The hum of the refrigerator aisle had a way of crawling into Elijah's skull, laying eggs, and hatching a full family of headaches by hour three. By hour seven, the sound was just part of the atmosphere, like the buzz of fluorescent lights or the faint smell of expired milk no one could find.
He stood behind the register, slouched halfway into the barcode scanner like it might put him out of his misery. His shirt was beige and one size too big and had a faded name tag that used to say "Elijah" but now just read "Eli" thanks to a tear and some worn-off ink.
It was 2:14 a.m. on a Wednesday. Nobody decent came in at this hour. Just the usual parade of addicts, night owls, and people who looked the way Elijah felt. The store was a neon-lit limbo, where time moved but nothing changed.
A bell chimed.
"Oh god," Elijah muttered before plastering on the fakest smile he could manage. A man waddled up to the counter with three bags of hot chips and a six-pack of warm beer, already yelling into his phone.
"—I said, I don't care what she said, you go back and you tell her I ain't payin' for that fuc—"
He dropped the items on the counter without so much as looking at Elijah.
"Is that all for you?" Elijah asked, his voice scraping over vocal cords that hadn't seen joy in weeks.
The man didn't answer. Still on the phone, still yelling. Elijah scanned the chips. Beep. Beep. Beep. The man reached for one of them mid-scan.
"Sir," Elijah said, keeping his tone flat, "please wait until I've—"
"Mind your own fuckin' business," the man snapped without even glancing his way.
Elijah blinked. Just stood there, hand hovering over the last item, caught between apathy and the deep, vibrating urge to throw the scanner at this man's forehead.
Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose and counted to three.
"Seventeen twenty-eight," he said.
The man dug around in his pants like the cash was hiding from him. Crumpled bills slapped onto the counter. Elijah took them without counting. Gave back change. The man left. No thank you. Not even a glance.
The bell chimed again. Silence returned.
Elijah stared at the door for a long time after it closed. He hadn't thought about dying today, not seriously. But he had thought about just… never coming back. Letting the city swallow him whole. Renting a room he couldn't afford. Falling asleep and hoping the ceiling would collapse.
A cockroach scurried across the floor under the gum rack.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he leaned back on the stool behind the counter, closed his eyes, and whispered to no one:
"I swear, if I could win the lottery and leave this hellhole behind, I'd gladly sell my soul to whichever dead bastard's listening."
There was no reply.
Just the hum of the refrigerators.
He wasn't even sure why he said it. It wasn't like he believed in fate. Or luck. Or ghosts. It was just noise to help him feel like he wasn't alone here working a pathetic job as a store clerk.
Still... the idea of winning, of getting out, stuck in his mind like gum on a shoe. Not because he wanted yachts or mansions. Not even for the cars.
He just wanted to disappear and start over his life from scratch, and money could help him do that.
Some people dreamed of changing the world. Elijah dreamed of leaving it quietly, without anyone noticing, and living a life like the people he's seen on TV.
Elijah leaned on the counter, watching the second hand tick across the dusty clock above the cigarette shelf.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
For the rest of his shift, he went through the motions, restocked the gum aisle, pretended to face the shelves, and cleaned a soda spill that had already dried sticky. Now and then, someone wandered in like a nurse still in her scrubs, a guy in a hoodie buying two energy drinks and nothing else, a teenager with bloodshot eyes who stared at the Dorito wall like it owed him money, and plenty of other interesting figures.
Elijah rang them up, bagged their things, and sent them on their way.
Time kept dragging until the sky beyond the windows turned from black to charcoal to that ugly purple-gray that meant the sun was finally thinking about waking up.
His bones felt heavier than normal after all he'd been on his feet for around nine hours.
Then, finally, salvation in the form of worn sneakers and a hoodie with "FOOD 4 LESS" printed on the back stepped through the sliding doors.
"God, it's freezing out there," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Didn't even notice until I stopped moving."
