The market was empty, caught in that dead hour between late afternoon and nightfall. Seina was stacking cans of corn on shelf 7, aligning them with a mechanical care that meant nothing.
Soon, they'd be messy again—or simply gone—replaced by a new, identical batch. Her fingers brushed the dust gathered on the rim of one can.
"What's the point?" The thought buzzed in her head. "Nothing here is real. Nothing lasts."
The doorbell jingled. Two men came in, wearing paint-stained work clothes. The taller one, wearing a cap, spoke loudly, shattering the silence.
"I'm tellin' you, Hamza! It wasn't an animal, it wasn't a shadow. It was straight, black, fast as hell! Crossed right in front of my car on Yuan Street, then disappeared into the woods. High beams on and everything, I swear!"
Seina froze, a can of corn still in her hand. Yuan Street — that was near where she'd first seen Thalya in the alley.
The other man, Hamza, chuckled skeptically, grabbing a pack of cookies.
"Rahim, stop making things up. Probably just a big stray. In the dark, when you're tired, everything turns into a monster."
"Hell no!" Rahim snapped, slapping his hand on the counter where Seina stood. "That thing had no fur. Smooth, black as tar. And the eyes—white, Hamza! Glowing. Looked like one of those monsters from Japanese horror flicks!"
Seina's heart sped up. Someone else had seen it. She wasn't imagining things. The creature was real—physical—and it was leaving traces.
Part of her wanted to jump over the counter and grab the man: "Where? When? Tell me everything!"
But she just lowered her head, pretending to rearrange the cigarette packs under the counter.
"You're watching too much YouTube, Rahim. Come on, pay so we can go. I'm tired."
Rahim grumbled but complied. He pulled out his phone, opened the payment app, and scanned the QR code taped to the counter.
Beep. The sound of a successful transaction echoed through the empty store.
"There. Fake money for fake cookies," Rahim muttered. "This world makes no damn sense."
They left behind the smell of paint and sweat—and the confirmation that Seina wasn't insane.
Moments later, a skinny boy, maybe twelve at most, walked in and wandered around the candy aisle.
Seina watched him through the reflection in the beverage fridge glass. His eyes were hungry—but not for food. It was the hunger of someone craving a little sweetness in a bitter world.
He looked down at his old, cracked phone, and frustration crossed his face. It probably didn't work—or he had no balance left.
In one quick move, the boy grabbed two chocolate bars and stuffed them into his coat pocket. His gaze met Seina's in the reflection.
He froze, waiting for the shout, the scolding. Seina held her breath.
"I should stop him. But why? They'll be back there again soon. It's just chocolate."
She looked away, pretending she hadn't seen. The boy ran out, the door slamming behind him.
A pang of guilt hit her—but also a strange sense of complicity.
In a world that reset itself every week, all rules were negotiable.
Her shift ended. Mr. Kim approached, phone in hand.
"Closed the register. I'll send you today's pay."
Seina unlocked her phone. The banking app opened, showing her balance—a number that, miraculously, persisted through the resets. Her only financial anchor in a sea of absurdity.
"I sent you a little extra," Mr. Kim said, not looking at her. "You're the only one who shows up. And you don't stare at your phone all day."
"Mr. Kim…" Seina hesitated. "Why do you even bother? Paying us, I mean. If everything disappears—if the products reset—what's the point?"
The man finally looked up. His eyes weren't bored this time. Just tired. Deeply, hopelessly tired.
"The thing is, kid… if we stop acting like things matter, the madness hits faster. I pay you because you worked. A day's work is worth a day's pay. That's all we've got. That's it."
He turned and walked into the back office, leaving Seina alone under the fluorescent lights.
She stepped outside into the night, her phone heavy in her pocket. The extra pay was there—real.
But Mr. Kim's words echoed louder.
They were all pretending. Acting out roles in a play whose script was wiped clean every week.
And the only thing that mattered now was that she wasn't the only one who had seen the monster in the play.