Head back to his apartment

Seth emerged from the university clinic into the crisp October afternoon, the sun hanging low in a sky streaked with hints of amber and grey, casting long shadows across the bustling campus quad. Students hurried past in clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders, chatter about midterms and weekend plans filling the air like white noise. But Seth barely noticed, his mind still tangled in the afterglow of what had just transpired with Dr. Hargrove.

Her lipstick-marked card burned a hole in his pocket, a tangible link to the impossible—the remote's power bending reality to his whims. His legs felt unsteady, as if the ground might shift beneath him at any moment, but a bone-deep fatigue pulled him toward home. A nap, yeah, that's what he needed. Clear his head before diving into that kinesiology paper looming like a storm cloud.

The bus stop was just a short walk away, tucked beside a row of maple trees shedding their fiery leaves onto the sidewalk. Seth quickened his pace, the cool breeze nipping at his cheeks, carrying the faint scent of rain on the horizon.

He fished out his transit card from his wallet, the plastic worn from constant use, and joined the small huddle of waiting passengers: a harried professor clutching a stack of papers, a couple of undergrads scrolling through their phones, and an elderly woman with a shopping bag overflowing with groceries.

The bus arrived with a hydraulic hiss, its doors folding open like an invitation. Seth boarded, swiping his card and claiming a window seat toward the back, the vinyl cushion creaking under his weight.

As the bus lurched forward, merging into traffic, Seth leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the campus recede in the side mirror. Buildings blurred into a montage of brick and glass, giving way to the urban sprawl of the city: coffee shops with steaming windows, pedestrians bundled in jackets, billboards hawking everything from energy drinks to dating apps. His thoughts drifted back to the remote—no bigger than his car keys, yet capable of rewriting the world.

What had started as a sceptical find in an abandoned backpack had escalated into something intoxicating. Dr. Hargrove's transformation, her eager submission... it was all real. And now, with her number in hand, the possibilities stretched endlessly. But exhaustion weighed on him; the adrenaline crash left him staring blankly at the passing scenery, the rhythmic rumble of the engine lulling him into a half-doze.

Twenty minutes later, the bus groaned to a stop at his familiar corner, the brakes squealing in protest. Seth disembarked, the doors whooshing shut behind him, and trudged the two blocks to his apartment complex.

The place was a relic from the '80s—three stories of faded beige stucco, with balconies cluttered by mismatched patio furniture and dying potted plants.

The lawns were patchy, dotted with weeds, and the parking lot perpetually half-full of beat-up sedans and rusty bikes chained to fences. It wasn't much, but at $800 a month split with his roommate, it beat dorm life. Seth fished his keys from his pocket, the jangle echoing in the quiet courtyard, already envisioning the sanctuary of his cramped living room: the sagging couch, the second-hand TV, maybe a cold beer from the fridge to unwind.

But as he rounded the corner toward his ground-floor unit, a familiar obstacle loomed—Mr. Schulz, propped against the communal railing like a sentinel guarding his petty kingdom.

The man was in his mid-thirties, built like a barrel gone soft around the edges, his overweight frame crammed into a faded polo shirt stained with what looked like yesterday's lunch and baggy cargo shorts that did nothing to flatter his paunch.

Red hair, cropped unevenly as if he'd done it himself with kitchen shears, topped a face dominated by a thick, unkempt beard that matched in hue, framing a perpetual sneer. His green eyes, sharp and predatory, lit up the moment they locked onto Seth, like a cat spotting a mouse.

Schulz had elevated being an asshole to an art form, making it his apparent life's mission to sour the existence of every tenant in the complex. Whether it was 'accidentally' spilling trash bins during his so-called maintenance rounds, blasting talk radio at odd hours to drown out neighbours’ peace, or lurking in the laundry room to critique folding techniques with snide remarks, he thrived on the discomfort he sowed. And he got away with it all because of his connection to the landlord—nephew or son, Seth could never quite confirm, though the shared bulbous nose and smug attitude screamed family ties.

Complaints filed through the office vanished into the ether, dismissed with excuses about ‘misunderstandings’ or ‘family matters.’

Schulz never crossed into outright criminal territory—no threats that could warrant a police report, just endless belittling that chipped away at your sanity like water torture.

"Oh, studying again? Must be nice to play pretend all day," he'd say, or "Forgot to take out your trash? Figures, kids these days can't handle basics."

Today was no exception. As Seth approached, Schulz straightened slightly, his belly shifting with the motion, and crossed his arms over his chest, the polo straining at the seams.

"Well, if it isn't the campus prince gracing us with his presence," he drawled, his voice a nasally grind that set Seth's teeth on edge.

"Running late again? Or did you finally get a real job? Nah, probably just wasting more time on that degree that'll land you flipping burgers." The words weren't explosive, just laced with enough condescension to sting, delivered with that trademark smirk that dared you to push back—knowing full well the landlord's favouritism shielded him.

Seth halted a few feet away, his hand instinctively dipping into his pocket, fingers brushing the remote's smooth surface. The encounter ignited a spark of frustration that had been simmering all day, amplified by the device's lingering influence.

This guy, he thought, jaw clenching as Schulz's green eyes bored into him, waiting for a reaction.

Always here, always ruining the vibe. What if I just... replaced him? The idea bloomed unbidden, dark and alluring—the remote's power to alter, to erase this constant irritant from his daily grind. But replace him with what?