The evening air in Cleveland bit sharper than usual that December. The kind of cold that slipped through thin jackets and made breath look like smoke from a dying engine. Ethan Miller hunched lower over the handlebars of his battered delivery bike, gloved hands stiff against the wind. The LED sign strapped to his backpack flickered with the words "Dash On."
"Yeah," he muttered into the night, "Dash on till my fingers fall off."
His phone buzzed again — new order, a ten-mile trip for seven dollars. He sighed. Seven dollars barely covered the gas, but turning it down meant risking a bad acceptance rating. And bad ratings meant fewer orders, and fewer orders meant no rent. So he hit accept, pulled his helmet down, and sped off through slush-covered streets.
The customer lived in one of those suburban housing clusters where every mailbox looked cloned. Ethan found the right number, parked, and trudged to the door. A man opened it with the blank face of someone half-watching TV and half-ignoring life.
"Your order, sir."
The man grabbed the bag, mumbled "Thanks," and closed the door before Ethan could say have a good night. The tip notification came through seconds later: $0.00.
Ethan laughed dryly. "Generosity overfloweth."
He wiped his shoes on the doormat just to leave a little revenge dirt and turned back toward his bike. The streets were quiet, the snow thin but persistent. A dog barked somewhere far away — probably just as hungry as him.
By the time he reached the all-night gas station, the dashboard clock blinked 11:47 PM. He parked beside the pumps, cracked open his last energy drink, and leaned against the seat.
He pulled out his phone. Notifications cluttered the screen — promo offers, delivery ratings, a bank alert reminding him he was $23.18 away from overdraft. He scrolled absently, thumb trembling from the cold.
Inside the glass convenience store window, his reflection looked older than twenty-four. Dark curls flattened by the helmet, eyes tired and rimmed with the red of too many caffeine drinks. You look like an overworked raccoon, he thought.
At home — a one-room apartment with peeling paint and a heater that whined like a ghost — his father waited, maybe still awake. Tom Miller was the sort of man who measured hope in small units: a good TV rerun, a warm bowl of soup, a call from his son before midnight. The rest of life had been spent working thirty-two years at the steel plant until the layoff and back injury took everything but stubborn pride.
Ethan felt that same pride sitting heavy on his shoulders every time he dropped another order at another indifferent doorstep. It wasn't resentment exactly — just exhaustion that ran bone-deep.
He finished his shift near one a.m., parked the bike beside the sagging stairwell, and trudged up to Apartment 3B. The hallway smelled faintly of curry and mold. Inside, his father snored softly on the recliner, old blanket pulled up to his chin. The television glowed with a muted baseball rerun.
Ethan smiled. "Out cold," he whispered.
He set a leftover burger on the counter for breakfast, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the couch without turning off the lights. His body ached in every conceivable muscle, even the ones textbooks never mentioned. His eyes slid shut before his brain could think of rent, gas, or tips.
That's when he heard it.
A soft "ding."Not from his phone. Not from the TV.It came from somewhere inside his head — a crisp digital tone followed by a gentle, almost amused voice.
[Sign-In System Activated.]
Ethan jerked upright. "Okay… either I'm dreaming or I really should've eaten something other than Doritos."
[Daily Sign-In Rewards Enabled.]
Your commitment to hard work and emotional stability has been recorded.
Day 1 Reward: $100,000,000 USD.
Please don't faint. We do not cover hospital bills.
Ethan blinked. The text hung in mid-air like a hologram, blue letters shimmering softly against the dim apartment light. He rubbed his eyes. It didn't go away.
He burst out laughing. "Right. Sure. Of course. Because random hallucinations announce themselves with customer-service disclaimers."
He grabbed his phone to check if maybe the energy drink had fermented into LSD. The phone screen was normal. But his bank app showed an alert he'd never seen before:
"External Deposit Pending — Amount: $100,000,000.00 USD."
His thumb froze. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is identity theft. I'm going to jail for breathing."
He tried to open a chat with customer service. The bot replied instantly:
'Hi Ethan! We see an incoming deposit of $100,000,000. Would you like to rate your experience?'
He threw the phone onto the couch like it had burned him.
"Dad?" he whispered, half-expecting Tom to wake up and scold him for being dramatic. But the old man just snored softly, unbothered by his son's existential crisis.
Ethan tiptoed to the window. Outside, the snow had thickened. The city lights shimmered in distant halos. Somewhere out there, people were sleeping, arguing, making plans for the morning. He, meanwhile, was apparently the proud owner of one hundred million imaginary dollars.
The blue text pulsed again.
[Advice: Calm down. Breathe. Laugh if necessary.]
"Laugh?" Ethan barked. "Buddy, I deliver tacos. If I've got a hundred million, then squirrels run the stock market."
[Processing sarcasm … complete.]
We admire your coping mechanisms.
Ethan stared at the words until they faded. For a long minute he stood still, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the room. Then he sighed, muttered, "Fine, imaginary money fairy," and collapsed back onto the couch.
Before drifting off, he managed one last thought:If this is a dream, please let the taxes be imaginary too.