Evan hated shortcuts.
Not because they were dangerous—that was just a bonus—but because they never went where they were supposed to. Lena had insisted this alley would save him at least five minutes. Five minutes? In this city, five minutes could mean a villain accidentally burning down a street or a hero misfiring a laser cannon. Evan was fairly certain he'd survive, but his cart? That was another question.
The alley smelled like wet asphalt, fried electronics, and something vaguely metallic that reminded him of his first job: pizza delivery in a neighborhood that inexplicably had weekly mini-explosions. Nostalgia was a strange thing.
He pushed his cart forward, eyes scanning. Everything seemed normal. Too normal. That's when the first flicker of movement caught his eye. A man in red, glowing faintly like a misfired neon sign, vaulted into the alley. Behind him, a figure in dark armor smashed a trash can with a kick. Sparks flew.
"Ah," Evan muttered, "shortcut confirmed."
He dodged a flying trash can, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and glanced down at his package. Label: Rooftop 22C. Zip 11003. It was surprisingly light. Nothing fragile, nothing explosive. He hoped.
Somewhere behind him, a hero yelled something about destiny. Evan didn't listen. He had a delivery to make.
A small orb rolled into his path—glowing faintly. Evan picked it up with the care of someone handling wet spaghetti. "Do not open," it read. He nodded solemnly. I don't open anything, he reminded himself. With careful precision, he set it back on the curb. It wobbled slightly, then landed perfectly upright.
He stepped around the hero, who was currently arguing mid-air with the villain, flaming guitar in hand. The guitar missed him, of course, but Evan made a mental note to charge extra for hazard pay if someone ever asked.
The minor interference happened automatically. One step, one misjudged foot placement, one casual tilt of his cart caused the hero's trajectory to shift just enough. A villain's plan—a meticulously timed rooftop escape—was slightly delayed. Small enough that nobody noticed. Large enough that, somewhere down the line, something important would change. Evan did not notice. That was fine.
As he rounded a corner, a child dropped a toy into the street—directly into the path of the next hero-villain collision. Evan paused, squatted, and picked up the toy. Placed it safely on the curb. The child cheered. The heroes shouted. The villain cursed. Evan adjusted his backpack, brushed dust off his pants, and kept walking.
Coffee sloshed slightly. He didn't spill a drop.
"Shortcut," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "what a scam."
And somehow, just by walking through the chaos, delivering a package, and politely handling other people's problems, he had changed the world slightly.
"I'm just here to drop something off," Evan said quietly.And that, as always, was enough.