He woke with a jolt, the alarm clock's beeping cutting through the dim haze of his apartment. He didn't even know where he was for a while. His body felt heavy, and his mind echoed with fragments of the previous day, faces turning away from him, voices that didn't seem to register his presence, and that strange sensation of being forgotten.
He reached across the nightstand, fumbling for the clock, and realized it was already past eight. He was late. Again. A hollow laugh escaped him, more of a sigh really, because what did it matter if he showed up on time or not? Nobody noticed him. Nobody ever had.
Still, he rolled out of bed, padding across the floor of his apartment. The tiles were cold, dust clinging to his toes as he shuffled toward the small bathroom. He flicked the switch, and the light buzzed alive, faint and flickering, like it resented being asked to function. He leaned on the sink, squinting at himself in the mirror.
For a moment, he saw himself clearly: dark hair in disarray, pale skin with shallow lines forming beneath tired eyes, and a face so utterly average it could have belonged to anyone. Then he blinked, and something was wrong. His reflection… lagged. It didn't follow the tilt of his head immediately, as though the mirror had frozen for a fraction of a second before catching up.
Tony froze, hand hovering near his jaw. He slowly raised his palm toward the glass. The reflection followed, but a beat too late.
"What the hell…" he whispered, his voice almost trembling.
The mirror smoothed out, the reflection aligning with him again. It was probably nothing. A trick of the light. Too little sleep, too much coffee. He splashed cold water on his face, shaking off the unease, though it lingered in the pit of his stomach.
Breakfast was as uninspired as the rest of his life. He opened the fridge, pulling out a carton of milk past its expiration date and a half-loaf of bread that had started to stiffen. He sniffed the milk, grimaced, and poured it anyway. The coffee maker wheezed as it brewed, releasing a bitter aroma that filled the silence. He ate standing up, chewing mechanically, staring out the narrow kitchen window at the street below.
People bustled on the sidewalks, horns blared, voices carried up in chaotic symphony, but he might as well have been watching from behind a sheet of glass. None of it touched him.
The bus ride was worse.
Tony squeezed into the morning crowd, shoulder to shoulder with commuters, but no one looked at him. No one shifted aside. He was jostled, pushed, and yet it was as if he wasn't even in their way.
He tried to hand his fare to the driver, but the man stared blankly past him, eyes glazed over. "Excuse me," Tony said louder, but the driver didn't so much as blink. Finally, he gave up, clutching the coins awkwardly before sliding them back into his pocket.
The bus lurched forward. Tony grabbed the rail, trying not to stumble, and glanced at the child seated a few rows down. The boy's eyes met his for a split second—wide, curious, too honest to pretend not to see. Relief surged in Tony's chest. At least someone—
The child's mother reached out quickly, pulling her son close. "Don't stare at the empty seat," she muttered sharply, her voice just loud enough for Tony to hear.
Empty seat.
He looked down. He was standing, his hand gripping the rail tightly. But in the reflection of the window across from him, there was no one there. Just the rail, untouched, as though his hand didn't exist.
He looked away, swallowing hard, chest tight.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, the words "empty seat" echoing in his head like a curse.
The office offered no comfort.
Tony sat at his desk, powering up his computer, but the login screen rejected him. User not registered. He tried again, typing slower, more carefully, but the same error appeared.
He waved to a coworker across the aisle, a man named Carter who had shared the same space for three years. "Hey, Carter, is the network down?"
Carter didn't even glance at him. He kept typing, chatting with someone on the other side.
Tony stood, moving closer. "Carter."
Nothing.
Frustration bubbled up. He waved a hand right in front of Carter's eyes. No reaction. It was like he didn't exist.
He tried another coworker, then another. The same. They moved around him, through him, like he was no more substantial than a shadow. A manager walked by, talking sternly into a phone, and for a horrifying moment, she stepped straight through the corner of his desk—through him—without even noticing.
Tony's throat tightened. He slammed his hand against the desk. The sound echoed in his ears, sharp and loud, but not a single head turned. He snatched a pen and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the wall, bounced, rolled. Nobody looked up.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" His voice cracked, filling the room, but it might as well have been silence.
Tony stood there shaking, fists clenched, eyes burning with a desperation he hadn't felt since he was a child, begging someone, anyone, to notice him.
But no one did.
He left early. What was the point of staying?
The stairwell was quiet, the hum of the building's lights echoing faintly against the concrete walls. That's when he saw him.
A janitor stood at the landing below, pushing a mop slowly across the tiles. His uniform was plain blue, but his face… his face blurred. Every time Tony blinked, the man's features rearranged themselves—eyes shifting, nose stretching, jaw narrowing then widening.
Tony gripped the rail. "Hey! You—can you see me?"
The janitor stopped, mop dripping water onto the floor. His head tilted, though the blur made it impossible to read his expression. When he spoke, his voice was distorted, carrying a metallic echo.
"You shouldn't be here without the system."
Tony's heart pounded. "What are you talking about? What system?"
The man flickered, stuttering like a broken video feed. His body shimmered, then dissolved into nothing.
In his place, on the wet floor, was a sticky note.
Tony crouched, hand trembling as he picked it up. The letters were scrawled in harsh black ink:
"Observe. Prepare. Choice comes soon."
He stuffed it into his pocket, breath quickening. His mind whirled. Was he losing it? Hallucinating? Or was the world itself breaking around him?
That night, the apartment was suffocating.
He poured himself a glass of cheap whiskey, sipping slowly as he stared at the muted television. But the screen wouldn't display the usual late-night talk shows. Only static. White noise filled the room like an endless hiss, crawling under his skin.
His phone buzzed. Relief sparked as he saw his mother's name, and he quickly pressed call.
The line didn't connect. Instead of a dial tone, a flat, mechanical voice whispered: "Invalid entity."
Tony's chest seized. He dialed again. Same result. Again. Again. Always the same cold rejection: "Invalid entity."
He slammed the phone onto the table, breathing hard.
The lights flickered, dimming until the room was swallowed in shadows. His reflection on the black screen of the television flickered too, moving just a second slower, watching him with something that wasn't quite his own expression.
Tony stumbled back, pulse hammering in his ears. "This isn't real. This isn't—"
Darkness pressed in. His knees buckled, exhaustion slamming into him like a wave. His body refused to obey as his vision blurred, the static of the television filling his head until he collapsed onto the couch, consciousness slipping away.
He dreamed of numbers.
A glowing countdown floated in endless black: [72:00:00 until reset].
The numbers pulsed like a heartbeat. A voice, cold and omnipresent, whispered directly into his skull:
"Player identified. Synchronization pending."
Tony gasped, jerking awake. His living room was bathed in dim moonlight. For a moment, he thought it had been nothing more than a dream—until his eyes locked on the wall across from him.
The countdown was there, etched into the plaster in faint, glowing lines.
[71:59:59]
It ticked down.
Tony's breath hitched, terror clamping around his chest.
And then the whisper came again, faint but unmistakable:
"Choice comes soon."