It was 9:42 p.m. when Nolan Grey dropped off his final delivery of the night.
"Thanks, man," the guy mumbled through half a yawn.
"Welco—"
Nolan didn't have the chance to finish his word before the guy snatched the food without a glance and slammed the door shut.
No tip. Not even a rating.
Nolan stood there a second longer, blinking at the painted-over apartment door like it might open again.
It didn't.
"Well, I can't expect people to give a tip. It's their rights," he muttered. "But leaving a good rating won't hurt."
He turned, slid his phone out from the pocket of his green weather-worn jacket with the logo of Panda Dash, the delivery company he worked for, and checked the app.
[$62.83]
That was what he earned after eight hours of riding in the wind. That was before taxes, and the cut they took for "platform maintenance."
Still, it'd take a few business days before the money even hit his account.
"Money's money. Be grateful," he muttered to himself, like a prayer he no longer believed.
He shoved the phone back and exhaled through his nose. No one to complain to. No one was waiting. Not anymore.
His legs ached. His neck was stiff. His gloves were torn where his fingers bent. But the bike still worked. That was something.
He made his way back to it, chained beside a street pole like a loyal dog. It wasn't fancy—just a refurbished hybrid he bought off Craigslist—but it was all he had.
He brushed the dust off the saddle, swung his leg over, and started pedaling into the night.
The roads were quieter now. Just the sound of tires over wet asphalt and the occasional siren in the distance. Traffic lights blinked in a lonely rhythm.
Every few blocks, he passed someone just like him—shoulders hunched, backpack strapped tight, phone mounted on the handlebar. All chasing coins in the dark.
'This city doesn't sleep,' Nolan thought. 'It just shifts.'
By the time he reached his neighborhood, the world felt like it was running out of color. The orange glow of street lamps made everything look tired.
The corner store was already shuttered, and the stairwell to his apartment still reeked of old cigarettes and something worse he couldn't place.
Third floor. No elevator. Of course.
He unlocked the door and entered a space that barely passed as a home—one room, no kitchen, a mattress on the floor, and a shelf with a kettle, two mugs, and a box of instant noodles.
He tossed his bag down and sank onto the mattress. It groaned under his weight like it hated him too.
He checked his phone again.
Three notifications.
Two came from the apps reminding him of "bonus opportunities."
Another one… from the bank.
[Auto-debit: Loan Payment Successful]
[-$32.18]
[Recipient: TBA Debt Holdings Inc.]
He stared at it. Then locked the screen and dropped the phone on the floor beside him.
"Of course," he muttered, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. "They would leave me with just the minimum amount."
He sighed while staring at the ceiling. Somewhere between exhaustion and numbness, his mind wandered.
To the past.
To her—his mother.
His mom would've scolded him for working this late, told him to eat properly, to sleep, to rest. But she wasn't here. Not anymore.
He remembered her voice. It was warm but tired. Always tired.
She worked double shifts as a nurse even when her body began to betray her. Still, she never stopped smiling.
She would always say, "Just a bit more, Nollie. Just a bit more and we'll get there."
They never got there.
She passed in the spring, two weeks before he could land a programming project to get her that private treatment.
He missed the deadline. He was grieving, but the client didn't care—about his loss or anything else.
And when she was gone, the real letters came. The red-stamped ones. The debt collectors. The lawyers.
Worst of all? The legacy of a man who left nothing but his name—and his debt.
$48,000 in medical and legal nightmares.
Those were the things that haunted him every single day. Never gave him time to slack off even for a second.
"Mom…" he whispered, closing his eyes. "I miss you."
Nolan didn't cry when they lowered her to the ground.
He cried when he realized he couldn't afford the headstone.
He cried when he realized he had never got the chance to shower her with wealth and a better life.
Nolan opened his eyes and stared at the cracked ceiling above, again, letting the silence stretch thin around him.
Tomorrow would be the same.
Wake. Ride. Deliver.
Pray the apps don't crash. Repeat.
Every day he paid something. In sweat, in sleep, in spirit.
And still—he was losing.
A knock echoed from the front door.
Nolan blinked.
Another knock. Two taps. Quiet. Hesitant.
"Coming," he said.
He got up, walked over barefoot across cold, chipped tiles, and opened it slightly.
Mrs. Halvorsen, his landlady, stood there wrapped in a pink robe, holding a yellow envelope.
"I know you're trying," she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his. "But rent's due tomorrow. Three days late, and I'll have to list it, okay?"
Nolan nodded, taking the envelope without a word.
"Goodnight, Nolan," she whispered and shuffled back down the hallway.
He closed the door gently and stood there holding the envelope like it might bite.
It's always something.
He sat back down on the mattress. Pulled the zipper on his bag. Counted the cash he had left.
$21.60.
That was it.
No food stocked. No buffer. No plan.
His stomach growled.
He reached for the last cup of noodles on the shelf, filled the kettle, and turned it on.
Tomorrow, he thought, I'll figure something out.
He always said that, but he never did.
As the kettle hissed and steam rose into the flickering bulb overhead, Nolan rested his elbows on his knees, head hanging low.
Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere down the street, a trash bin toppled with a loud clang.
He didn't flinch.
He was too tired.
Too numb.
Too used to being at the bottom.