James's Tuesday began like most of his days with the sound of a dying alarm clock being silenced by the strength of his groggy fist.
He groaned, face buried in a pillow that had long since given up its fluff, and blinked at the ceiling as if it owed him something.
Another day of mediocrity, overpriced coffee, and wondering if Aristotle would've survived modern student debt.
He hated going to university because he has to face those professor yapping shit half the time or boasting about their research paper.
Classes went by fast in a mix of half-listened lectures, group chats that did everything except talk about the project, and a vending machine lunch that probably violated several food safety laws.
By 5 p.m., he was finally done not just with school, but with life, capitalism, and the cold fries he was convinced were fried in sadness.
He boarded the bus home like a war veteran returning from academic battle.
Shoulders slumped.
Headphones in.
Spotify on.
Emo playlist?
Absolutely.
Ugh don't judge anyone based on their playlist.
His apartment was forty minutes out, in the kind of neighborhood people called "up-and-coming" even though it had clearly arrived, got bored, and left a decade ago.
But for tonight, he wasn't headed there.
Tonight, he was taking a detour back home.
A full house.
Two parents.
One couch that had seen every stage of his academic breakdowns.
He hadn't visited in weeks.
Guilt plus homesickness made for a powerful combo.
One which you cannot avoid and always hit you with a critical.
"Jimmy!" his mom beamed as he stepped through the door, arms outstretched like a champion had returned from war.
Her name was Carla Rivera, a short but mighty Puerto Rican woman who believed in three things coupons, homemade chili, and scaring the devil out of anxiety with sarcasm.
She wrapped him in a hug that somehow compressed his spine and soothed his soul.
"Hey, Ma," he muttered, hugging her back and trying not to inhale whatever mix of candle wax and beans she was currently cooking.
From the kitchen, a gruff voice called out, "Took you long enough, college boy. You figure out how to turn that fancy degree into a paycheck yet?"
That was Ron Rivera, his dad.
Forklift operator by day.
Armchair political analyst by night.
Big arms, bigger heart, and the kind of mustache that suggested he once tried to be in a biker gang but settled for fixing the neighbors' lawnmowers.
Dinner was already on the stove Carla's famous chili, rice, sweet plantains, and just enough sass to season the air.
"Your mom says you switched majors again," Ron said as they sat at the dinner table, raising a brow.
"I did not switch again. It's still Humanities," James defended, shoveling chili into his mouth. "I just… added a focus."
"Focus on what? How to overthink in three languages?" Ron snorted.
Carla swatted her husband's arm. "Let the boy eat in peace. You overthink too, just with Fox News on mute."
That launched the usual family discussion politics.
James wasn't sure how it started, but soon they were bouncing between inflation, aliens, social media conspiracies, and whether or not aliens were causing inflation via TikTok.
Ron was convinced the country was being run by lizard people with MBA degrees.
Something that he saw in some B grade movie.
Carla argued that if aliens were running things, at least someone would finally fix student loans.
James, as usual, sipped his water and stayed silent.
Not because he didn't have opinions, but because this brand of chaos was oddly comforting.
Later, with full stomachs and a sugar crash creeping in from the flan Carla insisted on serving, James retired to his old room.
It was still the same.
Same posters.
Same battered desk.
Same stack of books that hadn't moved since high school.
He plopped onto the bed and sighed.
The springs squeaked like they were greeting an old friend.
His laptop blinked to life.
The first tab?
A novel.
Of course.
Tonight's binge.
"Reincarnated: Vive la France."
A ridiculous, over-the-top series about a dude who wakes up in 1935 France with knowledge of every war tactic ever written and a magical baguette that granted advice.
Exactly his type of escapism.
Hours slipped by like sand through fingers.
James read chapter after chapter, occasionally laughing at a dumb plot twist or side-eyeing a love triangle between a general, a duchess, and a sentient cannon.(This is not going to happen in orginal plot.)
Outside, the world was quiet.
Inside, he felt… okay.
Just for a bit.
Then came the sound.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't even particularly scary.
It was like the world cleared its throat.
A digital pop, followed by a faint vibration in his skull, like someone whispering through Bluetooth directly into his brain.
He froze.
"What the hell was that?"
He looked around.
No glitch on the screen.
No lights flickering.
No spooky ghost girls crawling out of wells.
Then
everything went black.
No warning.
No scream.
No pain.
Just gone.
James collapsed onto the keyboard.
His last coherent thought?
"If I die before finishing this arc, I swear to God..."
When he opened his eyes, sunlight was streaming through the blinds.
His head throbbed like he'd taken a midterm with no coffee and max anxiety.
He sat up, groaning, and blinked blearily at the wall.
Then he saw it.
A glowing blue rectangle, hovering silently in the air like some futuristic notification from the gods.
[Welcome, User: James Rivera]
Knowledge Hour Conversion System Activated
Syncing data…
Total Recorded Reading Time: 12,487 hours
System Name: KHCS
Version: 1.0
Primary Interface Calibrated
Status: ONLINE
James stared at it.
He rubbed his eyes.
Still there.
He reached out.
It didn't move.
He waved his hand through it.
No effect.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It wasn't a dream.
Somewhere deep inside his head, a calm voice neutral, robotic, but just slightly smug spoke.
"Welcome, James Rivera. The Knowledge Hour Conversion System is now active."
James blinked.
Then grinned.
Then whispered, like a kid who'd just found the cheat codes in a video game.
"It's my time, baby."