Chapter 1 – Just Another Day
Alexander Hayes was thirty-eight years old, though he sometimes wondered if he had stopped aging somewhere in his late twenties. His face wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. Just average. A little stubble he sometimes forgot to shave, tired brown eyes that hid behind smudged glasses, and hair that was already thinning on top. He wore the same wrinkled office shirt and tie combination nearly every day. No one paid much attention to him, and he preferred it that way.
He worked as a telemarketer. Every morning he would cram himself into the subway, ride half-awake until he reached his office, sit down at his cubicle, and start calling numbers from a list. The script was always the same:
"Good afternoon, sir, I'd like to introduce you to…"
Click. Dial tone.
Over and over. For eight hours.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't exciting. But it paid the rent for his small apartment and left him enough for cheap takeout, internet, and his real hobbies—anime, manga, and webnovels.
He never thought of himself as passionate about his job. In fact, he wasn't passionate about much at all. Life was monotonous, but it was stable. Some people called it meaningless. Maybe they were right. Still, Alexander often reminded himself of one fact: If I really hated it that much, I would've ended it a long time ago. But I didn't.
That, in itself, was proof that he didn't hate his life. He didn't love it either, but at least it wasn't unbearable.
After all, anime episodes came out every week. His favorite webnovel updated three times, sometimes four. Life wasn't that bad if you had something to look forward to at the end of the day, even if it was just fiction.
He didn't have many friends. Actually, he couldn't name a single person he was truly close to. The people at the office were just coworkers. The people on the train were just passengers. Even his neighbors in the apartment building—he only recognized their faces, never their names. Everyone was just… there. Floating in the background of his life like NPCs in a game.
Still, Alexander didn't complain. This was fine. His days flowed one after the other, the same routine, and he was used to it.
---
That evening was the same as always. He clocked out of work, muttered a half-hearted "See you" to no one in particular, and walked toward the train station. The city was crowded, people rushing home, neon signs starting to flicker on. He tugged at his collar, wishing he could just teleport to his room and lie down in front of his computer.
As he passed through a narrow street, he heard a loud voice.
"Stop! Thief! Someone stop him!"
Alexander paused and turned his head lazily. A young man was sprinting down the sidewalk, clutching a woman's handbag. The woman was still shouting behind him, but no one moved to help. People just stepped out of the way and watched.
Alexander's first thought was simple: Not my problem.
His second thought was: If this were an anime, a protagonist would dash forward, tackle the thief, and return the purse. Then the grateful woman would fall in love with him, or maybe he'd get some sort of reward. But this isn't anime.
Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets and was about to cross the road to the train station.
That was when it happened.
Something slammed into his back. Hard.
"What the—?!"
He stumbled forward, losing his balance. His briefcase slipped from his hand, scattering papers across the asphalt. He landed on his knees right in the middle of the street.
Cars honked, brakes screeched.
He blinked, dazed, and tried to push himself up. But before he could stand, a blinding light filled his vision.
He looked to the side.
A truck.
It was barreling toward him at full speed, headlights like twin suns burning into his eyes. The sound of its engine roared in his ears. His body froze for a second, but not because of fear. In fact, he realized he didn't feel much of anything.
His eyes narrowed on the driver's seat. Through the window, he caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel—head tilted forward, mouth slightly open. Asleep.
Figures.
Most people, faced with death, would scream, cry, or panic. But Alexander just let out a dry, almost bitter laugh. His throat felt scratchy, like it hadn't been used in years.
"I did not see my day going this way," he muttered.
There was no sense of tragedy in his voice, no anger, no desperate plea for help. Just resignation. A dull acceptance, like he had missed his train and had to wait for the next one.
The truck's lights grew brighter.
And then—
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