The shift-end bell screamed through the warehouse, a piercing sound that normally signaled glorious, if temporary, freedom. For Leo, it barely registered. He was in a haze, mechanically clocking out, his mind still reeling from the revelation.
I'm the chosen one.
The words felt ridiculous, egotistical, and undeniably true. He joined the silent, shuffling line of tired workers heading out into the gray afternoon. Marco and Sal were a few people ahead, already back to their sports argument. Their voices sounded distant, like a TV playing in another room. Yesterday, their mundane chatter was his world. Today, it was a foreign language.
He walked home instead of taking the bus. He needed the time, the space, the steady rhythm of his own two feet on cracked pavement to try and process the sheer scale of what was happening. Every doorway he passed—the entrance to a laundromat, the front door of a brownstone, the door of a parked car—seemed to pulse with a new, secret potential. Did it work on any door? Or just bathroom doors? He filed that question away in a rapidly growing mental folder labeled 'Extremely Weird Things to Test Later.'
When he finally got back to his apartment, the sight of his own peeling door sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. He fumbled with the key, his hand shaking slightly. This wasn't just the entrance to his miserable little box anymore. It was a control panel.
He unlocked it, stepped inside, and dropped his jacket on the lumpy sofa. The apartment felt different. Smaller. Duller. The oppressive atmosphere he had hated for so long now felt… temporary. It was no longer a cage, but a waiting room.
He didn't go to the kitchen. He didn't check his bank account. He walked straight to the bathroom door, the source of it all. He stood before it, feeling like an astronaut about to take his first step onto a new planet.
He opened it.
The forest. His forest. It was there, just as he'd left it in his mind, though the light had changed again. The sun—or whatever star this world orbited—was lower, casting long, dramatic shadows. The air was cooler, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers. The twilight indigo color was bleeding back into the sky.
He closed the door and let out a long, slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
The panic was gone. The shock was fading. In their place, something else was growing. A feeling he hadn't truly felt in years: hope. But it was a wild, dangerous kind of hope, tinged with the thrill of the unknown.
He looked at the $12.47 in his bank account. Yesterday, that number had been a death sentence, a countdown to eviction and hunger. Today? It was seed money.
He needed a plan. Chosen ones didn't just stand around marveling. They acted.
His mind, sharpened by years of calculating every penny and stretching every resource, kicked into overdrive. It was a survival instinct, but now applied to a problem far grander than next month's rent.
Problem One: Information. He knew nothing about this place. Was it safe? Were there predators? Were there… people? He couldn't just wander in aimlessly. He needed to be cautious.
Problem Two: Resources. He had nothing. Worn-out clothes and twelve dollars. Not exactly an adventurer's starting kit. He needed supplies.
Problem Three: Exploitation. This was the big one. This incredible, impossible gift couldn't just be for private pee breaks and a potential future homesite. It had to be worth something. There had to be a way to leverage this insane secret to fix his pathetic life on this side of the door.
He started pacing his tiny apartment, three steps one way, three steps back. He wasn't Leo the warehouse worker anymore. He was Leo, CEO of Interdimensional Enterprises, a company of one.
"Okay," he said aloud, the sound of his own voice grounding him. "First things first. Supplies."
He grabbed a pen and the back of an old utility bill. He started a list.
Backpack. Something sturdy. He could probably find one at a thrift store.
Water Bottle. Reusable. Important. Can't be buying bottled water on his budget.
Rope. Seemed like something an explorer should have.
Knife. A good one. For… cutting things. And protection? The thought sent a small shiver down his spine.
Light. A flashlight or a headlamp. Essential. The sun sets there, too.
Food. High-energy, non-perishable. Granola bars. Jerky.
He looked at his list, then at his phone. $12.47.
His heart sank. A decent knife alone would cost more than that. A good backpack, even from a thrift store, would take half his funds.
This was the harsh reality. Even the chosen one was bound by the dismal laws of economics. His grand adventure was currently being stonewalled by the same problem as everything else in his life: he was broke.
For a moment, the old despair clawed at him. It was a sick joke. He had a door to a new world, but he couldn't even afford the entry fee.
Then he looked around his apartment. He had lived here by scavenging, by making do, by selling what little he had when things got truly desperate. He sold his bed frame. He sold a small collection of old video games. He sold his grandfather's watch, a decision that still twisted his gut with guilt.
What did he have now?
His eyes landed on the kitchenette sink. On the faucet.
Drip… drop… drip…
And next to it, the small pot he'd used for his ramen.
His gaze flicked from the pot to the closed bathroom door, and then back again. A new thought, crazier than building a house, more audacious than searching for treasure, began to form. It was a merchant's thought. A smuggler's thought.
The other world had clean streams. He saw it with his own eyes. Clear, running water. What did his world have? A billion people who paid for it every single day. They bought it in plastic bottles from every gas station and corner store.
He had a way to get unlimited, free, pristine water from another dimension. Could he… could he sell it?
The idea was so absurdly simple, so beautifully capitalist, that he almost laughed out loud. He wasn't a hero destined to fight dragons. He was a broke kid with a unique, untapped natural resource.
Forget exploring. Forget treasure hunting. Phase one of the plan just changed.
Phase one was commerce.