There's a certain kind of tired that sinks into your bones.
Not the "worked-a-double-shift" tired.
Not even the "binge-watched-15-seasons-of-a-crime-show" tired.
I'm talking about the kind of exhaustion that happens after you realize reality might just be a very elaborate prank at your expense.
That's where I was.
Lying on the floor.
Staring at a pulsing mirror shard that didn't want to be put down.
Listening to the faint sound of... breathing.
Except it wasn't mine.
And it wasn't coming from outside.
It was coming from the mirror.
I did the only logical thing a grown man in my situation could do.
I threw a towel over it.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
(Yeah. Sure. Like that ever actually works.)
Phone buzzed again.
Another notification:
DropDead Express: New Shift Incoming
Estimated Start: 4 Hours
Recommended Reading: Terms and Conditions Update!
Oh, great.
Nothing like a nice, casual 3AM legal document to soothe the nerves.
Still, ignoring them felt like a bad idea.
I mean, ignoring basic traffic rules already got me chased by a bus once.
Ignoring supernatural job rules?
Probably worse.
So I sat up, cracked my neck, and opened the Terms.
DROPDEAD EXPRESS – TERMS & CONDITIONS
(User: Ray. ID# 0007136)
Section 1: Employment Status
You are not an employee.
You are not a contractor.
You are a participant.
(Participation is compulsory. Compensation is non-negotiable.)
Section 2: Package Protocols
DO NOT inspect, shake, open, or smell packages.
DO NOT allow packages to speak to you.
In the event of package leakage, DO NOT attempt to clean. (Evacuate area immediately.)
Section 3: Delivery Conduct
Follow all GPS instructions without deviation.
Do not exit your vehicle between designated points unless explicitly instructed.
If an alternate version of yourself offers assistance, decline politely but firmly.
Section 4: Safety Guidelines
Mirrors are NOT your friend.
Doors can be persuasive. Ignore them.
If you hear your name whispered, ignore it. (It is not really your name.)
Section 5: Watcher Acknowledgment
Congratulations on attracting a Watcher!
Watchers may offer "gifts." Acceptance is mandatory.
Eye contact with Watchers is discouraged but not fatal. (Probably.)
Section 6: Termination Policy
Voluntary resignation not supported.
Retirement options:
Ascension (pending eligibility)
Dissolution (default)
Section 7: Final Clause
You asked for this.
(Whether you remember it or not.)
I stared at the screen.
Mouth dry.
Brain melting.
"You asked for this."
I sure as hell didn't remember asking for anything besides extra pickles on a burger last Tuesday.
But then...
A flash.
A memory.
Fuzzy, like an old VHS tape.
About two weeks ago.
Late night.
Raining like someone punched a hole in the sky.
I was broke.
Hungry.
Pissed off at life.
Scrolling through job apps on my cracked phone screen when I saw it:
💀 DROPDEAD EXPRESS: NEED EXTRA CASH? FAST APPROVAL! 💀
The ad had no reviews.
No salary listed.
Just a flashing button that said ACCEPT.
And me, being the dumb, desperate idiot that I am, clicked it without even thinking.
I remember...
The way my phone screen flickered afterward.
The weird way the rain outside stopped midair, like time itself glitched.
I remember laughing it off.
Thinking it was just bad reception.
Thinking it was nothing.
Oh my God.
I really did ask for this.
I practically begged for it.
"No refunds, no take-backs," I muttered to myself, rocking slightly. "You absolute clown."
The mirror shard under the towel pulsed again.
Almost sympathetically.
As if it was saying, "There, there, buddy. You're screwed, but at least you're our screwed."
Somewhere outside, a clock struck 4AM.
And my phone buzzed again.
Shift Start: 5 Minutes.
No rest for the wicked.
Or for the incredibly stupid.
I hauled myself up, threw on my jacket, and headed out the door.
Helmet secured.
Mirror shard (unfortunately) still tucked into my jacket pocket.
The moped purred, not angrily, but impatiently when I climbed on.
The GPS app opened itself automatically.
New destination.
New vortex.
