Chapter 1
DOVE
Waking up was my first mistake of the day.
I crack one eye open, squinting at the popcorn ceiling while wiping a streak of suspicious drool off my cheek.
7: 06 AM
The alarm clock on my nightstand is currently performing a high-pitched digital exorcism.
It sounds like a microwave having a nervous breakdown. I slap the ‘Snooze’ button with enough force to potentially shatter time itself.
I groan, a sound that is somewhere between a dying walrus and a haunted floorboard.
“I am suing the sun for harassment.” My throat feels like I’d spent the night eating dry insulation.
I pick up my phone from the nightstand.
[REGINA]: Dove. Just checking in on those Q3 projections. I didn’t see them in the shared drive this morning. Let’s make sure we’re hitting our ‘Early Bird’ KPIs today!
Good morning to you too, Satan. ‘Early Bird’? You mean unpaid labor before caffeine. I hope that bird gets an electric shock.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, expecting the usual scratchy beige carpet. Instead, my heel hit a cold, damp patch.
Squelch.
“Are you serious?” I mutter, squinting at the floor.
There was a small, dark puddle right where I stepped. I looked up at the ceiling.
No drip. No cracked pipe. Just a perfectly circular, cold-as-ice wet spot in the middle of my rug.
Great. The building is bleeding. It’s giving Haunted Tenement, and there goes my security deposit. Thanks, landlord. I really appreciate the morning biohazard.
I pad into the bathroom, my damp sock making a pathetic thwip-plop sound with every step. I flick the light switch, preparing for the worst.
{Zit}
The fluorescent bulb flickers and lets out a sharp, annoyed sizzle.
I check myself in the cracked mirror. “Yikes.” My hair isn’t just ‘bedhead.’
It’s a sentient bird’s nest. It looks like I’ve spent the night in a wind tunnel with a balloon. It’s splaying out in directions that defy the laws of physics and common decency.
“So we are going for the ‘unstable electrical socket’ look today? Bold choice. Truly a—”
I freeze. For a fraction of a second, the brown of my eyes fractures. A glowing violet sparks across my irises.
What?
I blink hard, rubbing my eyes until they sting. When I look again, the violet is gone. My eyes are back to their normal brown.
“I’m officially hallucinating in technicolor. The spreadsheet finally broke my brain.”
I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to reach a temperature that doesn’t feel like liquid nitrogen, and strip. I step in, letting the steam try to melt the ‘I-hate-it-here’ out of my soul.
I was halfway through scrubbing the shampoo into my scalp while trying to pretend I didn’t have forty unread emails from Regina when I feel a weird movement against the soles of my feet.
I jump with a gasp. I squint down through the suds.
The water is swirling like a perfect little whirlpool, looking like a tiny liquid galaxy before it vanishes down the pipes.
It feels heavy. Like the water suddenly decided it has a destination and I am just in the way.
“Great, the plumbing is haunted,” I mutter, rinsing my eyes. “Is the drain trying to talk to me? Because I’m so not in the mood for a quest. I have a 9:00 AM meeting and I’m out of oat milk.”
I hop out before the tub decides to swallow my toes and grab a towel to wrap it around myself.
I stand there for a second, my skin prickling with a weird, static-y hum that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up like they’re trying to bail out of my skin.
[REGINA]: Still nothing. I hope we aren’t having ‘technical difficulties’ again? Remember, the Synergy Spreadsheet is the backbone of the Global Nexus meeting. Don’t be the weak link in the chain!
The only technical difficulty is my apartment’s attempt to digest me. FYI, this weak link is the only thing holding this entire chain together and frankly the chain is giving rusty and corporate despair.
I reach for my electric toothbrush, trying to brush away the stench of my frustrations along with the morning breath. The second my fingers graze the power button—
{K-Zit}
“Son of a bitch!” A tiny, violet spark jumps from my thumb straight to the plastic handle. I let go of it immediately.
The brush hits the porcelain sink with a hollow clack, it starts vibrating at this frantic, high-pitched frequency—bzzzz-WRRRRR—skittering across the sink like a caffeinated cockroach.
It knocks over my ‘Calm & Centered’ lavender candle—ironic, really—before it lets out one final, pathetic pop.
A tiny, wispy trail of gray smoke curled up from the bristles. “Holy crap?” I stare at it.
I look at my hand. There was no burn, but my fingertips were still tingling with a weird, buzzy energy.
Now, I’ve developed a superpower whose only function is murdering dental appliances. Marvel will be knocking on my door any second for the ‘Slightly Inconvenient Woman’ franchise.
