polo shirt, gold watch.
"Salvatore," George muttered. "What are you doing here?"
"Hey, hey," the man called out in a thick New York accent. "My mother calls me Salvatore. You call me Rusty."
Two men trailed behind Rusty, one of them mumbling an apology for being late.
Rusty snapped, "I don't give a damn about Benny! I'm talking to the vegetable here!" His gaze returned to George. "Where's the money?"
George fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the letter. His hands shook as he handed it over.
Rusty ripped it open and started counting. "One… two… three… six hundred? Six hundred!?"
George stepped back as Rusty crushed the letter in his fist. "Ten years, George. Ten years of debt! I told you to have five grand by today!"
Rusty's switchblade appeared in his hand, and he flicked it open with a click. "Where's the rest?"
George's breath quickened. "I-I just need more time…"
Rusty combed his hair back with the blade, staring coldly at George. "No."