The fluorescent lights hummed their usual migraine frequency. Cain leaned against the counter, one hand propping up his chin, the other scrolling through his phone beneath the register where the security camera couldn't see. 2:47 AM on a Tuesday. The graveyard shift at Murphy's Gas & Go, where time moved like cold honey and his life circled the drain in slow motion.
Outside, rain hammered the pavement. Oregon in November—perpetually wet, perpetually grey, perpetually exactly what you'd expect. The weather matched his mood, which was to say: existing, barely.
His phone displayed a Reddit thread about occult symbolism in Elden Ring. He'd already read it twice. He refreshed anyway. The alternative was staring at the wall-mounted TV playing some home renovation show on mute, watching people with actual lives improve houses they actually owned.
Pathetic.
The thought arrived in his mother's voice. It usually did.
He was twenty-four years old, made eleven-fifty an hour, and his most meaningful relationship was with a body pillow he'd hidden in his closet before his last apartment inspection. The pillow had cat ears. He'd named it Mercy, which was either ironic or just sad. Probably sad.
The door chimed.
Cain's eyes flicked up from his phone. A guy in a rain-soaked hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. Mid-thirties maybe. Tweaker-thin. The kind of customer who'd either buy cigarettes or steal energy drinks.
"Evening," Cain said, because that's what you said. Polite. Harmless. Please don't perceive me as a threat.
The guy didn't respond. Headed straight for the beer cooler in back.
Cain returned to his phone. Another post, this one analyzing the moral implications of player choice in Dark Souls. He'd written a comment once about how the game's morality was bullshit—you were always just choosing which flavor of futility you preferred. Someone had called him an edgelord. They weren't wrong.
The door chimed again.
Two more guys. Same energy—wet hoodies, twitchy movements, eyes that didn't quite land on anything. They split up immediately. One toward the snack aisle, one toward the counter.
Cain's stomach dropped.
Oh.
Oh, this is happening.
The guy approaching the counter pulled his hand from his pocket. Gun. Small, black, probably a nine-millimeter. Cain had watched enough true crime to recognize the model. He'd also watched enough true crime to know that gas station robberies went wrong constantly, stupidly, for reasons that made no sense.
"Register," the guy said. His voice shook. Meth, probably. Or heroin. Something that made your hands unsteady and your judgment worse.
Cain's hands went up automatically. Muscle memory from the active shooter training video they'd made him watch during onboarding. "Okay. Yeah. No problem."
His voice came out steady. Weird. He didn't feel steady. He felt like he was watching this happen to someone else, some other version of Cain Omen who'd made different choices and ended up in the exact same place anyway.
This is how I die.
The thought arrived with strange clarity. Not panic. Just recognition. Of course this was how it ended. Of course his last moments would be under fluorescent lights that made everyone look like corpses, handing over two hundred dollars in small bills to a guy who probably wouldn't even make it to the state line.
He opened the register. The drawer popped with its usual cheerful ding.
"Hurry up," the guy said.
"I'm hurrying." Cain grabbed the bills—twenties, tens, fives. His hands didn't shake. That was interesting. He'd always assumed he'd be terrified when death came. Instead he just felt tired. Finally.
Behind him, glass shattered. One of the other guys had knocked over a display of motor oil. Swearing. Scrambling.
The gun moved. Just a twitch. The guy's finger was on the trigger. Safety's off, Cain thought distantly. That's bad.
"It's cool," Cain said. "They're just—"
The gun went off.
No dramatic slow-motion. No life flashing before his eyes. Just a sound like the world cracking open and then impact, a sledgehammer to his chest that knocked him backward into the cigarette display. He hit the floor hard. Menthols rained down around him.
Huh.
He couldn't breathe. His chest felt hot and wet and wrong. The ceiling tiles had water stains shaped like continents. He'd never noticed that before. Four years working here and he'd never looked up.
Shouting. Running. The door chime, once, twice, three times. Then silence except for the TV—some woman explaining the benefits of open-concept floor plans.
Cain tried to move. Couldn't. His body had stopped taking requests. Blood pooled beneath him, warm against his back, spreading toward the candy aisle. He'd have to clean that up. Except he wouldn't. Someone else would. Someone who'd complain about it, probably. Make jokes. Can you believe some guy died here? Right between the Snickers and the scratch-offs.
His phone was still in his hand. Screen cracked now. The Reddit thread still open.
At least I'll die doing what I loved, he thought. Wasting time.
His mother would get the call. She'd cry, probably. Tell people he was troubled. I tried with him, I really did. She'd mean it, too. That was the worst part. She'd genuinely believe she'd done her best.
No one else would come to the funeral. Maybe his manager. Maybe.
The lights hummed. The rain hammered. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, then a pinpoint, then—
Darkness.
Complete.
Absolute.