After a while, he swapped the crossword for a Rubik's Cube. His fingers turned the colored blocks, twisting and spinning with practiced but imperfect motions.
He could never solve it completely, but the process helped. The way the colors shifted with each turn was mesmerizing. It was a reminder that even broken things could sometimes almost come together.
While twisting the cube, Lance's mind wandered to work. Kronos Solutions—the tech firm with more motivational posters than actual motivation.
He could still hear the scream of the printer in Conference Room B, a horrible, high-pitched wail like a banshee with a jammed paper tray.
He imagined the printer as a trapped spirit, cursing whoever came near.
His own cubicle was a shrine to the strange and mundane—a bobblehead of Agent Mulder nodding wisely, a framed diagram showing "How to Punch a Robot," and three succulents, two of which were plastic.
Mostly plastic, much like his life.
Lance tossed the cube aside and picked up a battered paperback—The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.
He flipped through the pages, reading a passage about revolution and improbable heroes.
The book had been a gift from an old friend, someone who believed Lance was more capable than he felt.
Reading distracted him, but sometimes it also reminded him how little control he had.
He glanced at his phone: two unread texts from his mom, one from "KARA (TUESDAY DATE??)"—a message he'd forgotten to answer and now dreaded fixing.
He sighed.
Maybe one day he'd get better at this "life" thing.
Time slipped by in small moments: the faint buzz of the fridge, Dario's soft snore, the irregular flicker of the living room light.
Lance leaned back and stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day pressing down.
He was a man caught in routine—work, home, small distractions—and the quiet ache of something missing.
His stomach growled. He'd promised himself cereal for dinner, but when he opened the cabinet, the box was half-empty. Worse, when he checked the fridge...
No milk.
His heart sank.
Cereal without milk was betrayal.
He sighed and glanced at Dario.
"Looks like it's a milk run," Lance said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Dario wagged his tail, as if understanding the gravity of the situation.
Lance grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.
Normally, he avoided leaving at night. Too many variables—drunk drivers, dark alleys, unpredictable people.
But tonight, the simple fact of missing milk outweighed his caution.
He slipped on his jacket, called to Dario, and opened the door.
The night air hit him like a cool wall, smelling of damp concrete and gasoline.
Dario shot out like a cannonball, nose twitching at every crack and leaf.
Lance smiled despite himself.
"Alright, alright. Just a quick run," he said.
He locked the door behind them and headed toward the old Corolla parked on the street.
After a while, he swapped the crossword for a Rubik's Cube. His fingers turned the colored blocks, twisting and spinning with practiced but imperfect motions.
He could never solve it completely, but the process helped. The way the colors shifted with each turn was mesmerizing. It was a reminder that even broken things could sometimes almost come together.
While twisting the cube, Lance's mind wandered to work. Kronos Solutions—the tech firm with more motivational posters than actual motivation.
He could still hear the scream of the printer in Conference Room B, a horrible, high-pitched wail like a banshee with a jammed paper tray.
He imagined the printer as a trapped spirit, cursing whoever came near.
His own cubicle was a shrine to the strange and mundane—a bobblehead of Agent Mulder nodding wisely, a framed diagram showing "How to Punch a Robot," and three succulents, two of which were plastic.
Mostly plastic, much like his life.
Lance tossed the cube aside and picked up a battered paperback—The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.
He flipped through the pages, reading a passage about revolution and improbable heroes.
The book had been a gift from an old friend, someone who believed Lance was more capable than he felt.
Reading distracted him, but sometimes it also reminded him how little control he had.
He glanced at his phone: two unread texts from his mom, one from "KARA (TUESDAY DATE??)"—a message he'd forgotten to answer and now dreaded fixing.
He sighed.
Maybe one day he'd get better at this "life" thing.
Time slipped by in small moments: the faint buzz of the fridge, Dario's soft snore, the irregular flicker of the living room light.
Lance leaned back and stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day pressing down.
He was a man caught in routine—work, home, small distractions—and the quiet ache of something missing.
His stomach growled. He'd promised himself cereal for dinner, but when he opened the cabinet, the box was half-empty. Worse, when he checked the fridge...
No milk.
His heart sank.
Cereal without milk was betrayal.
He sighed and glanced at Dario.
"Looks like it's a milk run," Lance said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Dario wagged his tail, as if understanding the gravity of the situation.
Lance grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.
Normally, he avoided leaving at night. Too many variables—drunk drivers, dark alleys, unpredictable people.
But tonight, the simple fact of missing milk outweighed his caution.
He slipped on his jacket, called to Dario, and opened the door.
The night air hit him like a cool wall, smelling of damp concrete and gasoline.
Dario shot out like a cannonball, nose twitching at every crack and leaf.
Lance smiled despite himself.
"Alright, alright. Just a quick run," he said.
He locked the door behind them and headed toward the old Corolla parked on the street.
The radio was dead static—no surprise there. Lance turned it off and settled into the quiet, the soft panting of Dario the only other sound.
The convenience store wasn't far—about a ten-minute drive through sleepy streets that felt like a different city at night. Most windows were dark, sidewalks empty.