“It’s just a glitch,” I whisper to the dead toothbrush. “Cheap plastic. Made in a factory that hates me. It’s fine. I’ll just... use a manual one like a peasant.”
I lean over the sink, squinting at the mirror. The steam isn’t just settling. It swirls in weird, jagged patterns that look like a map of a city I don’t recognize.
“It’s just a Tuesday. Weird things happen on Tuesdays. It’s a known scientific fact. Monday is for depression, Tuesday is for localized electrical disturbances, and Wednesday is for realizing you still have three days until you can sleep for forty-eight hours.” I mutter, aggressively drying my face.
I reach for my hair dryer, then immediately pulled my hand back like the plastic was made of lava.
“Nope. Absolutely not. We’re going with the ‘damp and depressed’ look today,” I decide, clutching my towel. “If I touch that dryer, I’ll probably blow the fuse for the entire floor. I don’t have the insurance for that.”
Maybe if I put enough caffeine in my system, my body would realize it’s supposed to be a human, not a Van de Graaff generator.
I spent 15 minutes wrestling into my ‘Corporate Soldier’ uniform.
The polyester blazer smells like dry cleaning and my slacks definitely don’t spark joy, but they do spark static. Every time I move, I hear a tiny crackle.
I check myself in the mirror.
I’m a walking fire hazard in business casual. If I touch a metal filing cabinet, I’ll end up as a pile of ash in Sector 4. Regina would still ask for the spreadsheet before calling 911.
Speaking of which, my brain was already involuntarily generating the ‘Synergy Spreadsheet.’ The spreadsheet cells blink behind my eyelids. Row after row of ‘Optimized Deliverables’ and ‘Cross-Platform Integration’ fill my vision.
“Shut up, brain. We don’t do math until we’ve had bean juice.”
I perform my morning parkour move through the minefield of my studio apartment. I dodge towers of books and the ‘Chair of Infinite Purgatory,’ which exists solely for clothes that aren’t dirty enough for the wash but aren’t cute enough for a drawer.
I made a beeline for the kitchenette, a corner so tight I’m pretty sure I have to hold my breath to fit.
It’s basically a museum for heavy-duty relics I rescued from a Chelsea thrift store years ago.
The toaster is a chrome beast built to survive a nuclear winter and the espresso machine has a personality from all the buffing. I call it ‘vintage character’ but my bank account calls it ‘a cry for help.’
I shoved a frozen bagel into the toaster’s gleaming, stainless steel maw.
“Don’t give me attitude today, Steve,” I mutter, patting its side. “We both know you’re the only thing in this apartment that actually functions on a Tuesday.”
[REGINA]: Dove. I am looking at an empty desk and a very empty shared folder. Where are you?
[ME]: Hey Regina, so sorry for the delay. My apartment is literally falling apart right now and it’s a whole situation. I have the data ready and I’m finishing the formatting as soon as I sit down. Be there in a sec for the briefing.
‘I have the data ready’ is technically true because the data is currently screaming inside my skull in a font I can’t read.
I hadn’t even set the phone aside before it let out another aggressive ping.
[REGINA]: I don’t manage plumbing, I manage a department and I don’t care about your leaky sink. If that spreadsheet isn’t in my inbox by the time I finish my latte, we’re having a very long one-on-one about your commitment.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass. A tiny, violet spark danced between my skin and the charger port.
“Okay, Regina. Message received. You’re a ray of sunshine as always. “
I stare down at my espresso machine. It was sitting there on the counter, looking smug and judging my life choices.
I just needed one cup. One hit of liquid sanity to stop the world from looking like a low-budget sci-fi movie with bad lighting.
“Just coffee,” I whisper, reaching for the ‘Power’ button. “Just a normal, boring, corporate cup of—”
I pressed it.
{K-BOOM}
It didn’t just short-circuit.
The machine lets out a violent flash. A jagged burst of plum colored light looks way too expensive for a thrift store appliance. There’s a sound like a muffled firework going off in a trash can and the plastic lid of the carafe literally flies off hitting the ceiling with a clack.
“AHHH!” I scream, instinctively clamping my hands over my ears.
A thick, purple mushroom cloud billows out of the machine. It isn’t the smell of burnt coffee. It’s the smell of a lightning strike in a small, cramped apartment. Luckily, the weird smoke stays in a tight, stubborn ball over the counter, completely ignoring the smoke detector.
“ARE YOU ACTUALLY SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” I shriek, waving a damp dish towel at the lilac-colored cloud.