New nightmare.
But this time, something else blinked onto the screen too:
⚠️ ALERT: HIGH-RISK DROP ZONE ⚠️
"Recommend reviewing Local Anomalies before proceeding."
I tapped for details.
Wish I hadn't.
Local Anomalies: Active Tonight
Mirror Folk
Appearance: Identical to the user.
Behavior: Mimics movements with a delay. If synchronization achieved, host may be replaced.
Laughing Doors
Appearance: Regular doors (ex: closets, vehicles, bathrooms).
Behavior: Giggle audibly to lure targets. Should NOT be opened under any circumstances.
The Silent Passenger
Appearance: Shadowy figure seated behind the user during transit.
Behavior: Harmless if ignored. Acknowledgment results in physical manifestation.
Watcher 29
Status: Observing.
Behavior: Unknown. Gifts pending.
I slammed the phone face-down onto the moped's dashboard.
"Nope," I said.
Out loud.
To no one.
"I am NOT dealing with creepy shadow hitchhikers tonight, thank you very much."
The moped, traitorous bastard that it was, revved eagerly.
Like it couldn't wait to throw me back into the meat grinder.
The city was worse tonight.
Twisted.
Streetlights pulsed like slow heartbeats.
Windows stared blankly down at me.
Cars sat abandoned in intersections, engines idling but no drivers inside.
At one point, a woman in a red raincoat waved at me from a bus stop.
I did not wave back.
I don't care if she was cold.
I don't care if she was lost.
I don't care if she was giving out free WiFi.
RULE NUMBER ONE: DO. NOT. STOP.
And anyway, she didn't have a face.
The GPS beeped.
Destination approaching.
Another dead-end alley.
Another nowhere place.
Except this time, something was already waiting there.
A door.
Standing upright.
No frame.
No walls.
Just a single, plain wooden door in the middle of the alley.
Paint peeling.
Rusty doorknob.
And...
It was giggling.
Soft and high-pitched, like a child trying to stifle a laugh in class.
I skidded to a stop about ten feet away.
Heart hammering so hard, I thought it might punch a hole through my chest.
Phone buzzed.
Package Transfer Instructions:
Approach. Knock twice. Leave package at threshold. DO NOT open.
Simple.
Deceptively simple.
The kind of simple that gets you eaten alive in horror movies.
I grabbed the second black-wrapped bundle from the delivery box.
This one was bigger.
Longer.
(Probably a baguette. Or a human femur. One of those.)
I approached.
One step.
Another.
The door trembled slightly, as if barely containing whatever giggled inside.
Two sharp knocks.
A pause.
The giggling stopped immediately.
I set the bundle down.
Backed away.
Slow.
Slow.
Just as I turned to bolt.
The doorknob twisted violently.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
I didn't wait to find out what came next.
I was already sprinting for the moped like my life depended on it.
(Which, reminder, it absolutely did.)
I didn't stop until I was blocks away.
Breathing hard.
Vision swimming.
Phone buzzed again.
Delivery Complete!
🎉 You earned: $2,000 + Bonus Item: "Laughless Key."
🎁 Package Status: Claimed by [Entity Redacted].
Another gift.
Another cursed souvenir.
Great.
Just what I needed to decorate my already-ruined life.
At home, I dumped the new "bonus" onto my kitchen counter.
It was a key.
Simple.
Silver.
Cold.
And engraved with a single word:
LAUGHLESS.
No idea what that meant.
Probably nothing good.
Probably something that would bite me in the ass later.
Because that's how my life worked now.
I sagged into my only chair and let out a shuddery breath.
Phone buzzed one last time before dying completely:
"You're doing well, Ray. Keep surviving. More drops await."
Awesome.
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
Exactly the kind of corporate encouragement you want after a shift delivering haunted baguettes and dodging carnivorous doors.
I stared at the dark screen.
Then at the mirror shard still glowing faintly under the towel.
Then at the Laughless Key sitting innocently on the counter.
And very quietly, I asked the universe:
"Can I quit?"
Somewhere, very faintly, I swear I heard laughter.