Chapter 1
The world outside my window existed purely in theory, much like standard physics or clean laundry-things I acknowledged were real, but preferred to pretend didn't apply to my daily existence.
According to Mal, my best friend and resident human solar panel, I was legally classified as a shut-in NEET. Personally, I preferred the term conservationist of personal energy. Why brave a society that expected me to make eye contact, smile at strangers, and pretend I wasn't dead inside when I could stay wrapped in an oversized hoodie that doubled as a security blanket, drinking cold brew, and watching fictional characters make catastrophic life choices? It was just a safer brand of entertainment.
My phone buzzed against the couch cushion for the fifth time in ten minutes. I groaned, dragging my weighted blanket further up my chin like I was preparing to weather a sudden nuclear winter, before reaching out and hitting the speakerphone button.
"I'm just saying I'm fine," I mumbled into a throw pillow, my voice muffled. "It's not like I'm still hung up on my ex. I just... don't have the emotional capacity to go out there and meet actual people right now."
"What about your books? Your webtoons? Netflix?" Mal's voice spilled out of the speaker, sharp and entirely devoid of remorse. "Weren't you just bragging yesterday that you've got fictional men lined up like a loyal little harem?"
I snorted, the sound entirely unladylike. She wasn't wrong.
"You are such a hermit," she went on, marching right over my defense. "And I love you, girl, but come on. I want double dates. I want to drag you out of your cave. You're my bestie, which means you share my suffering."
"I'm tired, Mal," I said dramatically, letting my head loll back against the cushions as if my soul were actively detaching from my body. "Tired of the whole 'love won't come to you if you don't touch grass' trope. Like, okay? What if I don't want to go out and touch grass? Maybe he should touch the grass and find me."
There was a beat of dead silence on the line. Then, a sharp, violent choking sound.
"GIRL. What??"
"I mean, break into my house, fall in love through a mutual online obsession, something!" I shot back, gesturing vaguely to my empty living room. "Meet-cutes don't need sunlight. Real romance happens in the shadows or through forced proximity."
Mal was full-on coughing now, choking on her own spit from laughing too hard. "You need professional help. Like, a licensed therapist, not a character arc."
"I need a fictional man who will ruin my life and apologize with his eyes," I declared, completely unapologetic.
"You're unhinged," she wheezed, finally catching her breath. "Look, I'm swinging by later with food, so you better at least brush your hair. And please tell me you ate something real today and not just cereal dry out of the box."
"I have standards," I lied smoothly. "I eat dry cereal out of a bowl."
We hung up a few minutes later, both of us laughing. As much as I complained, I loved Mal. She was just wired differently-built for daylight, social interaction, and thriving in the wild. Me? I was a nocturnal creature powered by caffeine, spite, and the blue glow of a computer screen.
Feeling my stomach give an aggressive growl, I finally shuffled out from under my blanket cocoon and padded into the kitchen. A giant glass jar of gourmet bakery cookies sat on the counter-another impulse buy from my 2 a.m. Pinterest scrolling spree. Aesthetic snacks were a severe weakness of mine, and apparently my midnight coping mechanism involved buying expensive pastries I had no business consuming all by myself.
Beside the front door, four empty glass milk bottles were lined up neatly in their wire crate, waiting for the morning delivery.
Our regular milkman was an absolute gem. A sweet old guy named Monsieur Jean who looked and acted suspiciously like a Studio Ghibli grandfather, always dropping off fresh dairy with a polite nod and a quiet smile. He was basically an endangered species in this hyper-modern world.
Looking from the cookie jar to the empty glass bottles, a small wave of guilt hit me. The poor guy navigated four flights of stairs every morning just to leave fresh milk on my threshold.
Would it be weird to leave him a bribe? Probably. But also, a little unexpected kindness wouldn't kill me. At the very least, it would ease my lingering guilt for being a complete recluse.
Reaching for a sticky note and a sharpie, I scribbled a quick message, slapping a cute little black cat sticker in the corner for good measure:
Thanks for always bringing the milk! Please take these! Enjoy.
I stuck the note firmly to the side of the cookie jar, cracked open the front door just enough to slide my arm through, and set the jar right next to the empty wire crate. It was barely 7 AM, and Monsieur Jean's route usually hit our neighborhood around nine, which meant I had plenty of time to slink back into my cave, pretend the outside world was a collective hallucination, and get a solid couple of hours of actual sleep.
Of course, before I could even think about going to bed, there was pressing digital business to attend to.
I pulled out my desk chair, popped open my laptop, and navigated directly to a custom, encrypted browser interface. It was 3 a.m. somewhere in spirit, and my brain had decided it was the prime hour for minor acts of digital petty revenge.
My ex-a absolute narcissistic tool who had spent the last month of our relationship lying through his teeth while leeching off my Wi-Fi-had recently taken to posting obnoxious, motivational life-guru updates on his socials.
Not on my watch.
Three quick script executions and a light password-scrambling sequence later, his primary social media profiles were completely locked out. I rerouted his multi-factor authentication codes to a dead-end server in Finland, locked his cloud storage, and changed his display name to something deeply embarrassing that he wouldn't be able to revert for thirty days.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen with immense satisfaction. A petty, digital parting gift. Oops.
Yawning until my jaw cracked, I finally shut the laptop lid and dragged my feet toward the bedroom. The apartment was dead quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator. I pulled the heavy blackout curtains tight, shedding my hoodie in favor of an oversized t-shirt, and burrowed back into bed.
I let the cool darkness of the room swallow me whole, pulling the duvet up to my nose and closing my eyes.
I was completely, utterly oblivious to three very important facts:
First, Monsieur Jean had officially retired two days ago due to a bad hip.
Second, the temporary replacement driver currently navigating the suburban streets of Thionville was would be the bane of my life .
And third, the little glass jar of cookies sitting on my front porch was about to blow a massive, completely unhinged hole right through my peaceful, isolated life. That one little action screw my over.
