The air in the apartment changed.
It was subtle at first, a pressure shift that made his ears pop, followed by a faint vibration beneath his feet. The lights flickered once, then twice, and the air conditioner sputtered before falling silent.
"What is happening now," Ethan asked, his voice sharper than before.
[Transition imminent.]
"Transition to where," he demanded.
The interface did not answer.
The floor seemed to tilt, and Ethan staggered, bracing himself against the edge of the table. The world blurred, not fading this time, but bending, as if reality itself were being folded inward. His vision tunneled, and for a split second he thought he might pass out again.
Then everything snapped back into focus.
Ethan sucked in a breath and froze.
He was no longer in his apartment.
The space around him was wide and open, the ceiling high and curved, supported by thick steel beams. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh white glow over rows of industrial equipment and parked vehicles. The smell of oil and metal was strong, and the faint echo of machinery hummed somewhere in the distance.
He stood in the middle of a loading bay.
"What the hell," Ethan said again, his voice sounding small in the cavernous space.
Ahead of him was a massive semi-truck, its trailer hitched and sealed, the words DRIED GOODS stamped along its side in faded red paint. The engine was off, but the vehicle looked ready to roll, as if it had been waiting for him.
The interface reappeared in front of his eyes, steady and unbothered by his reaction.
[Assigned vehicle located.]
Ethan turned slowly, scanning the bay. There were no other people in sight, no forklifts moving, no signs of recent activity. It felt abandoned, yet not neglected, as though everything had been prepared and then deliberately left alone.
"This cannot be real," he said, more to himself than to the system. "I was just in my apartment two seconds ago."
[Spatial relocation completed.]
"Completed," Ethan repeated. "You make it sound routine."
[For the system, it is routine.]
That answer sent a chill through him.
Ethan approached the truck cautiously, his footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. Up close, the vehicle looked even more imposing, its tires taller than his chest and its metal frame scarred with use. He reached out and placed a hand against the side of the cab.
It was solid. Cold.
He pulled his hand back and flexed his fingers, grounding himself in the sensation. "So you brought me here, you gave me a job, and you are starting it in less than a minute," he said. "At least tell me why."
The interface paused, its glow dimming slightly before new text appeared.
[Reason for selection: compatibility.]
"Compatibility with what," Ethan asked.
[Weekly Occupational Job System parameters.]
"That explains nothing," he said flatly.
[Further information will be provided as required.]
Ethan clenched his jaw. He was getting tired of that answer.
He glanced at his phone again out of habit, even though he already knew what it would say.
12:00 AM.
The moment the numbers changed, a deep mechanical rumble rolled through the loading bay. The truck's headlights flickered on, and the engine roared to life without anyone touching it. The sound reverberated through Ethan's chest, making his heart race.
Ding!
[Job started.]
Ethan took a step back instinctively. "I did not even get inside yet."
The driver's side door of the truck unlocked with a loud click, then swung open on its own.
[Enter the vehicle.]
Ethan stared at the open door, then at the interface. "You are not giving me much room to negotiate here."
[Negotiation phase has ended.]
He laughed once, short and humorless. "Figures."
There was no turning back now, not when he had already agreed and not when whatever force controlled the system had demonstrated that it could move him across the country in an instant. Ethan squared his shoulders and climbed up into the cab.
The interior was surprisingly clean. The seat adjusted itself as soon as he sat down, shifting until it fit him perfectly. The steering wheel tilted slightly, and the mirrors adjusted without input, aligning themselves to his line of sight.
"That is convenient," Ethan muttered.
[Vehicle calibration complete.]
He placed his hands on the wheel, and for a brief moment panic flared again when he realized how natural it felt. He had driven before, of course, but never something like this. Yet his body responded as if it remembered motions he had never learned.
The dashboard lit up fully, revealing a GPS screen at the center.
A route appeared, stretching across the dark map like a thin, glowing vein. The destination blinked at the far end.
Ravens Hollow, Nevada.
No estimated time of arrival was shown.
"That is comforting," Ethan said dryly.
The truck lurched forward smoothly as the bay doors ahead of him began to rise. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of sand and dry earth. Beyond the doors, a long stretch of highway disappeared into darkness.
As the truck rolled out onto the road, the interface displayed another message.
