Chapter 1

The alarm never had a chance to ring. Jean woke an hour early, but habit is habit. She hit it with the back of her palm anyway, and it crashed against the wall.

"Jesus Christ, another fucking day," she muttered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

It was still dark outside, and she went for an even darker coffee, but her espresso machine didn't budge.

"Fuck this shit!" She kicked the metal like she knew what she was doing. Miraculously, the machine started working again. "Perfect!"

She answered a few dozen emails on her iPhone, brushed her teeth, and took a phone call while in the shower.

"What do you mean he's not done yet? It's 5 a.m. already! Tell him to be ready in one hour, or he's fired."

Her shower was larger than a normal person's apartment. Heck, her apartment was larger than most people's houses. She lived in a penthouse at the top of a 30-story building. From that place, she could see the entire city like she owned it.

A few strokes with a hairbrush, some face cream, and a light touch of makeup and lipstick. She looked at herself in the mirror. Cold blue eyes stared back at her from the reflection. Her blond hair was caught in a ponytail that flowed down her back.

"A day like any other," she muttered to herself. "Why am I even doing this?"

She spent the next few hours on her MacBook, preparing for the day. As the sun rose higher, she grabbed a piece of toast and ate it in two bites. She gulped her coffee and set out for work.

Her job was a five-minute walk away, but she took the car anyway. Her Mercedes tore down the road. Her radio pumped some random pop music, but she didn't even pay attention to it.

When she arrived in the bank building, all faces turned to her. Some tried to hide behind their monitors.

"Back to work, everyone. And good morning, by the way."

One subordinate approached her in the hallway to deliver project proposals. She checked the first paper.

"Not another AI startup idea. Tell them we don't invest in this shit here."

She rushed to her office where a bunch of customers were waiting in line.

"Denied! Next!" she yelled, squeezing the stress ball with the bank's logo in her hand.

Another person. And then another. Five denials later, this was the first plan that made sense. Still...

"A coffee shop. Why? There's already 37 cafes in town."

The customer explained his vision with great enthusiasm.

"You may know what you're doing, but this city is overcrowded with coffee shops. You won't stand a chance. Sorry. Denied. Come up with a better idea."

She was not going to waste bank money on trivial shit.

The person left, distressed. She leaned back in her chair, alone in her large office, staring at the ceiling. She looked again at the papers from before.

"A coffee shop, huh? I wish I had the guts to start my own thing one day."

She sighed, crumpling up the documents.

"Fuck it."

On her door, it read: Regional Bank Manager.

Jean remembered how she had to suck it up for most of her career to climb the corporate ladder. Despite being barely 35, she was now the person in charge of all the banks in the state. Last quarter, her financials went through the roof. The board of directors and the shareholders were so happy they wanted her to hold a seminar for the other regional bank managers.

"Those bastards. I have to teach them everything. They should let me own the entire corporation, you know?"

She threw the coffee shop project paper in the garbage can.

After a day's work, Jean drove back home. It was late in the evening, but the early summer sun was still up in the sky.

She went back to her apartment, to the floor where her gym was. Yes, her penthouse spanned three floors, with her personal gym on the top one. The place could rival the best gym in the city.

Deadlifts. Weighted squats. Controlled sets on the cable machine, slow and precise. Reps until sweat beaded on her body. Gasping for breath, she threw a final punch into the punching bag, before collapsing onto the floor.

She took a towel and lingered by the edge of her balcony, staring below. All the big buildings in the city could be seen from this place.

In the building across the street, she saw a man painting on his balcony. He was many floors below, his back turned toward her.

Jean squinted. The man was not entirely dressed—he wore trousers but no shirt. His body was covered in paint of various colors: red, blue, and pink. He was drawing something on canvas. A painting, certainly, but she couldn't tell what from that distance.

"Such a chill guy," she thought, staring intently, her fingers absently fiddling with her blonde hair.

Then, at one moment, he turned and she could see his face better. He didn't look up, so he didn't see her. But she could see him clearly now. He had this big, dumb smile on his face.

She remembered him. She had seen his photo in a bank file. A client who'd come in for a personal loan a while ago. He was broke, and he had more debt than most people in this city. How on earth was he so relaxed?

"Name, name..."

She recalled everything. She knew all the names and numbers in her bank by heart.

"John Butterfly. Three hundred thousand dollars in debt. Student loans, medical bills, and something else... hmm, credit cards, was it?"

Yeah, he was beyond broke, beyond redemption. Just another personal bankruptcy ready to blow up against her bank.

Why was he wasting his time painting instead of working to pay off his debt? It made no sense.

But as she looked, there was something fascinating about this guy. And for a moment she wished she could have some of that. Whatever that was.

She noticed the early-summer sunset deepening and stepped back from the window in disbelief. How long had she been staring at that shirtless young man?

"Shit, he must be 10 years younger than me... what am I even doing."

She slapped her cheeks, hoping the redness from the slap would cover the redness from the shame.

"Forget the boy, Jean, there's still work to do..."

She was ready to go to her home office and work some more before sleep. Just like she had yesterday, and just as she would tomorrow and every single day for the rest of her life.

She inhaled deeply, and her fists clenched.

"I hate my life!" she yelled. "I wish I could open that coffee shop myself!"

And then it happened.

A powerful whoosh made her look up. The sky grew dark out of nowhere, as if something had instantly covered it with a blanket. The sound flooded her ears for a brief moment.

Jean was perplexed, but before she could reach for the window, everything was gone. It barely lasted a couple of seconds. The sunset returned, and the normal orange sky reappeared above her.

It was as though nothing had happened.

She looked down at the streets. A dog walked on a leash, but no one held it anymore. A few cars sat in the middle of the street, but there was no longer anyone to drive them. The bustling downtown streets were now empty and peaceful.

Jean was in shock, her eyes wide in disbelief, her heart racing.

Down below, her gaze landed on the artist from the building next door. He was still there. He seemed to have glanced at the sky for a moment, then continued his painting as if nothing had happened.

Everyone else was nowhere to be seen.

"What the..." she whispered, her mouth shifting between shock and a smile.