The machine is dead.
Not just ‘unplug it and plug it back in’ dead, but ‘melted into a sad puddle of black glass and scorched copper’ dead.
And the weirdest part? The bagel in the toaster hasn’t popped, but it is currently glowing with a faint, lavender light.
I stand there wide-eyed, ears ringing, staring at the carnage. My heart is racing, and I can feel a weird, buzzy heat radiating from my palms.
“I’m calling out,” I whisper, "I am officially calling out of reality. This is a glitch. I’ve reached the end of the simulation and the graphics are breaking.”
I look at my hands. A tiny, violet spark dances between my thumb and forefinger.
{CRACK}
I lunge for the toaster, ripping the cord from the wall with a frantic, desperate yank. Then the blender. Then the microwave.
I am a whirlwind of panicked motion, tearing every three-pronged plug from its socket until the kitchen is a graveyard of dead appliances and tangled black wires.
I don’t care if it’s illogical. I just need the hum to stop.
8:15 AM
[ 20 MISSED CALLS: REGINA ]
“Shit, shit, shit!” I scramble, snatching my keys off the counter.
Before I bolt, I give the kitchenette one last, suspicious look. The espresso machine is still a melted puddle of black glass, and the toaster sits there like a silent, lavender-tinted crime scene.
“I’ll deal with the haunted breakfast later,” I promise my empty apartment.
The metal key ring gives me a sharp nip of static that makes my arm go numb to the elbow.
I ignore it, dive out the door, and pray to the gods of internal combustion that my baby Pearl, my secondhand, slightly-dented 2016 Camry won’t decide to retire today.
Naturally, the universe laughs. Traffic is a parking lot. Every red light stays red just long enough for me to contemplate my life choices.
By the time I sprint into the lobby of Global Nexus, I am a damp, frizz-haired disaster.
I hit the elevator button.
{Zit}
The button doesn’t just light up.
It flickers a weird, bruised purple. I pull my hand back and try to look composed, tucking a stray, floating strand of hair behind my ear.
Stay calm. Do not blow up the elevator. Do not melt the office. Everything is fine.
The doors slide open.
I step in, and there she is, Stacy from HR. Always perky. Always smelling like vanilla beans and organized filing systems.
“Good morning, Dove! Rough start?” she chirps, tilting her head at my bird’s-nest hair.
“Morning, Stacy. The only thing ‘good’ about this morning is that I haven’t accidentally committed arson yet. But stay tuned, the day is young.”
She laughs like I am joking. Classic Stacy.
Then, I feel a presence. A very lingering, very annoying presence.
Mark slides into my personal bubble with a ‘smoldering’ look that just makes him look like he is suffering from a localized sinus infection.
He’s been trying to ‘optimize’ our relationship for six months, despite my very clear, very sarcastic signals that I’d rather eat a stapler without a side of water.
He leans against the elevator rail so hard I think he might snap his spine. “You look electric today, Little Dove,” he purrs. “Is that a new fragrance? It smells smoky. Very femme fatale.”
“It’s called ‘Total Internal Collapse,’ Mark,” I reply, staring a hole into the floor numbers. “It’s a limited edition. If you get any closer, you might catch the ‘highly volatile’ top notes. It’s very contagious.”
“Always playing hard to get. I love a challenge because it keeps the ROI high,” he chuckles. “Listen, I’ve got two VIP passes to that artisanal kale-and-kombucha festival this weekend. I figured a girl like you needs to decompress, unplug, and sync up with nature.”
He actually tries to wink at me, though it looks more like a twitch.
“The only way I’m ‘unplugging’ is if my molecules literally disintegrate and unless that kale is enchanted to make me invisible, I’m gonna pass.” I say, refusing to grant him the mercy of eye contact.
“Ouch. Cold as a frozen server,” he chuckles, leaning in until I can smell his overpriced peppermint gum and desperation.
He lowers his voice to a romantic rasp. “But hey, if your molecules do decide to disintegrate, Little Dove, I promise to be the one to catch every last beautiful piece of the data. I’ve got plenty of storage space in my heart.”
He doesn’t get the hint. He never does. He just leans in further, his hand reaching for the wall behind me.
{Ping!}
My phone shrieked in my pocket.
[REGINA]: DOVE. PICK. UP. THE. PHONE. I am heading into the Glass Box. If I have to walk in there empty-handed, you’d better start updating your resume. THIS IS A BASEMENT-LEVEL EFFORT. UNACCEPTABLE.