[Rules will now be issued.]
Ethan's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "I was wondering when that part would start."
Ding!
[Rule No. 1, keep your high beams on even if the darkness feels wrong.
Rule No. 2, within the first 10 miles, you may see a dead end sign. Ignore it and keep driving. If your lights start to flicker, speed up.
Rule No. 3, you may see an old man hitchhiking. If he says to the nearest town, let him in. Any other answer, floor it. Don't look back.
Rule No. 4, if you hear banging or growling from the trailer, don't react. Just keep your speed steady.
Rule No. 5, by the 35th mile, your radio may suddenly switch to static. Stop the truck, lie down, close your eyes. Do not move, even if the door opens.
Rule No. 6, by the 50th mile, something may run beside your truck on all four. Do not look. Keep your eyes on the road. There's a dangerous curve ahead.
Rule No. 7, at 3 A.M, your phone will ring. Don't answer. Don't open any messages.
Rule No. 8, at the 131st mile, a woman will wave for help. Don't stop, don't look. If she vanishes from the mirror, never glance at the passenger seat. Make it past mile 140 and you'll live to deliver the cargo. Good luck, truck driver!]
Ethan frowned. "Why is there so many rules?"
[Clarification unnecessary.]
"Of course it is," he said under his breath.
The truck accelerated, merging onto the empty road with ease. There were no other vehicles in sight, no streetlights, no signs of civilization beyond the faint glow of the loading bay shrinking behind him.
The darkness ahead felt thick, almost tangible, as if the night itself were watching.
Ethan swallowed. "You said survival depends on following the rules," he said. "Does that mean breaking them leads to death."
The interface did not respond immediately.
Then, slowly, text appeared.
[Probability of fatal outcome increases significantly upon rule violation.]
"That is a yes," Ethan concluded.
The interface remained suspended in the air, its pale blue light washing over the walls of the apartment and draining the shadows of what little warmth they had left.
Ethan stood in the middle of the room, his fists clenched at his sides, breathing slowly as he tried to steady himself. "If this is preparation time, then you should explain what exactly I am supposed to prepare for," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm even though his pulse was hammering in his ears.
There was no immediate response.
The seconds ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. The hum of the air conditioner continued, the sound oddly grounding, as if the world was insisting that nothing unusual was happening at all. Ethan glanced around, half expecting his apartment to dissolve or for something else to appear without warning.
Then the interface shifted.
New text formed beneath the previous message, its edges sharp and precise.
[Preparation includes mental readiness, acceptance of assigned duties, and confirmation of participation.]
"Acceptance," Ethan repeated. "You dropped this on me without warning, and now you want acceptance."
The interface pulsed faintly, but it did not retract the statement.
Ethan let out a short laugh, hollow and tired. "Do I even have a choice," he asked.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then another line appeared.
[Declining an assigned job will result in termination of system access.]
"Termination of access to what," Ethan asked, his jaw tightening. "You cannot seriously expect me to agree to something like this without knowing the consequences."
[System access is tied to survival opportunities.]
The words were simple, but their meaning landed with uncomfortable weight.
Ethan stared at them, his thoughts racing. Survival opportunities implied the opposite as well, and he did not like how easily his mind filled in that blank. He thought of the landlady's threat, of the eviction notice that was only days away, of the fifty dollars in his wallet that would not last him through the week.
He also thought about how calm the system sounded, as if it were stating an objective fact rather than coercing him into something he did not understand.
"So if I refuse," Ethan said slowly, "then whatever this is disappears, and I go back to scraping by until I end up on the street."
The interface flickered once.
[System access revoked equals return to baseline life state.]
Baseline life state.
Ethan exhaled through his nose. "That is one way to put it."
He looked at the time again.
11:59 PM.
One minute left.
His options were narrowing rapidly, and whether he liked it or not, the system had chosen its timing perfectly. Ethan felt a flare of anger at that realization, but it was quickly smothered by the familiar weight of exhaustion. He had been fighting circumstances for so long that this felt like just another impossible demand stacked on top of the rest.
"All right," he said quietly. "I will accept, but I want it on record that this is under protest and extreme lack of information."
[Acceptance recorded.]
The words appeared instantly, as if the system had been waiting for him to say them.