Lance's thoughts drifted:
Did I really need milk this bad?
Maybe cereal without milk isn't the worst.
Why do I even eat cereal?
I should probably eat healthier.
A car passed them on the main road, its headlights briefly blinding. Lance blinked, focused back on the road.
The bodega looked exactly like every 24-hour store he'd ever been to: flickering fluorescent lights, stacks of dusty snack shelves, a humming refrigerator aisle, and that faint smell of stale coffee and old gum.
Dario jumped down before Lance could open the door fully, already tugging toward the automatic sliding doors.
Lance sighed. "Alright, alright, hold on."
Inside, the fluorescent buzz felt sharper, and the night clerk, a young guy with a cap pulled low, barely looked up as Lance grabbed a basket.
Milk was just past the chips, right by the frozen burritos. Half-gallon whole milk, two percent, skim—he wasn't picky tonight, just wanted the damn white stuff.
Lance reached for the two percent. As his hand touched the cold plastic jug, something behind the counter caught his eye—a folded duffle bag sitting suspiciously on the floor.
Before he could process it, the sliding doors blasted open again.
A woman burst in, wild-eyed and frantic, wearing a cocktail dress torn at the sleeve, her hair messy like she'd been running for hours.
She didn't see Lance at first. Her voice was low but urgent.
"Where is it? The—" She stopped, looked around, and then her gaze landed on Lance.
"You're not Rico."
Lance blinked. "Uh... no?"
Her eyes narrowed.
Before he could ask what the hell was going on, a heavy thud echoed behind him.
The duffle bag slammed onto the floor, spilling stacks of cash.
"Shit," she muttered. "Grab the car keys."
Lance's heart kicked up to a sprint.
He held up the milk like it was a peace offering.
"Look, I just wanted milk."
She didn't flinch.
"Now move. Or we both die."
Outside, headlights cut through the night like searching knives.
Lance glanced at Dario, who was suddenly alert, ears flat.
He barely had time to get his bearings before the woman grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward his car.
"Okay. Okay," Lance said, voice shaking but trying to keep calm. "Tell me what's happening. And maybe why I'm involved."
She pulled him into the passenger seat with an urgency that brooked no argument.
Lance's hands trembled as he slid into the driver's seat, the milk still clutched awkwardly.
She slammed the door, tossed a compact handgun onto the dashboard, and pressed a button on the key fob.
The Corolla's engine growled to life like an old dog startled awake.
"Who are you?" Lance asked.
She hesitated. "Name's Dani. And you, apparently, have something they want."
Lance swallowed hard. "I'm pretty sure it's just milk."
She gave a bitter laugh, eyes scanning the street behind them.
"Not that milk. The milk in that jug. You've been set up. They switched it while you weren't looking. And now you're the target."
Lance blinked. "You mean like a milk spy?"
"Exactly like that."
The woman didn't wait for an answer. Before Lance could even blink, she yanked him by the arm toward his own car like he was a ragdoll and shoved him inside the driver's seat. The cold plastic of the milk jug pressed against his thigh as he fumbled to buckle up.
"Drive," she barked, slamming the door shut.
The engine roared to life with a rattling growl. Lance's fingers trembled as he gripped the steering wheel, his heart pounding like a bass drum in his chest.
Outside, the night was suddenly alive with headlights slicing through the darkness—too many headlights.
A sleek black SUV without license plates appeared in the rearview mirror like a shadow stalking him. It accelerated, tires screaming in chase.
"Holy hell," Lance muttered under his breath.
"Next exit. Now!" Dani yelled, slamming her hands against the dashboard as if willing the car to move faster.
Lance slammed his foot down, tires screeching on the asphalt. The Corolla wasn't built for this kind of madness, but adrenaline kicked in—he felt every inch of the road through the steering wheel.
The black SUV closed in, a barrage of gunfire cracking through the air, bullets pinging off the metal frame of Lance's car. Dario whimpered but stayed quiet, eyes wide.
"Hit the next exit or we'll die with really boring last words," Dani yelled, voice sharp as a whip.
Lance took the exit ramp, heart hammering in his throat, wheels screeching around the curve. The SUV snarled behind him, engine roaring.
"What the hell is going on?" Lance demanded, stealing a glance at Dani.
She exhaled, voice tight but steady.
"I'm Dani. I used to work for a secret government branch that technically doesn't exist."
Lance's eyebrows shot up. "Okay... that explains everything?"
"Nope." She glanced sideways, eyes darkening. "I stole something from them. Something really bad. Like, if-you-drop-it-the-world-implodes bad."
Lance's gaze flicked down to the milk carton riding shotgun like an innocent passenger. "You're kidding me. It's in this?"
"Yep." Her eyes locked with his, full of a strange, urgent seriousness. "They swapped it while you were distracted."
Lance's mouth went dry. "Distracted by what?"
She hesitated. Then, casually said: "The milk, you dunce."
The road ahead blurred under the headlights as Lance processed that like a man trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while skydiving.
He swallowed hard, gripping the wheel tighter.
"I did not sign up for this."
Dani smirked, but only briefly.
"Nope. But you're stuck now."