The alarm rang at 7:03 a.m., sharp and unrelenting, like it had been personally offended by Evan's sleep schedule. He groaned, swatted at the snooze button, and rolled over. His apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and yesterday's coffee—an aroma that had officially become the city's unofficial welcome scent.
Evan swung his legs off the bed, revealing mismatched socks, one of which had a suspicious hole near the toe. He shrugged. Nobody cared. He had deliveries to make.
By 7:27, Evan was fully suited up: backpack snug, cart loaded with three packages of dubious weight, and a coffee lukewarm enough to question reality itself. The first delivery was labeled Rooftop 14B, Zip 10902, and he already felt the familiar flutter of dread. Rooftops were never just rooftops in this city. Rooftops had explosions, laser beams, or occasional flaming debris. Sometimes all three.
> Well, at least it's not raining… yet, he muttered to himself.
He stepped outside. The alley smelled like ozone and gasoline, a combination that made him consider wearing a gas mask for the rest of the week. A loud clang made him freeze. Sparks danced in the early morning light, and Evan instinctively ducked behind his cart, which had done its best to wobble to the side in solidarity.
A hero, glowing faintly like a neon action figure, collided mid-air with a villain dressed in black armor. The impact sent a shower of sparks over a dumpster, and a nearby crate tipped over dangerously.
Evan squinted. "Ah… Monday," he said aloud, as if announcing it could make it stop.
He checked the package. Nothing fragile except, perhaps, the timeline. He tightened his grip and stepped forward. The fight seemed choreographed for someone else—but apparently not him.
A beam of energy whipped past his shoulder. He didn't even flinch. "I've seen stranger delivery days," he muttered. He sidestepped a rogue explosion, grabbed a fallen crate, and rolled it to a safer spot. Nobody thanked him. Nobody noticed. That was fine. He wasn't here to be noticed.
The villain looked at him, eyes narrowing beneath the black mask. "Who… are you?"
"Evan. QuickDrop," he replied, holding up the package like a peace offering. "Just… dropping this off. Coffee? Snacks? No? Great. Have a nice day."
The villain paused, clearly annoyed by his irrelevance, then returned to whatever world-ending speech had been interrupted. Evan nodded politely and moved on.
Somewhere, a hero yelled, "The building's collapsing!"
Evan glanced back. The building hadn't budged. He shrugged, adjusted his backpack, and kept walking. Coffee sloshed slightly.
As he stepped over a flickering streetlamp, a strange barcode caught his eye: #000071. It was stamped on the package, worn and almost glowing in the early light. He stared at it for a moment, puzzled. Then, shrugging, he muttered:
> "I'm just here to drop something off."
And somehow, despite the explosions, the chaos, the city, and the supposed fate of everyone else, that was enough.
Somewhere far above, unseen and unacknowledged, the first ripple had been made.