They say the difference between a rut and a grave is how deep you dig. I had dug myself a condo-sized hole in suburban monotony. My name is Michael, and until last Tuesday, my biggest daily concern was whether the office coffee machine would dispense burnt sludge or lukewarm sewage.
I was thirty-two, an accountant who budgeted other people's dreams while meticulously ensuring my own stayed safely confined to the annual tax return. I had a beige existence, a beige desk, and a beige, soul-crushing routine.
"Just once," I often muttered, staring out the window at the predictable drizzle, "I wish something utterly, catastrophically ridiculous would happen."
Be careful what you wish for when the sky is turning purple.
That Tuesday evening, I skipped the bus and decided to walk home. The air felt charged, thick with the scent of ozone and imminent disaster. Lightning hammered down on the distant skyscrapers, timed like a celestial strobe light. As I hurried past a particularly tall, old oak tree—a stupid place to be during an electrical storm, in retrospect—the world vanished in a blinding, deafening flash of white-blue energy.
It wasn't painful, not exactly. It was more like being dissolved and then reassembled at the subatomic level, all in the space of half a heartbeat.
I woke up floating in nothing.
The void was deep black, silent, and tasted faintly of old batteries. I wasn't breathing, but I wasn't suffocating either.
"Hello, Michael," a voice boomed—not loud, but possessing an absolute authority that resonated in the space where my ears used to be.
Before me swam a figure composed entirely of swirling nebula and condescending disapproval. It wasn't the bearded man on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; it was more like an immensely powerful, infinitely bored civil servant.
"The lightning strike," I tried to say, but only a thought materialized.
"Administrative error," the Nebula-Being replied, sounding genuinely put out. "We had you scheduled for a cardiac event related to high cholesterol in approximately twenty-seven years. This premature expiration puts us behind on filing. In the interest of maintaining cosmic harmony, we offer reparations."
"Reparations?" I repeated, still trying to process the concept that my death was due to faulty paperwork.
"Yes. Standard procedure. Three wishes. Within scope, naturally. No instant universal enlightenment. No bringing back the dinosaurs. But since your passing was our fault, we can be flexible on the destination."
Three wishes. The boredom that had defined my life suddenly crystallized into desperate ambition. I knew exactly what I wanted. I didn't want peace; I wanted chaos. I didn't want safety; I wanted speed.
"First wish," I declared, my voice echoing with a confidence I hadn't known I possessed. "I want a system. A life management interface. Something like a video game HUD, specifically the Grand Theft Auto system. I want the immediate ability to track stats, access an infinite, though limited, inventory, and, crucially, a bank account that updates based on success—a true GTA System."
The Nebula-Being paused, the swirling colors tightening into a frown. "Unconventional. Excessive meta-fiction. Granted. Though be warned, the GTA system often attracts... police attention."
"I can handle it," I countered. "Second wish: I want the ability for instant mastery. If I attempt a skill—driving, welding, hacking, martial arts—I want my mind and body to instantly process and utilize that skill at a master level. No learning curve."
This was the key. GTA money was useless if I couldn't drive the fastest cars.
"Ah, the cheat code of talent," the entity chuckled, a sound like grinding gears. "An obvious choice for a human dependent on quick results. Granted. It will feel natural, Michael, but remember, true mastery still requires execution."
I nodded, feeling the nascent power coil inside me. Now for the destination.
"Third wish. I want to be transported to a world where speed is law and the stakes are life and death. I want to be dropped into Los Angeles, just before the underground street racing scene explodes into global notoriety. I want to be in the world of Fast and Furious."
"Ah, the universe of chrome, muscle, and improbable physics. An excellent choice to truly test your new mastery and system," the entity confirmed. "Consider it done. Enjoy your retirement from tedious existence, Michael. And try not to cause too many paradoxes."
The Nebula-Being dissolved, and once again, the world erupted in a flash of light, but this time, it was followed by the smell of stale beer, burnt oil, and the distant roar of an engine being pushed past its redline.