Allen Rice hated the graveyard shift. It wasn't just the solitude, or the half-drunk customers staggering in at ungodly hours, or the flickering fluorescent lights that made everything feel sterile and hollow—it was the creeping sense of stagnation that got to him the most. The life he led now felt like it had no momentum, no promise of change. Every day was just a repeat of the last.
At eighteen, Allen should have been looking forward to college, or at least chasing some wild dream of his own, but that had never been in the cards. His parents, careless and neglectful, had kicked him out as soon as he'd turned old enough to no longer be their legal responsibility. They'd washed their hands of him, dumping him into a world that expected too much and gave nothing in return.
The air inside the convenience store was cold, the hum of the AC mixing with the soft crackling of the radio that played some indistinct pop song. Allen stood behind the counter, eyes lazily scanning the parking lot through the large glass windows. His black apron hung loosely around his lean frame, and the name tag that read "Allen" in blocky letters glinted under the dim store lights.
It was just another night.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping for a distraction, but it was just an alert from a budgeting app reminding him of his empty bank account. He sighed and shoved it back, leaning on the counter. He could feel the weight of the hours ahead stretching out like an endless desert.
Allen's life had never been easy, but these days, he was just tired. He didn't have anything left to care about. No friends. No family. No future, as far as he could tell.
A jingle at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. A man entered, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face, but something about his posture screamed trouble. Allen's heart sank. He knew what was about to happen.
The man made a beeline for the counter, his footsteps too quick, too purposeful. The overhead lights glinted off the metallic object in the man's hand—a gun. Allen's eyes locked onto it. He'd seen a few petty thefts during his short time working at the store, but never anything this serious.
The man's voice was low and tense. "Open the register. Now."
Allen's gaze flicked up to the masked face, but his hands didn't move. He didn't flinch, didn't panic—he didn't even feel fear. Maybe a normal person would have reacted differently, but Allen just felt... empty. Like none of this mattered.
"Did you hear me?" the robber snarled, his voice a little louder this time. He jabbed the gun in Allen's direction. "I said, open the damn register!"
Allen blinked, feeling a strange calm wash over him. His life was going nowhere, stuck in this small town, behind this counter, forever. What was the point in giving this guy what he wanted? What did it matter if he got shot?
"No," Allen said, his voice steady, almost casual.
The robber paused, clearly not expecting that answer. "What?"
"I said no," Allen repeated. His heart beat steadily in his chest, slow and resigned. "You're not getting the money."
For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Allen saw the flash of surprise in the robber's eyes behind the mask, saw his finger twitch on the trigger. It all felt surreal, like he was watching it happen to someone else, from a distance. Then there was the sound of a gunshot—a sharp crack that echoed through the store—and everything went black.
When Allen opened his eyes, everything was white.
Bright, blinding white.
He squinted against the light, raising a hand to shield his eyes. His head throbbed as if the shot had left some lingering echo in his mind, but when he brought his hand to his face, there was no blood, no wound. Nothing.
Am I dead? he wondered, but somehow, even the thought didn't spark any fear. He felt... weightless. There was no cold hard floor under him, no sterile smell of a hospital room. Just the light, warm and soft, surrounding him like a blanket.
Slowly, Allen sat up, blinking against the strange brightness that stretched endlessly in every direction. There was no sky, no horizon—just an infinite expanse of whiteness. His body felt light, his limbs moving easily as though gravity had loosened its grip.
It didn't take long for the panic to set in. He bolted to his feet, spinning around, searching for something—anything—that made sense. His breath quickened as he tried to make sense of it all. Where was the convenience store? Where was the robber? Was this some kind of dream?
But the more he looked around, the more he realized how real this place felt. The light didn't hurt his eyes anymore, and the warmth pressed in like a comforting hand, steadying him.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice oddly muffled in the vast emptiness. "Is anyone there?"
No answer. Just the soft hum of silence.
He swallowed hard and tried to remember the last few seconds before everything went blank. The robber. The gun. He had been shot—hadn't he? He remembered the jolt, the impact. He remembered thinking, this is it. So why was he standing here, whole and unharmed?
As if in response to his thoughts, the space in front of him began to shimmer. The air rippled like water disturbed by a pebble, distorting the bright whiteness around him. Allen took a step back, wary, but he couldn't look away.
Then, with a gentle pulse, a figure began to form.
It wasn't human—at least, not entirely. The being that appeared before him radiated a presence that Allen couldn't fully comprehend. Its skin was a pearlescent hue, and its eyes glowed faintly, as if filled with the light of distant stars. Large, feathery wings folded neatly behind its back, and it wore a long, flowing robe that seemed to shift colors in the light.
For a long moment, Allen could only stare, speechless.
"Do not be afraid," the figure said, its voice melodic and deep, echoing through the vast space. "You are not dead, Allen Rice. You are in between."
"Between what?" Allen asked, his throat dry. He felt like he should be more terrified than he was, but something about the being's presence was calming, almost serene.
"Between life and death," the figure replied. "But your journey is not over yet. You have been chosen."
"Chosen?" Allen repeated, confused. "Chosen for what?"
The being smiled, a gentle expression that made Allen feel, for the first time in what felt like years, like he wasn't completely alone.
"To be given another chance," the figure said, and with that, the whiteness around them seemed to shift. The light brightened, and Allen felt a strange tug, like he was being drawn forward, deeper into this new reality. "There are trials ahead of you, but if you pass them, you will be reborn—reborn into a life of greatness."
The words hung in the air, sinking into Allen's mind. A chance to start over? To escape the dead-end life he'd been living?
Allen clenched his fists. His stubbornness, his drive—qualities that had always been buried under the weight of his circumstances—suddenly stirred within him. He didn't want to waste this opportunity. He didn't want to go back to nothing.
"What do I have to do?" he asked, determination flickering in his voice.
The being's wings fluttered slightly, as though pleased by his question.
"There will be trials," the figure said, its voice steady. "And if you succeed, you will be granted a new life—a life where you can reach heights you never dreamed possible."
The whiteness around them pulsed again, and Allen felt his body grow lighter, as though he was being lifted out of the space he was standing in. His surroundings began to blur, the figure fading from view.
"Prepare yourself, Allen Rice," the voice echoed. "For the path you are about to walk is one of great potential."
And then, everything went dark once more.