The coffee was cold again.
Jonathan Virell stared into the paper cup like it had just whispered a slur at him. He exhaled, wiped grease-stained hands on his coveralls, and tossed the cup onto the workbench. The rain outside the garage hadn't stopped for four straight hours, and the leaky roof above the ancient compressor was now rhythmically dripping into a rusted pot.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
"Hey, Jono, your 3:00 canceled," shouted Garret, the manager-slash-owner-slash-junkie who'd hired him for the graveyard shift. His voice bounced off the walls, drowned in the buzz of overhead fluorescents that flickered like dying stars.
Jonathan didn't look up. He was elbow-deep in a busted hoverbike engine, fingers dancing through broken filaments and cracked cooling rods like a pianist repairing a dream.
"Did they say why?"
"Yeah. Said the rain makes their arthritis scream. Must be nice to have excuses."
"Must be nice to afford arthritis meds," Jonathan muttered.
He grabbed a bent cig from the metal toolbox drawer—a habit he was trying to quit, just not today—and rolled it between his fingers like it might turn into something else. Something less damning. It was the last one. He lit it anyway.
His phone buzzed on the bench. A message.
SARAH (2:57PM): Had another episode. Docs increased dosage again. Can you still send the meds?
Jonathan closed his eyes, let the smoke settle deep in his chest, and then tapped out a reply with oil-streaked fingers.
JONATHAN (3:00PM): Always. Rest. I got you.
He didn't have it.
His account was negative eighty-four dollars. The last time it went that low, the bank had sent him a cheerful notification: You may qualify for a financial literacy course!
He'd laughed so hard he'd cried.
---
Later that night, he clocked out early—only because Garret nodded off behind the desk with a screwdriver in his lap and a bottle of cheap gin in his hand. Jonathan stepped out into the misty street, coat pulled tight around him. The rain had eased, but the cold had teeth.
He walked to the delivery station three blocks away. Another shift. Food deliveries this time—mostly to stoners, night owls, and bored couples with money to waste.
His first order was a triple chili squid wrap with mango soda. Ten blocks north.
The hoverboard buzzed under him as he cut through the wet alleys. Neon signs flickered overhead—ORBITA DINER, STIM SODA, 24HR THERAPY—NO QUESTIONS ASKED—all glowing like lies in the night.
He passed a homeless man coughing into a tattered scarf. Jonathan paused, handed him the mango soda.
"You sure, kid?" the man asked, eyes watery and red.
"I'm allergic to... generosity," Jonathan said, deadpan.
The man laughed like he'd just been forgiven for something.
---
By midnight, he was on his fifth delivery and fourth stomach cramp. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's shift. His fingers were numb, soaked through. His eyes ached.
He stopped near the foot of the Old Rail Bridge to sit. Just for a second.
Above, freight drones thundered by like angry gods dragging chains. Below, the river churned dark and violent.
He pulled out his notebook—the one with the sketch of the med drone he'd been designing for Sarah. Compact, AI-assisted, self-regulating. A fantasy. He flipped to the latest page, where he'd been toying with an algorithm that could read neural activity and auto-adjust dosage.
He'd named it: "Promise."
"You think you'll ever build it?" asked a voice beside him.
Jonathan flinched. A kid—eight, maybe nine—stood nearby, holding a cracked snack wrapper like a treasure.
"Didn't see you," Jonathan said. "It's late, kid. You lost?"
"No. Just hungry."
Jonathan hesitated. Reached into his coat pocket. Found nothing but receipts, lint, and failure.
The kid sat beside him anyway.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing at the notebook.
"My escape plan."
The kid didn't smile, just nodded like he understood. And maybe he did.
---
The rumble started suddenly.
A roar of metal-on-metal echoed across the bridge above. Jonathan looked up—and saw it. A freight hauler had lost power, veering off-track. Sparks screamed from the rails. A section of the bridge support cracked under the weight.
Then—it dropped.
A chunk of rail snapped loose like a guillotine.
The kid was right under it.
"Move!" Jonathan shouted, but the boy froze.
Jonathan sprinted.
He shoved the kid hard, rolling with him into the mud. Pain screamed down his spine as debris slammed into the spot they'd just vacated.
Screams. Lights. Sirens.
Jonathan coughed—hard—tasting blood. He tried to sit up. Couldn't.
The kid was crying.
"You okay?" Jonathan whispered.
The boy nodded, terrified.
"Good," Jonathan said, eyes already dimming. "Promise... you'll build something better than I did, yeah?"
---
And then it was quiet.
No pain. No cold. No breath.
Just the sound of nothing.
---
Then: a voice.
Not human.
Not divine.
"CONSCIOUSNESS RETAINED. CANDIDATE: JONATHAN VIRELL."
A white void opened like an eye. He stood—or floated. Or simply was.
Before him, a colossal, shifting sphere of metal and light hovered in silence.
"QUALIFICATIONS MET: SACRIFICE. UNFULFILLED PURPOSE. RESISTANCE TO TERMINATION."
"…What the hell?"
"YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO ENTER THE GRAND FINALE."
Jonathan blinked. "The... what?"
"A COMPETITION. SURVIVAL. TRIAL. ASCENT. YOU WILL BE GRANTED A CHANCE TO RETURN."
"Return where?"
"TO LIFE."
He stared. "Why?"
"YOU POSSESS A RARE VECTOR. THE WILL TO RISE."
"…You talk like an insurance ad."
The sphere pulsed. "DO YOU ACCEPT?"
He thought of Sarah. Her laugh. Her convulsions. Her unread letters.
He remembered the way the wind smelled before the bridge collapsed.
And that damn notebook, still clutched in his jacket.
"I accept."
---
[LOADING PLAYER: JONATHAN VIRELL]
[SKIN: "DUST-EATER OF LORAM FIELD" ASSIGNED]
[INITIAL ATTRIBUTE: NONE]
[SPECIAL EXCEPTION GRANTED: ATTRIBUTE RETENTION ABILITY]
[WARNING: PLAYER DISADVANTAGED. SURVIVAL CHANCE: < 4.6%]
[WELCOME TO THE GRAND FINALE.]
[SEASON STARTING IN: 00:04:27]