Ron Stuckey, a lonely doomer

The light leaking through the blinds is the wrong color.

Pale, grayish. Sickly.

Morning, I guess. Doesn't matter. The clock says 11:42, but that could be PM or AM.

My room smells like instant noodles, dust, and stale smoke. The kind of smell that seeps into your clothes and won't let go.

I keep telling myself I'll crack a window, but I never do. Let the air rot with me. It's quieter that way.

My screen flickers-game still running.

I never really log off.

My guy's crouched behind a dumpster in a digital alley somewhere in Kyiv or Kabul or some other blown-out warzone someone modeled for realism.

I like the quiet parts of the map. The in-between places where nobody goes unless they're lost.

Or waiting to die. Fits the vibe.

I haven't spoken to another person in three days. Not counting the gas station clerk who grunted when I bought smokes and a Monster. He didn't look at me, and I didn't want him to. People look at you and expect something-expression, effort, a soul. I'm out of all three.

There's a half-eaten sandwich on my desk. It's been there long enough to look like modern art. Mold creeping over the crust like it's reclaiming territory. I watch it sometimes. It's sort of inspiring, in a weird way.

Stomach growls. It's not hunger, exactly. More like the echo of what hunger used to feel like.

I glance at the fridge like it insulted me in a past life.

I finally peel myself out of the chair, joints popping like cheap bubble wrap.

The fridge is humming its **** rattle, probably older than I am.

I open it. Light flickers. Inside: one expired yogurt, two slices of bread that might still qualify as bread, and a bottle of mustard. The kind of inventory that says: you're out of options.

Great.

I pull on my hoodie-same one as always-and step into my boots. No laces. No point. It's just the gas station two blocks down. No need for a parade.

The hallway stinks like mold and cat piss. Elevator's dead, as usual. I take the stairs, hood up, headphones in.

No music though. I sort of hate it all. The overhappy poppy glitz or the doomer-grunts of needlessly aggressive metal. Just wearing them to avoid conversation at this point.

The city outside is overcast and wet, a colorless watercolor painting.

Every face I pass looks like it's been punched by life. I keep my head down. I know the feeling.

I step into the gas station and the cool air hits me, sharp after the late-morning sun. Fluorescents buzz overhead, freezers hum, that strange, sweet-clean chemical smell hangs in the air. Same as always. But then—something’s off.

She's behind the counter.

Not the usual old guy or the dude with the neck tattoo who looks like he'd sell you a tire iron at a discount.

No. This is a girl.

My age, maybe younger. Hair pulled up in a loose knot, dark lipstick with a lace collar around her neck. She's leaning on the counter, reading a paperback. She's beautiful in the way you don’t expect to see at 11 AM in a gas station—like she wandered out of some other story and ended up here by mistake.

She looks up. Her piercing eyes meet mine. Just for a second. I look away first.

Figures.

I grab a few things without thinking. Pack of smokes, eggs, canned coffee, some microwavable abomination pretending to be food. My hands move on autopilot, like I've done this a hundred times... which I have.

The only difference this time is that I'm aware of her. Fully aware, like a spotlight turned on in the corner of a dark room I thought was empty.

I drop the stuff on the counter. She barely looks up. Just scans each item with bored efficiency. No small talk. No fake smile. Just the beep, beep of the scanner and the hum of the fridge behind her.

She's beautiful-objectively. Sharp features, perfect skin, dark hair tied back like she didn't try but still got it right. Doesn't match the flickering lights and piss-yellow tiles. Looks like she belongs somewhere else. Somewhere clean.

But she doesn't act like it.

Suddenly it strikes me.

I need to say something to her.

She might not be here in the future. This feels like a glitch in the matrix, or something.

This could be my only chance.

This painful attack of FOMO is forcing the words out of my socially inept mouth, before I have a chance to catch them.

I clear my throat. "Do you-uh... work here often?"

Her eyes finally meet mine. Blank. Tired.

Like she's had this exact interaction too many times.

"Don't," she says.

That's it. Just that word.

Flat. Firm. Final.

I shut up.

She bags my stuff without another word. Slides it across the counter.

"Card or cash?"

"Card."

I tap it. The terminal beeps. She hands me the receipt, already turning back to her book.

"Thanks," I mumble.

She doesn't respond.

I'm just about out the door when my phone starts vibrating.

Not the usual soft buzz. This is violent. Like pocket-sextoy violent. Like there's a tiny jackhammer going off against my thigh. I flinch, and in that perfect moment of modern grace, the bag slips out of my hand.

Crash.

So much for the eggs. Yellow sludge blooms across the floor like something's been murdered.

Behind me, I hear it... a low chuckle.

Not kind. Not mean, either. Just tired amusement, the kind reserved for watching someone else's day slide further into the gutter.

"The mop's next to the door," she says. Her voice is flat. No sympathy. Just policy.

"Sorry," I mumble, my voice doing that thing it always does-small, dry, cowardly. I shuffle over to the mop like a dog that just peed on the rug. She doesn't even look up. She's already back to her book. Probably didn't even hear me.

I crouch down and start dragging the mop across tile, pushing it in confused circles, trying to pretend I'm not dying inside. Meanwhile, the phone's still twitching in my pocket like it's possessed. I finally yank it out to see what's going on.

One new app.

