Milo's alarm clock screamed at him, a shrill, unrelenting sound that tore through the air like a malfunctioning fire alarm. He groaned, rolling over in his bed to hit the snooze button for the third time in a row. The alarm clock had one job, and it performed it with irritating precision—every five minutes, it would start all over again.
He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Another day. Another soul-crushing grind in the office," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. The apartment around him was a disaster, littered with takeout boxes, empty coffee cups, and clothes strewn about as if he was some kind of anarchist in his own home. But he was too tired to care. A quick glance at the clock confirmed it: he was already late for his "dream job"—a mind-numbing, paper-pushing gig in a cubicle farm that sucked the will to live out of even the most optimistic souls.
The only thing that motivated him to get up was the faint hope that today might be the day he'd finally quit and become a professional napper. The world had a way of crushing dreams, though.
Milo reluctantly sat up, his body feeling like a bag of cement, and scratched his head. "I should probably shower," he said with zero enthusiasm. His hair, which looked like it had been styled by a wind tunnel, agreed.
Before he could make his way to the bathroom, however, his thoughts were interrupted by a voice. A very loud, very intrusive voice that came from absolutely nowhere.
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "Good morning, Milo. Your new mission is simple: restore balance to a world falling apart. Don't panic. I'll be guiding you. Probably."
Milo blinked. He wasn't sure if he was still dreaming or if his brain had finally snapped from the crushing weight of his existence. He rubbed his eyes and looked around his messy apartment. Nope. Still a mess. And no, the voice wasn't coming from his phone, or his TV, or the refrigerator.
"Am I... am I hallucinating?" Milo muttered, leaning against his desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached for the nearest coffee cup.
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "It's not a hallucination, Milo. I'm your personal assistant system. We're going to fix everything. Hopefully."
He stared at the empty coffee mug in his hand, blinking again. "Uh-huh. Sure. And I'm in some weird fever dream where I get assigned a task by a voice in my head. Yeah, that sounds perfectly normal."
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "Well, you don't need to sound so sarcastic. I'm just here to help. Mostly."
"Uh, sure, thanks, system," Milo said, clearly not reassured in the slightest. "I'll just add you to my list of things to worry about. Right under my unpaid rent and my existential dread."
Before he could delve deeper into his spiraling thoughts, Milo took a deep breath and forced himself to stand up, determined to get this day over with. If he didn't, he'd be late for his soul-crushing office job, and that would probably push him further into some unknown abyss of despair. But fate had other plans.
Milo took a step forward, his eyes still half-lidded from sleep, and immediately tripped on the shoelaces of his left sneaker—those damn shoelaces had been conspiring against him for weeks. His body jerked, arms flailing in an exaggerated, cartoonish manner as he attempted to catch himself. In a shocking display of poor coordination, he launched himself into his office chair with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.
"Wha—!?" Milo managed to gasp, just before the chair shot out from under him like it was a rocket, sending him skidding across the room. The trajectory of his fall sent his knee slamming into his desk with a loud, painfully comedic thud.
"Great," Milo groaned, clutching his leg. "This is it. This is how I die. In the most embarrassing way possible. Of course."
But Milo's misery was far from over.
As he tried to push himself up, his foot caught the edge of the chair, and it sent him hurtling into the air in slow motion. Everything around him seemed to freeze for a brief second as he twisted midair, his body contorting in a way that defied the laws of physics. A dramatic "whoosh!" sound filled the room, as if the universe itself was trying to add some flair to his impending doom.
Milo's mind raced as his life flashed before his eyes—or, more accurately, a blurry series of terrible decisions and missed opportunities. "This is it. This is my legacy. I will be remembered as the guy who tripped over his shoelaces and got sucked into a rift in reality. Perfect."
Just as he was about to crash into the ground with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes, Milo had a brief moment of clarity. Was this some kind of prank? A joke? Was he on some weird TV show?
Before he could get any further with his existential crisis, his body collided with something soft and squishy, and with an almost comedic poof, the world around him turned inside out. The rift swallowed him whole.
Milo's final thoughts before he disappeared completely were, unsurprisingly, filled with annoyance. "Yep, I'm definitely dreaming. Either that, or I'm dead. Either way, I can't say I didn't see this coming."
And with that, the chaotic scene that was Milo's life vanished into the rift, leaving only the sound of a very confused, very disgruntled system voice echoing behind him.
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "... Well, that was dramatic. But don't worry, Milo. You're just getting started."