Jordan grabbed the first trash bag. The thing weighed at least thirty pounds. He dragged it to his apartment door, then went back for another. And another. Eight bags total, lined up against the wall like body bags after a massacre.
He opened his door and started hauling them into the hallway one at a time. The building's trash chute was all the way down at the end of the floor. Of course it was. Nothing could be easy.
"This is going to suck," Jordan muttered, setting the first two bags outside his door.
He went back for more. The hallway of The Cooper Garment Lofts stretched ahead of him, exposed brick and industrial lighting making everything look like a hipster photoshoot. Very aesthetic. Very expensive. Very far from the trash chute.
Jordan had just set down the fourth bag when the door to Unit 403 opened.
A girl stepped out wearing a white baseball cap pulled low, black hair spilling out from underneath with electric blue streaks catching the light. She wore an oversized grey hoodie that hung off one shoulder, showing a white tank top underneath, and black leggings that did absolutely nothing to hide the curve of her hips and thighs. White sneakers, spotless. A small crossbody bag slung across her body.
Her face stopped Jordan's brain mid-thought. Heart-shaped, delicate features, striking blue eyes that had to be contacts because nobody had eyes that color naturally. Clear skin that probably cost more in products than Jordan's entire skincare routine, which currently consisted of soap and hoping for the best.
She looked at Jordan. Then at the trash bags. Then back at Jordan.
"Woah." Her voice carried surprise and something like amusement. "Did you have a party or something?"
Jordan's brain scrambled for words. Any words. Normal human words that didn't make him sound like the disaster he'd been two days ago.
"Yeah, something like that." He managed what he hoped was a casual shrug. "Mix of that and some spring cleaning."
Thank god for his mom's weird obsession with buying trash bags that smelled like Fabuloso. The light purple scent wafted from the bags instead of the horror show they actually contained. If not for that, this girl would be backing away slowly instead of smiling at him.
Jordan rubbed the back of his head, suddenly aware of how he looked. Gym shorts. Volleyball t-shirt. Still damp hair from the shower. At least he was clean. That had to count for something.
He glanced down the hallway toward the trash chute. So far away. So many trips.
"I just wish the trash chute wasn't a mile away," Jordan muttered, glancing at the remaining bags.
The girl laughed. "Well, it's good that you're being so proactive about it."
"Yeah."
Say something else, his brain screamed. Anything. You're talking to a hot girl and not immediately self-destructing. This is progress. Don't waste it.
"Uh, you didn't hear anything, right?" The words tumbled out before Jordan could stop them. "I mean, like, the party. Haha."
Smooth. Real smooth. Why did he add the 'haha' at the end? What was wrong with him?
The girl tilted her head, thinking. Her blue-streaked hair shifted with the movement, catching the light.
"No..." She drew out the word. "I'm a heavy sleeper. And the walls are pretty thick here, so yeah."
Jordan's panic eased slightly. She hadn't heard him vacuuming at two in the morning or crying in the shower or any of the other pathetic sounds that had leaked from Unit 404 over the past few months.
Her eyes dropped to his shirt. "You play volleyball?"
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
What did he say here? The shirt was from freshman orientation when they'd handed out free gear for every sport. Jordan had grabbed one because it was free and looked comfortable. He'd never touched a volleyball in his life except in mandatory PE class.
But this girl. This girl with the blue streaks and the eyes and the way her leggings hugged her thighs. This girl was waiting for an answer.
Lie and say yes? Claim he was on the team? What if she asked details? What if she knew someone on the actual team?
"Yeah, just club." The words came out before Jordan fully processed them. "I wasn't that great, but I had fun. Got a lot of fond memories from it."
The girl's face lit up. "Same here, but with tennis."
"Haha."
Why. Why did he just say 'haha' out loud instead of actually laughing? Jordan wanted to crawl into one of the trash bags and throw himself down the chute.
The silence stretched. The girl shifted her bag. Jordan stood there like an idiot, running through possible conversation topics and rejecting all of them.
Sports? Already covered that.
