The door creaked open with a sound like wet cardboard tearing.
The house, if one could even justify its title in calling it that. was a box. Four decaying walls wrapped around a twin mattress, a fridge smaller than my cabinets, and a bathroom whose door struck the toilet every time it opened.
Charming..
Looking down at my phone I saw the only a few entries, mostly junk: reminders to "buy more paper towels," one half-finished list of anime quotes, and then, finally, the one I had found earlier.
reminder:Address: 1182 Weston Ave.Rent paid through April.
The scent of mildew hung heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat. A broken ceiling fan rotated above me with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.
I stepped over an overturned pizza box, its grease staining the cheap laminate flooring, and dropped onto the mattress. The springs groaned under me, protesting their own existence.
For a moment, I stared at the peeling paint, letting it wash over me.
I tossed the phone beside me with a sigh, letting the silence of the room settle in. The fridge buzzed weakly behind a doorless kitchenette. I ran a hand down my face and tried not to think about how this was all so… familiar.
When I was younger, I lived in a place just like this. Only the mildew had personality back then. I worked my way out of it once. I could do it again.
But it's disgusting. Being back in this rot.
I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling, the paint peeling like sunburned skin. I didn't come here to rot. If the universe had given me another chance, even if it was as some pencil-necked loser in a cartoon world, I'd take it. I'd own it.
Total Drama.
The thought sparked like static in my skull. It had been lurking ever since I realized where I was. Cartoonish reality TV, teenage degeneracy, and absolutely exploitable production loopholes. I reached for the phone again, instantly navigating to Google.
"Total Drama Island."
Bingo.
A registration link was the first thing to pop up. I clicked, and up a google form appeared. Full name, age, photo, contact information. Agree to terms and conditions. Submit a 1–2-minute video describing why you should be chosen.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, Simple. But something impossible for my current self.
At the bottom, a deadline: May 15.
Today was March 30.
I had 46 days to turn this nobody into somebody.
My thumb swiped up, switching tabs to the banking app. The number glared at me.
$2,047.12.
I scoffed. Loudly. "How are you poor, and ugly, bastard. Pick a struggle"
This body, this life, whoever he had been, was built on failure. Weak jawline. Eyes that couldn't decide between sad and stupid. The savings of someone who worked retail and cried in between shifts. There wasn't even a closet in this shoebox. Just a single metal bar sagging in the corner with three thrift store shirts on wire hangers.
Still, I could work with this. I've rebuilt from worse.
Self improvement wasn't a hobby. It was a war strategy. And I always win.
All of it, every dollar, was going to be spent on the only thing that mattered now: me.
Skin care. Gym. Haircuts. Nutrition. Clothes that didn't smell like desperation. Image was everything. The audition tape had to sell a version of me so irresistible they'd cast me on sight.
Of course, I'd need more than $2,000. That kind of transformation needed breathing room. I checked the date again. March 30. Enough time to do this properly—if I didn't waste a second.
A loan would have to do. Nothing big, just enough to cover April and early May. Just enough to buy me six weeks of ruthless, undivided focus.
I set the phone down and stood, my fingers twitching with momentum. My muscles ached in all the wrong places. I could feel how little this body had been cared for. But that was over now.
I left the apartment and descended the staircase, each step coated in a film of grime that hadn't been scrubbed off in a decade. Rust-colored stains trailed the railing like ancient blood.
Outside, the world was nauseatingly dull.
Low-income apartments stacked like cardboard boxes. Cracked sidewalks. Children yelling a few blocks away. The sky overcast, not ominous—just tired.
After taking my fill of the surrounding I paused briefly .
Then I unbuttoned my cheap office shirt, yanked it off, and stuffed it into my pants waistband. Let people see. Let them stare.
They needed to see the start of something grand.
The jog began awkwardly. My lungs burned after two blocks. My knees complained. But I pushed through. This body wasn't built for ambition. Not yet. But it would learn today.
Two miles. That's all I could force. Pathetic.
I wiped sweat off my brow and tugged my damp shirt back on. It stuck to my skin like shame.
The gym was five minutes away. A squat brick building tucked between a liquor store and a smoke shop. A sign above it read "AnyFit" in fading letters. The kind of place people gave up in.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming louder than the music. It smelled of concentrations of bleach and desperation. The receptionist looked up as I entered. She was young, maybe college-aged. Her smile faltered as she took me in, a sweaty, shirt clinging around my boney frame, dark circles under my covered eyes. Pity.
She tried to hide it, but I caught it.
And you know what?
She was right.
I looked like a cautionary tale.
I smiled at her, wide and charming, even as my lungs screamed. "Looking to get a membership."
Her voice was practiced, but I noticed the softness now. A kind of cautious encouragement. She probably thought I was here to turn my life around. Good. Let her think that. Let them all think I'm some underdog story.
They'll never see it coming.
I signed up, scanned the keycard, thanked her, and turned away before I said anything else. There was no need to show up without exercising, so that's exactly what I'll do.
In the changing room mirror, I studied myself.
Unimpressive. But not hopeless.
Sharp cheekbones buried under bad diet. A decent abdominal frame hidden beneath fat and inactivity. Nothing a month of torment couldn't fix.
And the eyes…
The eyes were new. A glint of purpose behind them. Hunger.
This wouldn't be a comeback, but was my return.
I turned from the mirror and walked out without looking back.
Final thought as I hit the pavement again: Next, a haircut.
I'd need to see what kind of face I was really working with under this mop. Then I could start becoming someone worthy of being remembered.
Not only as much as in my previous life but the entire world.
——
Shoukd be releasing every monday keep a lookout!