'God, this tie is choking me.'
Every damn morning, the same routine—alarm screaming in my ear, cold water on my face, and this noose around my neck. I loosen it with one hand, feeling the fabric scrape against my skin, but I don't take it off.
Not yet.
Not until I'm far enough from the glass box they call an office.
I loosen it just enough to breathe, step outside, and there it is—the world, moving on without me.
The sidewalk's cracked in the same places, little weeds pushing through like they've got something to prove. Cars crawl by, all these tired faces behind the wheels, staring ahead like prisoners doing their time.
The air smells like hot charcoal, engine fumes, and something faintly sweet from the bakery down the block.
I used to stop in there.
I don't anymore.
I fish out a cigarette, the pack soft and bent from being in my pocket all day.
It's a small comfort, this ritual. Cigarette between my lips, the scratch of the lighter wheel, the quick burn of heat.
The first drag hits like a sigh I've been holding in since morning.
Smoke in, stress out.
That's the deal.
I stare at the sky for a second. It's that weird blue-gray, not quite night, not quite day. The kind of sky that makes you feel like you're running out of time but can't figure out for what.
The asphalt stretches ahead, long and empty. I know every crack in this road, every pothole patched half-assed by the city.
My shoes hit the pavement with the same dull thud, step after step.
This used to feel different.
I remember being a kid, running down these same streets without a second thought. Scraped knees, busted sneakers, hair sticking to my forehead from sweat.
There was always something to chase—some game, some dream, some stupid idea.
Now, it's just the clock I'm chasing.
Punch in, punch out.
Bills on the fridge.
Emails I don't want to answer.
Texts I leave on read.
I pass the corner where we used to play stickball. The wall still has that faint spray of graffiti, though it's been scrubbed over so many times it's just a shadow now. Funny. Some things fade, some things stay.
I catch the flicker of a vending machine ahead, its buzzing light cutting through the dim evening. Without thinking, I walk over, dig out some loose change, and punch the button for a Coke. The can clunks down, cold against my palm.
Pop. Fzzz.
The carbonation stings my throat, sharp and bitter. Not as sweet as I remember.
Nothing is.
More like companies diluting the secret formulas they have preserved for centuries.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing over my phone.
Habit.
I unlock it and swipe through the usual noise until I land on the web novel app.
The title's right there in my library, but the update bar's frozen.
Last update: 10 days ago.
"Tch. Dropped, huh?" I mutter, the cigarette sagging at the corner of my mouth.
But I don't get mad. Not really.
I tap the author's profile, glance at the stats. Barely any traction. Maybe forty, fifty bucks made—if that. I can see it clear as day. Late nights grinding out chapters, refreshing stats, hoping for some miracle.
And for what?
Seventy-five percent of that cut floats off into thin air before it even brushes their pocket. I can't blame them. Hell, I get it.
Why bleed for something when the world's just gonna watch you drown?
I take one last drag, the smoke scratching down my throat, and flick the cigarette to the ground. The ember scatters, fades. Just like everything else.
"Yeah," I breathe, watching the smoke dissolve. "That's how it goes."
Unbothered, I just swipe through the app in hopes of finding an alternative just like the previous one to free myself from this daily life cycle.
Up ahead, the bridge looms—steel bones cutting through the sky, stretching over the slow crawl of traffic below.
My steps don't slow.
Not tonight.
The bridge groaned beneath my feet, a tired skeleton of rusted steel and worn concrete.
Wind skimmed off the water below, tugging at my loosened tie and whispering through the gaps in the railing.
I took another sip of the Coke, the fizz biting at the back of my throat before settling like lead in my gut.
The phone sat heavy in my hand.
Swipe. Scroll. Stare.
Pages of stories, half-finished, half-cared for.
Same tropes recycled, different names slapped on the covers. Cultivation realms, system screens, arrogant young masters lining up to get slapped.
I don't even read the words. Just watch them blur past.
Movement catches my eye.
I almost didn't notice her.
She's sitting there on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling over the drop like it's nothing.
Black.
Everything about her was black. Jacket zipped up to her neck, jeans torn at the knees, heavy boots that clunked against the concrete.
Black on black—jacket, jeans, boots.
Even her nails are painted black, chipped at the edges. The kind of look that says don't talk to me and notice me all at once.
But it's the lipstick that stands out. Dark, matte, too precise. Like she spent an extra five minutes making sure it was perfect.
And then there's the phone in her hand.
Pink.
Bright, almost obnoxiously so. Its glossy case caught the light, and dangling from the corner was a little skull keychain, swaying back and forth with the breeze.
I glance at her. Just a flick of the eyes.
Then back to my screen.
Swipe. Scroll. Nothing.
Then I heard her.
Soft, like she was talking to herself.
"Sigh… why are so many young masters courting me this much?"
I pause mid-sip, the Coke fizzling against my tongue.
It caught me off guard.
I didn't think. I didn't plan to say anything.
But the words just fell out.
"Maybe you're death."
A throwaway line.
What the hell?
I don't know why I say it. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the stories rotting my brain.
Or maybe I just wanted to hear something real come out of my own mouth.
Just a mutter. A half-joke, a careless remark.
The kind of thing you say when your brain's running on autopilot, blending fiction with reality.
But the air changes.
It's like the wind stops breathing.
Cold creeps in—not the kind that makes you shiver, but the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you forget what warmth ever felt like.
And suddenly, she's not on the edge of the bridge anymore.
She's right in front of me.
Too close.
Her eyes are darker now, not just in color but in depth. It's like staring into a well that has no bottom, with the white portion within vanished.
And that smirk… it doesn't look playful anymore.
It looks like she knows something I don't.
"Lucky," she purrs, tilting her head. "To found one without going through data."
My fingers tighten around the Coke can.
"What…?"
"You can see my real appearance," she says, like that explains everything. "So I don't need to confirm your name now."
Her real appearance?
What she meant by real appearance.
I don't know, but I was fearing this woman.
And that scares me more than I want to admit.
A sound splits the air.
CLANG
Metal meeting concrete.
A gust of wind pushed away both of our hair, and instinctively my eyes widened instead of my hand trying to cover my face, as my heartbeat nearly stopped.
"Haa.... Haa...."
A blade.
No, a scythe.
It stands upright, wedged into the pavement between us. The handle is blackened wood, gnarled like something pulled from the bottom of the ocean.
The blade curves wickedly, catching the light and throwing my reflection back at me—wide eyes, pale face.
And then comes the sound I'll never forget.
SCREEEEECH.
Rubber screaming.
I turn my head, slow, too slow.
Headlights.
A truck.