Ethan woke up to the sound of sizzling oil and the faint smell of something burning.
For a split second, he thought he'd overslept for another shift. Then the blur of light resolved into his small Cleveland apartment — same cracked ceiling, same stubborn heater wheezing in the corner.
He blinked at his phone. 8:43 AM.
Too early for deliveries, too late for sanity.
The memory of last night came flooding back like a half-remembered fever dream: the blue text, the voice in his head, the absurd number of zeroes on his bank app.
He groaned and pulled the blanket over his face.
"Right. The hallucination. My favorite new hobby."
The smell of burning intensified.
"Dad?" he called.
No answer.
Ethan stumbled into the kitchenette — really just three counters pretending to be a kitchen — to find his father heroically battling a frying pan of eggs that looked more like a science experiment than breakfast.
"Morning, champ," Tom said, his gray hair sticking up like an electrocuted professor's. "Made you eggs. They're a little… avant-garde."
Ethan stared at the smoking pan. "Dad, those aren't eggs. That's an abstract painting of despair."
Tom shrugged. "Protein's protein. Sit down, I'll scrape it off."
The morning unfolded in its usual pattern — slow, familiar, and weirdly comforting.
Tom read the old newspaper he insisted on subscribing to ("because real news comes on paper"), and Ethan scrolled through job alerts he'd never apply for: warehouse positions, seasonal store shifts, data-entry jobs that wanted three years of experience for twelve bucks an hour.
Everything was normal — except the small, persistent glow in the corner of his vision.
It wasn't visible to anyone else, but every few minutes, faint blue text pulsed softly:
[Welcome back, Ethan.]
Daily Sign-In available in 15 hours and 22 minutes.
He rubbed his eyes. It didn't vanish.
"Great," he muttered, "now my migraine has a countdown timer."
He opened his banking app again — not because he believed it, but because disbelief required evidence.
Available Balance: $0.14
Pending Deposit: $100,000,000.00
The number sat there, smug and silent, as if daring him to doubt it.
He scrolled for a contact number. The customer service chat appeared again.
Hi Ethan! We noticed you checked your balance. Money is still on its way! Estimated arrival: 24–48 hours.
Would you like to invest in a savings plan?
Ethan typed furiously:
What the hell is this?
Response:
A good thing happening to a good person.
He blinked. "Nope. Absolutely not. I'm talking to my bank like it's Santa Claus."
Tom glanced up from his newspaper. "You okay, son?"
"Yeah," Ethan said quickly. "Just arguing with capitalism."
"Good luck. I lost that fight in '97."
Ethan spent the rest of the morning pretending everything was normal. He washed dishes, fixed the dripping tap, and did the math in his head for how many deliveries he'd need to make this week to cover rent and groceries.
He'd done this math so often it had muscle memory: Four shifts a day, six days a week, average tip rate 1.8 dollars per delivery, minus gas…
He was halfway through calculating whether selling plasma might be worth it when the blue text blinked again:
[Tip: Verify reality through experience. Small actions lead to truth.]
He squinted. "What are you, a fortune cookie?"
[Processing sarcasm... complete.]
Would you like a burrito instead?
He stared. "…What?"
A pause. Then:
[Reward Suggestion: Burrito Test.]
Buy food using any payment method. Observe outcome.
Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose. "You want me to test the hundred million dollar miracle with a burrito purchase?"
[Affirmative.]
He looked toward his father, who was humming and flipping through TV channels. "Dad, want a burrito?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "At 10 AM?"
"Scientific reasons."
Tom grinned. "If science involves salsa, I'm in."
They drove out in Ethan's beat-up Toyota, the one that sounded like a dying walrus when it started. Snow lined the sidewalks like powdered sugar, and holiday lights flickered lazily across storefronts.
The local Mexican grill, Rico's Wraps, smelled like heaven and deep fryer grease. A young cashier in a Santa hat greeted them with the hollow cheer of seasonal employment.
Ethan ordered two breakfast burritos, one for him, one for Tom.
"Will that be cash or card?" she asked.
He hesitated. He'd used his debit card a thousand times — and every time it reminded him how close he was to broke. But if the system was real, this would prove it.
He slid the card across the counter. "Card."
The reader beeped. The girl smiled. "Approved."
