Kevin gripped the bicycle handles, his knuckles white against the worn rubber. A light, persistent rain fell, slicking the asphalt and blurring the neon signs of the city into a watercolor smear. Visibility was a joke. His eyelids felt like lead weights, and a bone-deep exhaustion had settled into his marrow. He was running on fumes.
That's why he didn't see the pothole. It was a gaping maw in the dark street, invisible until the front wheel of his bike plunged into it.
Crash!
The world tilted violently. A sickening crunch of metal was followed by a flash of white-hot pain as his face connected solidly with a telephone pole. The universe went silent for a second, then came rushing back in a wave of agony and the clatter of cardboard on the wet ground.
All ten pizzas he was carrying scattered across the road. Boxes burst open, and perfect slices of pepperoni and cheese slid onto the grimy pavement.
"Arg! Ouch!" A groan tore from his throat. He peeled himself off the pole, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. His head throbbed with a furious rhythm. He staggered, falling to the ground and leaning his back against the cold, damp wall of a building. He slapped his own cheeks, hard, the sting a desperate attempt to ground himself.
When his vision cleared, he saw the carnage. The fallen pizzas, a feast for the night. And he broke.
"No... No... No... Not again," he sobbed, the sound raw and pathetic in the empty street. Hot tears traced paths through the grime on his face.
This was the last delivery of the night, a big order for some late-night party. But now, it was ruined. His wages would be docked, a certainty as sure as the sunrise. Not only that, he'd have to cycle all the way back, face his boss, and get a new set of pizzas to complete the delivery.
"Kill me now," he cursed, the words a hollow whisper. He forced himself to stand, his body screaming in protest. The sting in his head was sharp, but he didn't have the luxury of pain. He pulled out his phone, an old keypad model with a spiderweb of cracks across the screen. "Who even eats pizza this late at night?" he muttered, ignoring the fact that the screen read 3:00 AM. He was doing overtime, after all.
He scrolled through his contacts and dialed 'Ms. Rivera'—his boss, manager, and the formidable owner of the pizza chain.
She picked up on the fourth ring.
"¿Hola? ¡Pícaro, ¿qué has hecho ahora?!" Her voice was sharp, already laced with suspicion. Hello? You little rogue, what have you done now?!
"I... I got into a little accident," Kevin stammered. "I'll need to do the last trip again. I am so sorry, but... can you get the order ready? I'm coming as fast as I can."
"¡Dios Mio! Again?" she raged. "How many times are you going to have these 'little accidents'? If you can't handle the night shift, then stop begging me for it! I was just about to lock up, but because of you, I have to stay longer. Don't think for a second I won't cut the damages from your wages, no matter how measly the amount left is."
Crack.
The sound of the receiver slamming down was like a hammer blow to his already sinking heart.
"Another pay cut," he murmured. He got on his knees, the street light buzzing overhead, its warm glow illuminating the pizza slices that were already being besieged by ants and cockroaches. He gathered the ruined food and soggy cardboard, stuffed it all into a spare plastic bag, and threw it into the nearest trash can. Then, he climbed back onto his slightly bent bicycle and started pedaling, forcing his aching legs to move.
His mind wasn't on the road; it was lost in a grim calculation.
It was April 30th. Payday. If Ms. Rivera was in a good mood—which she emphatically was not—he might get his salary tonight. He worked for $10 an hour, five hours a day, seven days a week. That was about $1500 a month. Overtime usually added another $500.
Two thousand dollars a month. It sounded like something, but it was nothing. This month alone, $850 had been docked for damages from other "little accidents." His rent, for the shabby room he called home, was $1000. That left him with $150. For food. For utilities. For everything else.
Paying back his debt was an impossible fantasy.
He skidded to a stop in front of the pizzeria and hurried inside, only to be met with a sharp slap across the face from Ms. Rivera. The sting was a jolt of raw humiliation that overshadowed the ache in his head. Without a word, she shoved ten new pizza boxes into his arms. They were hot and heavy.
His stomach growled, a hollow, painful cramp, but he ignored it. He got back on the bike and drove straight to the delivery location.
It was a big house, lights blazing and loud bass pouring through the closed door. A party was in full swing. He parked his bike and walked to the door, juggling the tower of boxes.
He knocked. A moment later, the door was pulled open by a beautiful blonde girl in shorts and a black t-shirt. Her ponytail swayed as she leaned against the doorframe, a drink in her hand. Sarah. A girl from his college.
"Oh, Kevin," she said, her words slightly slurred. "Doing overtime tonight? I was wondering what was taking so long. So it was your lazy ass delivering it? Give them here."
She snatched the pizzas from his grasp and started to close the door. It was a prepaid order.
"You'll be hearing about this delay in my review," her voice called out from inside, before it was swallowed by a fresh wave of music. The door clicked shut, leaving him on the porch.
Kevin stood there, unmoving, the phantom weight of the boxes still in his arms. Sarah, living a carefree life, partying with her friends, while he was here, slaving away his youth in a dead-end job.
His life was a bleak, endless tunnel. He had no friends to call, no family to lean on. He was clumsy, bad at his studies, and dead certain he would fail his first-year exams. Girls like Sarah looked at him with disdain, and the guys at college subjected him to a hellish gauntlet of bullying.
To top it all off, loan sharks were after him. He owed them $10,000, a sum so vast it might as well have been a million.
Even the bike wasn't his.
He finally reached his apartment complex, a dilapidated building in a forgotten corner of the city. He parked the company bike and entered his room. A single, small space with no bed and no table. He didn't bother turning on the light or changing out of his damp clothes. He just collapsed onto the thin futon on the floor, his body limp. He was starving, but there was nothing to eat.
He was so profoundly tired, yet sleep wouldn't come. The weight of his misery was a physical pressure on his chest. Tears began to pour from his eyes again, silent sobs shaking his body as he was consumed by disgust for the life he was living.
He closed his eyes, wishing it would all just end.
And just as he surrendered to the crushing despair, he heard it. Not with his ears, but inside his mind.
A soft click.
Then, it happened.
A translucent, holographic panel of green light bloomed in his vision. He could see it perfectly, even with his eyes squeezed shut. It was being projected directly into his consciousness.
[System Binding...]
[Binding Successful!]
[Host 'Kevin Mateo' Welcome to the Self-Improvement System!]