Elijah gave him a tired nod. "I told you not to bike when it's under forty degrees, you idiot. Your lungs are gonna give out before you hit thirty."
Mike grinned and shrugged. "That's assuming I make it to thirty."
He reached into his hoodie and pulled out a banana, held it up like an offering.
"Care for a bite?"
Elijah shook his head. "Nah, I'm gonna hit that little place on 5th. Need something warm. This place made me crave something warm."
"Vals? You're brave," Mike said, peeling the banana. "Pretty sure that someone died after eating their food."
"It's open and food is warm," Elijah said, grabbing his coat. "Those are the only qualifications I care about right now."
Mike nodded. "Fair enough. Get some sleep, man."
"I'll try," Elijah replied, already heading for the door. "Later, dude."
Mike raised his banana in a lazy salute. "Later."
The street outside was still half-asleep. Elijah tucked his hands into his coat and walked with no real urgency. By the time he reached Val's, the sky had softened into a pale gray, and the neon "OPEN" sign flickered behind grime-covered glass.
He stepped inside. The smell of cooked oil and instant coffee wrapped around him the second the door closed.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked like he belonged to the building, still, heavy-lidded, barely blinking.
Elijah walked up slowly.
"Egg and cheese on a roll. Medium coffee, black," he said.
The man nodded, turned away without a word, and started preparing it.
While he waited, Elijah shifted his weight and glanced at the lotto terminal beside the register.
The screen read:
Power Pick Mega Grand — $125.57 Billion
He didn't think about it. Just pulled a crumpled five from his pocket and added, "And a quick pick."
Another nod. A few button presses. The machine printed a ticket.
Elijah took the slip of paper and slid it into his coat.
His sandwich and coffee came a minute later. He thanked the man. The man didn't reply but that was fine.
He stepped back out into the morning air, sandwich and coffee in hand.
The streets were still quiet, lit by that cold, early light that made everything feel a little more distant than usual.
He kept his head down and walked the few blocks home in silence, the warmth from the bag seeping faintly into his hands.
When he got to his apartment, he looked for his keys and opened the door
His door creaked open, and Elijah stepped into still, stale air. He flicked the light switch. It worked, though just barely. A low hum and a weak bulb overhead that needed to be changed.
He dropped the bag from Val's on his counter, pulled off his coat, and let it fall onto the chair. The sandwich was warm, and the coffee was still hot. He ate without really enjoying it because the mattress in the corner called out to him more than anything else.
After he finished his food, he collapsed onto it, fully dressed, and pulled a blanket over himself. Just a few hours, he thought. Just enough to clear the fog.
When he woke, the light in the room was a burnt orange. That strange in-between color that meant the day had moved on without him.
Elijah sat up slowly. His back ached. His mouth was dry. The sandwich wrapper lay crumpled on the floor.
He checked the time.
8:51 PM
He blinked.
The lottery draw was around nine, wasn't it?
He bought a ticket so he might as well check it.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
Local channel.
Loud colors.
Too-happy anchor.
"...just a few minutes away from the Power Pick Mega Grand draw — with a record-breaking jackpot of 125.57 billion dollars…"
He stood and fished the ticket out of his coat. It was still folded in the inside pocket.
Flattened it.
Read the numbers.
04. 19. 27. 36. 48. 16
He didn't hold them in his head. Didn't feel the need. Just glanced.
The draw started.
Loud music.
Spinning balls.
Lights too bright for the room he was sitting in.
The first number dropped."04."
Then "19."
Then "27."
"36."
"48."
And finally—
"Powerball: 16."
Elijah's froze in shock.
He didn't shout. Or smile. Or even blink.
He just stared. One breath. Then another.
And then a whisper came out, low and dazed:
"…I won?…"
The lights in his apartment flickered once.
Then died.
The TV cut to black.
Then came the heat — a shimmer in the air, warping everything just a little.
In front of him, symbols formed. Glowing softly, like fire etched into glass.
And then words.
"Dead Man System Activated"