Weather? In California? Where it was always seventy degrees?
Classes? He didn't even know if she went to Pacific Crest.
Her smile turned polite. "Well, I'll leave you to it."
"Thanks, you too." Jordan's mouth was still moving. "I mean—"
Kill him now.
"Yeah, thanks."
The girl giggled. She gave a small wave with her fingers, turned, and headed down the hallway toward the stairs.
Jordan watched her go. The way she walked, hips swaying naturally with each step. The blue streaks in her hair bobbing with her movement.
She disappeared down the stairwell.
Jordan stood alone in the hallway surrounded by eight trash bags that smelled like artificial purple flowers.
"I didn't even get her name," he said to the empty corridor.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Daily Quest: Path to Becoming Adonis - Social Objective: 1/3 beauties contacted (2 minutes minimum). Current: 3 minutes, 47 seconds.
Progress tracked. Continue.
Jordan stared at the notification. The System had been watching. Of course it had. That entire awkward conversation, every stumble and verbal disaster, logged and measured.
But he'd done it. Talked to a girl for almost four minutes without apologizing for existing. Without offering to buy her something. Without checking his phone nervously or making an excuse to leave first.
The old Jordan would have seen the trash bags, panicked, and waited until three in the morning to move them when nobody could witness his shame.
New Jordan had trash bags in the hallway and a conversation with the hot neighbor who apparently lived in Unit 403.
Right next door.
Jordan grabbed two bags and started walking toward the trash chute. His arms protested immediately, muscles still sore from hours of cleaning. But he kept walking, dragging the bags behind him like a caveman with his kills.
The trash chute door opened with a rusty squeal. Jordan heaved the first bag through. It dropped with a satisfying thump somewhere far below. The second bag followed.
Six more to go.
Jordan made the walk back to his door, grabbed two more bags, and repeated the journey. Then again. And again.
By the fifth trip, his arms were screaming. Sweat soaked through his volleyball shirt. His legs felt like someone had replaced his bones with wet noodles.
But every bag he threw down that chute was a piece of the old Jordan vanishing. Every step toward the trash room was a step away from the apartment where he'd spent two weeks doing nothing but feeling sorry for himself.
The last bag hit the pile below with a final echoing crash.
Jordan stood at the trash chute, breathing hard, staring at the metal door that had swallowed months of his failures.
His phone buzzed.
Daily Quest: Path to Becoming Adonis - Physical Activity: 120 minutes completed (30 minute bonus).
Bonus reward: +1 Quest Ticket.
Jordan walked back to his apartment on legs that barely functioned. The hallway was empty now. Clean. Like the trash had never existed.
He pushed open his door to Unit 404.
The apartment still smelled like Fabuloso and cleaning products. The floor was visible. The kitchen gleamed. Upstairs, his mattress lay under its coat of baking soda, waiting to be vacuumed.
Jordan checked his phone. The timer read fifteen hours, forty-seven minutes.
"Mattress, then laundry, then salon, then Dad."
He climbed the stairs to his loft one step at a time, each movement a small victory over his body's demands to quit.
The vacuum cleaner stood where he'd left it. Jordan plugged it in, turned it on, and began sucking up the baking soda from his mattress. The white powder disappeared into the machine, revealing the stained surface beneath.
It still looked terrible. But it looked cleaner. That had to count for something.
The dryer buzzed downstairs. Jordan abandoned the vacuum and went to retrieve his clothes. Warm fabric, soft from the dryer sheet, smelling like detergent instead of despair.
He carried the load upstairs and dumped it on his now-vacuumed mattress. Then went back down for the next wash cycle.
Jordan pulled the last load from the dryer and climbed the stairs one final time. His legs were done. Completely finished. If his apartment caught fire right now, he'd just let it burn because he couldn't walk another step.
But his apartment was clean. His clothes were washed. His mattress no longer actively offended every sense.
The timer showed fourteen hours, twelve minutes remaining.
"Salon time," Jordan said to his empty apartment. "Let's go fix this disaster on my head."