Where did this thing come from?

My Idle Harem!

What the hell is this anime trash? Some auto-installed malware? A prank? I don't download garbage. I'm careful. I'm paranoid.

I press and hold. Try to drag it to the trash icon.

It pops right back.

I try again. Same result.

Again. No dice.

What the hell?

Now I'm kneeling in egg guts, holding a phone that's apparently decided it runs my life now, while a girl who looks like a bored model won't even glance in my direction. Just another Tuesday, I guess.

One more try. I press too fast this time. The screen opens.

A huge logo explodes across my screen, complete with sparkles and obnoxious sound effects. I fumble to turn the volume down.

Then, in big, bold letters:

"Choose the first member of your harem!"

The screen goes black for half a second-then my camera clicks on.

Through the open camera, I can see her behind the counter.

Still reading. Still ignoring me.

And for some reason, the app has put a glowing frame around her.

I stare at the camera feed like an idiot. The glowing frame keeps pulsing softly around her.

I don't even know what I'm doing. Some part of my thumb moves without permission and taps the screen.

Nothing happens.

No sparkle, no anime jingle, no magical girlfriend beaming into my sad reality. Just her, still reading. Still leaning on the counter like I don't exist.

I wait.

Still nothing.

I tap again, harder this time, like that'll help. The camera adjusts slightly, as if to focus better on her face.

She glances up.

Shit.

Her eyes cut to me like a box cutter.

"You done mopping, or...?"

I jerk my head down, back to the eggs. My cheeks are hot. Again.

"Sorry, yeah, I'm-just about..."

"Cool." She says it without inflection. It sounds like "Get out."

I finish wiping up the rest of the yolk. Bag what's salvageable. The eggs are a lost cause. I dump them in the bin by the door and don't look back. I leave without saying anything else.

The cold air outside hits like a slap. I walk home fast, shoulders hunched, bag swinging against my leg. Every step echoes with that low chuckle from earlier. Like the world's got a laugh track I can't turn off.

---

I get home, dump what's left of the groceries on the counter. Coffee can rolls sideways and thuds to a stop against the wall. I don't pick it up. I just stand there for a second, staring at nothing.

Still feel like I'm carrying the gas station on my back. The smell, the silence, her-folded into the awkward little space between humiliation and confusion where most of my social life lives.

I drop onto the bed, hoodie still on, boots still unlaced. Monitor glows faintly from the game I forgot to pause. My character's still crouched behind that rusted dumpster, like he's waiting for me to tell him it's okay to exist again.

I sigh and pull out my phone.

There it is. The app.

Still grinning at me from the screen like a virus with personality. I go to press it again-

BUZZZZZZZZZ

The whole phone jolts in my hand. Bright light floods the screen.

"TARGET ACCEPTED!"

Big letters. Bold. Flashing.

What the-?

I stare at the screen. It's not using the camera now. Just a pulsing silhouette. A figure... female.

It's her! The cashier!

"Harem Member 001 Added: Jennifer Whatley"

I don't know how or when it happened. I didn't do anything. I tried, but nothing worked. The app was dead when I left the store.

Did it... pick her after I left?

My chest tightens. Not excitement-more like dread.

I click on her figure - Jennifer's figure.

It shows an icon with her face, and her statistics.

She has four different sections - LOVE, CORRUPTION, OBEDIENCE and STRESS.

LOVE, CORRUPTION and OBEDIENCE all have five empty heart containers each. STRESS has one "Angry face emoji"-container, but it appears to be empty as well.

Is this... really what it appears to be?

A way to alter her thinking?

Mind control her like the creep I know I am?

I decide to skip the part where I think all of this is just an elaborate prank or if I'm just going insane.

Because, if I'm going insane... It's better than what I have now. If I'm actually just having a heart attack in my gaming chair, and this is all just a dying dream for my sad brains, I might as well let sweet **** embrace me with this delicious fap fantasy.

Seriously - what the fuck would I have to lose at this point? My illustrious place in society or something?

I click on the hearts, hoping to fill them in.

But of course, that would be too easy. Instead, a strange timetable opens.

Is... Is this a list of her activities?

It appears to be.

Jennifer's timetable has been divided into four parts. Morning, day, evening and night.

Right now, she seems to have "work as a cashier at Jakey's" every day-time, from Monday to Friday.

And at evenings...

Well, one evening she has "gaming", the other "reading", and on Thursday...

"Hang out with boyfriend".

Oh. Right.

Of course she would have a boyfriend.

And later, Thursday night...

"Have sex with boyfriend".

I stare. That line just sits there, casual. Like it belongs. Like it's a valid bullet point on a to-do list.

A cold tightness crawls through my stomach. Not jealousy-no, that would require hope. This is something darker. More hollow. The kind of feeling that leaves an aftertaste.

There's a little arrow next to the entry. I probably shouldn't click it.

Tap.

A drop-down menu unfolds like a trap.

Dozens of options, most grayed-out, unreadable static. Locked behind question marks or progress bars.

But a handful-just a few-are clickable.

"Sleeping" (-2 STRESS)

"Have sex with boyfriend" (-3 STRESS)

"Masturbate while thinking about User" (+3 CORRUPTION, +5 LOVE, +5 STRESS)

Wait...

Holy shit.

This is actually... harem management.