Aster’s phone buzzes like an insect trapped in his fist. He doesn’t need to look at the screen; dread already knows its way to his stomach. But he does anyway, because some part of him, some masochistic little ember, still believes in miracles. The screen lights up: bank notification.

  He swipes it open.

  His account balance stares back at him. Flat. Empty. Hollow as a politician’s promise.

  Payment bounced.

  Aster lets out a breath that shakes on the way out. Not because he’s surprised—surprise died a long time ago—but because for one stupid, fragile second, he thought this time might be different. He thought maybe the curse would blink. But here it is again, faithful as ever. That tiny scrap of hope he’s been nursing shrivels up and dies with all the ceremony of a squashed bug.

  He stands there, nailed to the sidewalk while the world streams past him—people with somewhere to be, something to do, money that probably doesn’t evaporate before breakfast. The sheer audacity of reality to keep moving while his own life cracks apart again… impressive, really.

  “Shit,” he mutters. It’s not much, but it covers the bases.

  His feet move because they have to, each step a little funeral march on the pavement. The bank isn’t far, not that it matters. The city watches him go with all the warmth of a stone god, neon signs flickering like they’re in on the joke.

  Inside the bank, the line is a perfect little diorama of late-stage capitalism: dead eyes, tight jaws, people too tired to scream. Aster fits right in. When it’s finally his turn, the teller doesn’t even bother to pretend she cares. Her name tag says Amber, but she looks like despair in business casual.

  “How can I help you today?” she asks, like a robot halfway through a factory reset.

  Aster drops his phone on the counter and taps the screen, like he’s showing off a fresh wound.

  “I got paid,” he says. “Except I didn’t. Payment bounced.”

  Amber blinks once, twice—the slow recognition of yet another loser shuffling through her line of sight. Her fingers dance over the keyboard like they’re bored of existing. Tap tap tap. A little performance of empathy.

  Finally, she looks up, eyes glazed.

  “Looks like it was an issue on your employer’s end. You’ll need to contact them directly.”

  Of course.

  It’s always someone else’s fault. The sacred mantra of the machine.

  Aster doesn’t bother arguing. He knows better. This system doesn’t malfunction; it functions exactly as designed. He pockets his phone, nods to Amber like they’ve just shared a private joke about their mutual doom, and turns to go.

  Outside, the sky turns that greasy shade of grey that threatens rain but doesn’t have the decency to follow through. Perfect. He heads toward his boss’s office, each step like dragging chains. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering. Hope is just a particularly cruel strain of brain damage, and he’s long past treatment.

  The building looms ahead, a washed-up office complex that smells like mildew and broken promises. The flickering neon “OPEN” sign wheezes at him as he tries the door. Locked. Of course.

  He knocks.

  Nothing.

  He knocks harder, a little storm of impotent rage. Still nothing.

  Stepping back, he scans the parking lot. No sign of the boss’s car—a rusted-out thing that used to symbolize opportunity and now just screams run.

  Then he sees them: a small knot of coworkers huddled near the back entrance, voices low and sharp. His gut twists. He should walk away. He shouldn’t want to know. But curiosity is another bad habit that refuses to die.

  He drifts over. Miriam—sharp-eyed, bitter-lipped Miriam—spots him first.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Did you get your check?” she asks, smile tighter than a noose.

  Aster snorts. “Yeah. It bounced.”

  Instead of sympathy, Miriam barks out a laugh that tastes like ash.

  “Yeah, no surprise. You hear the news?”

  His spine stiffens. “What news?”

  She jerks her thumb like she’s pointing at the smoking crater of his life.

  “Boss skipped town. Took the cash. Every last cent. Screwed all of us.”

  The words hit like a slap, but it’s not pain. It’s the cold confirmation of what he already suspects—the final puzzle piece in a picture labeled You Were a Fool to Hope.

  His fists clench, nails digging into his palms like he can anchor himself that way. “Unbelievable.”

  Miriam snorts again, full of venom. “Believe it. Guess he’s off to paradise now. Probably sipping margaritas with the Guptas.” She spits the name like it burns her tongue.

  Rain starts to spit from the sky, light at first, like the universe can’t even be bothered to properly drench him. Aster doesn’t flinch. Let it come. He’s already soaked through on the inside.

  He doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t need to. He just turns and walks away—no plan, no destination, just that old familiar hollow gnawing at his ribs. No money. No job. No future.

  But here’s the kicker: even as everything crumbles, that stubborn little voice in the back of his skull refuses to shut up. Maybe there’s still a way out. Maybe you’re not done yet.

  Aster scowls at nothing in particular.

  God, hope is such an asshole.

  Aster shoves his hands deep into his pockets as he walks, shoulders hunched like he can physically shrink away from the weight gnawing at his spine. His eyes drift over the sidewalks, not really looking for anything but searching anyway, like some part of him still believes there might be a magic exit door from this whole miserable circus.

  And then, at the edge of his vision—a flicker. Just a shadow. Small, fast.

  But Aster’s heart still kicks like a trapped animal.

  He turns his head, and there it is.

  The mist.

  Rolling in soft at first, like it thinks it can trick him this time, but already thickening, swirling in colors that have no business existing. Neon, oily, wrong.

  His pulse ratchets up.

  No. Not now. Not again.

  Not when his grip on reality already feels like it’s hanging by a chewed string.

  But the world keeps warping anyway. The mist creeps in, fat and heavy, curling at the edges of his vision until everything starts to bend, like reality is cheap plastic under a heat gun. His chest goes tight, breath goes shallow.

  It’s happening again. And you can’t stop it. You never can.

  And then, like someone flipping a switch, the figure is there.

  The cloaked man.

  Face hidden, but those cyan eyes burn right through the fog. Too bright. Too sharp. Like they know things about him even he doesn’t want to admit.

  Aster’s body moves before his brain catches up; he flinches back, hard. And in the next breath, a minibus taxi tears past where he was standing, wheels screaming, engine howling.

  The wind slaps him sideways.

  Aster hits the pavement hard, back-first, ribs rattling. The wet concrete bites cold through his jacket as his heart jackhammers against his chest wall. He lies there, blinking up at the washed-out sky, lungs refusing to cooperate.

  Somewhere, distantly, the taxi driver’s curses cut through the static in his head:

  “Uhlanya! Hlupheki!”

  Crazy. Miserable.

  Yeah. Fair enough.

  The taxi peels away, tires shrieking as it vanishes down the street.

  Aster forces his hands under him, palms scraping against the wet grit as he pushes upright. His arms tremble. Everything trembles.

  The mist? Gone.

  The figure? Gone.

  Like they’ve never been there.

  But the rain stays. Cold and real and steady, drumming against his skin until it seeps in deep. The streetlights flicker on, one by one, weak halos bleeding against the growing dark.

  He stands there a moment longer, breath dragging in wet and raw, trying to stitch himself back together.

  Is it a vision? A hallucination? Another spiral in his personal highlight reel of losing his grip?

  Maybe.

  Except…

  Except for the part where twelve kids die eating noodles from that same damn store two days after his nightmarish hallucination. Counterfeit, they say. Laced with god-knows-what.

  Aster swallows, throat dry despite the rain.

  He’s almost a hundred percent certain it’s a hallucination.

  But maybe—and this is the part that really pisses him off—maybe it isn’t.

  Maybe something has stepped in. Maybe something out there is keeping score in a game he doesn’t understand.

  His jaw clenches.

  Because that means it isn’t just bad luck.

  But he can’t afford to humor that idea. Life is already difficult enough, and he doesn’t need magical thinking blinding him to reality just to make it easier to swallow.