He blinked. "Wait… what?"
She printed the receipt, stapled the bag, and called, "Next!"
Ethan stepped aside, staring at the slip. The charge had gone through instantly — but his bank app now read:
Available Balance: $999,999.86
Pending Deposit: $99,999,999.00
The first number had changed. By exactly the cost of two burritos.
He swallowed. "No way."
They sat at a corner booth, plastic Christmas garland dangling above. Tom was halfway through his burrito before noticing his son hadn't touched his.
"You good, champ?"
Ethan handed him the phone. "Tell me I'm not seeing this wrong."
Tom squinted. His reading glasses dangled from his neck on a string, so he pulled them on with exaggerated ceremony.
"Son," he said slowly, "you have… a hundred million dollars."
Ethan nodded numbly.
Tom blinked twice, set the phone down, and took another bite of his burrito. "Neat."
"That's it? Neat? Dad, this is—this is insane!"
Tom shrugged. "It's breakfast. Let's not get dramatic until after coffee."
"I'm serious! I—I checked the app, and it's real! The card worked! Look, it's right there!"
Tom chewed thoughtfully. "Well, unless your burrito costs a million bucks, I'd say you're rich. Pass the hot sauce."
Ethan gaped. "You're taking this way too well."
"Son," Tom said, wiping his mouth, "I've seen three factory explosions, two recessions, and one disco comeback. At my age, nothing surprises me."
They finished eating. Ethan sat in stunned silence, watching the snow outside glint off passing cars. His brain tried to form reasonable explanations — system glitch, prank, simulation, divine pity — but none fit.
[Congratulations, Ethan. First real-world verification achieved.]
Emotional stability: +2. Rational acceptance: +1.
Bonus: 0.1% interest rate advantage unlocked.
"Are you kidding me?" Ethan muttered. "You're giving me stats now?"
[Progress requires metrics.]
Tom looked up from his napkin. "You talking to yourself again?"
"Yeah. The voices pay better than DoorDash."
Tom snorted. "Tell them to cover rent while they're at it."
Ethan's face twitched. "Yeah… about that."
That afternoon, he logged onto his landlord's portal and hovered over the 'Pay Rent' button. $950 for their cramped one-bedroom apartment. He hesitated. If this was real, he could buy the entire building.
He clicked Pay.
Payment Successful.
He clicked again — prepaying six more months just to test it.
Payment Successful.
His hands trembled. "Oh my god. Oh my god."
From the couch, Tom called out, "What's going on?"
"Dad, we're… good."
Tom frowned. "Good how?"
Ethan turned the screen around, voice cracking. "I just paid rent for half a year."
Tom stared, then gave a low whistle. "Son, I don't know what cosmic charity drive picked you, but maybe buy some real eggs next time."
Ethan laughed weakly. "Deal."
That night, Ethan sat at the tiny kitchen table, staring at a blank notepad.
He needed to make sense of this.
Things I Know:
I have 100 million dollars.
It's real. The transactions process.
There's a system in my head that talks like an overly polite therapist.
Dad thinks it's divine intervention or some weird government program.
I'm terrified.
He tapped his pen against the page.
[Tip: Fear is normal. Humor helps. Maybe eat another burrito.]
"Ha-ha," he muttered. "Very funny, Sky Voice."
[You may name me if desired.]
He blinked. "Name you?"
[Yes. A familiar identity improves bonding metrics.]
Ethan rubbed his temple. "Fine. Uh… Hal."
[Acknowledged. Hello, Ethan. I am Hal.]
He groaned. "I was joking. That's from a movie about a homicidal AI!"
[Statistically, I am less murderous.]
"Comforting."
Days passed in a strange rhythm. Ethan continued delivering food, more out of habit than necessity. The system — Hal — kept rewarding him in subtle ways: cashback bonuses, discounts, interest boosts. But it also kept nudging him with oddly wholesome suggestions:
[Tip: Help your neighbor shovel their walkway.]
[Bonus: Physical activity improves dopamine by 14%.]
So he did.
Old Mrs. Gonzales in 3A nearly fainted when Ethan cleared her steps.
"You're a good boy, Ethan," she said. "Someone's gonna reward you for that someday."
He smiled faintly. "Yeah. Guess someone already did."
this should be it
for chapter 2