Mason hadn't had a good night's sleep in years.
Even with the old ceiling fan spinning lazily above, the room felt sticky and stale. The air smelled like coffee gone bad and old sweat. His tiny window AC unit buzzed like it was on its last legs.
At 3:13 a.m., the dream hit.
He found himself barefoot, standing on cold black tiles in a hallway that didn't make sense. No ceiling, no doors—just endless fog above and walls that disappeared into it. Everything was silent. The lights blinked like those in a hospital.
Then, a whisper.
It came from right behind him, close enough to feel it:
"Four... eleven... twenty-two... thirty-one... thirty-eight... forty-five."
A pause. Then: "These are yours now."
He turned around—no one was there. But he felt his mouth move, like someone else was using it. His own voice said a word he didn't know.
"Kasner."
Mason shot up, breathing hard, banging his knee on the nightstand. "Jesus," he muttered, clutching it. His shirt was soaked. The clock now read 3:14.
Still half-dazed, he grabbed a napkin and wrote the numbers down.
He never remembered dreams. He didn't even play the lottery. Seemed like a waste of cash. But he was broke. Rent was due. His car was gone. He had twenty bucks left.
By noon, he was at a gas station, scratching off tickets like one might scratch an itch that wouldn't go away. He bought a quick pick, then on a whim, wrote the dream numbers on a second ticket.
The cashier, a teenager, barely looked up. "Wanna try Powerball too?"
"Nah," Mason said. "Gotta leave room for God."
She didn't laugh.
He spent the rest of the day trying to find a bartending gig. No luck. Rejected three times. That night, he was back home eating canned ravioli, ignoring the eviction notice taped to his door.
He forgot about the ticket—until the lottery numbers came on the news.
"The winning numbers are... four... eleven... twenty-two... thirty-one... thirty-eight... forty-five."
He froze. Spoon halfway to his mouth.
No way.
He grabbed the napkin. Then the ticket. Then the napkin again. His hands started shaking. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
The news kept rolling. Mason stood, took a few steps, and then passed out cold.
When he came to, he was on the floor, ravioli on his chest, stomach turning. His phone was blowing up—texts from people he hadn't heard from in forever. It turned out he'd posted a photo of the ticket to his Instagram story without realizing it.
By midnight, he had over 900 messages. His voicemail was full. The local news wanted a quote.
Mason just sat there holding the ticket, thinking about the whisper. How the voice had said, "These are yours now."
He didn't sleep.
The next day was a blur. He went to the lottery office wearing a hoodie, smile twitchy. They had him hold a giant check. $72 million. After taxes? Around $48 million.
He smiled for the camera, but his eyes looked off. Like he was waiting for someone to say it was all a prank.
Everyone kept saying the same thing: "You're so lucky."
He just nodded and smiled. Said, "Yeah. Crazy, right?"
By day three, he had a lawyer. By day five, he had a financial guy wearing a watch worth more than Mason's old car.
By the end of the week, Mason Wilder was rich.
He bought a sleek mansion in a quiet town. Giant pool. Talking fridge. Walk-in closet he didn't know how to fill.
He stood in the living room, grinning like a kid. "I did it," he told the empty house. "I fucking won."
And for a moment, he really believed it. Then the nightmares started.