They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
Cute, right? But what if life doesn't even give you lemons?
What if life gives you nothing?
My name is Gray Soliski, and up until that night, I thought I had a pretty chill life. Normal. Comfortable. Boring.
I was a university student in one of the top cities in the country. The kind of place where students from all over the world came to study, party, and chase dreams. For most, it was a big deal.
Not for me.
I wasn't special. Just average. Not top of the class. Not a dropout. Just… there. The only things I was really good at were binge-reading fantasy novels, grinding through long RPGs, and doing nerd stuff online. I wouldn't call myself an otaku, but I was orbiting the same galaxy.
The truth was—I didn't need to try. My parents were filthy rich. Old money. Generational wealth kind of rich. Mansions, private schools, weekend getaways in Dubai, that sort of thing. So no pressure to work. No need to earn. No big goals. I didn't even have to wake up early.
My life was basically: sleep, eat, read, game, repeat.
But then... that night happened.
It was around 1:30 in the morning. I was gaming, lost in some post-apocalyptic world, hunting zombies and collecting loot, when my stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead.
I thought about heading out to grab something. A midnight drive sounded kind of fun.
But then I looked around.
My room was warm, the LED lights glowed soft blue against the dark, and the massive monitor setup in front of me begged me to stay.
Screw it, I thought. Why go out when I can just order something in?
So I grabbed my phone, opened the food app, scrolled for a bit, and picked a place I'd never tried before—Crimson Eats. Weird name, but the menu looked promising.
I ordered a burger, fries, wings, and a chocolate milkshake. Judge me all you want, but if you're going to eat at 2 a.m., might as well do it right.
About 30 minutes passed.
Just as I was finishing up a boss fight, the doorbell rang.
Ding… Dong…
I paused the game, stretched, and shuffled toward the door, yawning.
"Coming…" I muttered, half-expecting to see the usual delivery guy—tired, hoodie-wearing, and barely saying a word.
But when I opened the door, my brain kind of… short-circuited.
She stood there with the food bag in her hand—maybe 5'6", black silky hair tied in a neat ponytail, tight red-and-black jeans, and a matching crimson top with the Crimson Eats logo. Her skin was pale, flawless, almost like porcelain under the warm porch light. Her eyes were sharp—hazel, maybe?—but there was something unreadable behind them. Cold, maybe. Or just focused.
"Hey… uh, here's your order," she said, smiling softly.
For a second, I just stared, mouth slightly open. I wasn't used to delivery girls looking like they stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Ah—yeah, thanks," I replied, quickly snapping out of it.
She handed me the bag. I grabbed it, checked the contents quickly, and reached into my pocket.
"Here. $30—28 for the food, 2 for the tip," I said.
She took the cash with a small nod. "Thanks. Have a good night."
"You too," I mumbled, already starting to close the door.
But then—
"Hey, wait."
I stopped. "Hmm? Something wrong?"
She looked me in the eye, smiled just a little wider, and said, "You too… have a good night."
Then, in one smooth, terrifying motion—she pulled out a Desert Eagle .55 from behind her and pointed it straight at my face.
Before I could process it—
BANG.
The sound was deafening. My body jolted as the bullet tore through my skull. I didn't even feel pain—just shock. My vision blurred instantly, and everything felt like it was underwater.
I collapsed. My head slammed against the floor. Blood pooled around me.
I couldn't move. Couldn't think. I was dying—fast.
Even as my life slipped away, one question screamed inside me:
Why?
Why would someone want to kill me?
Sure, I was rich. But I'd never hurt anyone. Never got involved in shady deals. I didn't even have enemies. I barely had friends.
What did I do to deserve this?
But no answer came. Just a fading light and the sound of silence swallowing me whole.
Then—another voice. Her voice.
"I hate people like this," she muttered, her tone laced with disgust. "They think the world revolves around them."
She crouched next to my body and wiped a few blood drops off her cheek. Her expression didn't change.
Cold. Detached.
Like killing me was just another line on her to-do list.
She pulled out her phone, snapped a photo of my body, and sent it to someone. A few seconds later, her phone rang.
Ring… Ring…
She answered.
"It's done. I'm heading out."
A voice replied on the other end. Male. Rough. Calm.
"Good. Leave. The cleaners will handle the body."
Click.
Beep… Beep…
She stood, glanced at me one last time—her expression unreadable—and walked off into the night, like it was nothing.
Like my life meant nothing.
To her, this wasn't a crime.
It was just another job.