Monday mornings smell like burnt coffee and stale hope.
Annalie presses her thighs together in the itchy polyester of her work trousers and stares blankly at the broken receipt printer in front of her. The blinking red light dares her to try again. She doesn't. She just sighs and leans on the counter, the edge digging into her stomach.
The overhead lights in MegaMart are a bit too bright, and the air conditioning is either freezing or nonexistent depending on where you're standing. She's in the "miscellaneous returns" section—also known as limbo—where people bring back half-used candles and opened underwear with righteous fury.
"Excuse me?" A voice cuts through the soft hum of discount pop music. A woman with precisely plucked eyebrows and a scowl is glaring at her.
Annalie blinks. "Yes?"
"This shampoo didn't make my hair soft. I want a full refund."
There's exactly half a bottle left.
Annalie doesn't argue. She doesn't do much of anything. She just goes through the motions. Scan. Refund. Fake smile.
Her name tag says "Anna" because "Annalie" was too long for the default badge and she didn't care enough to ask for a new one. Her shirt is two sizes too big, hanging on her like a limp curtain. Her hair—frizzy, dull brown—has been tied up in a bun for two years straight. Her skin's oily, her chin has a small army of pimples, and she can still hear Kevin from the warehouse calling her "discount Quasimodo" last week when he thought she was out of earshot.
She heard him. She hears everything.
But she doesn't cry. She just works.
Later That Night
Home is a studio apartment with peeling paint, a lumpy mattress, and a kitchen sink that doubles as a dish graveyard.
She strips down to her underwear, stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, and doesn't flinch anymore. The first time she did this—really looked—she thought she'd throw up.
Now, she just studies the damage clinically.
Crooked teeth. A mole that seems to have a personality of its own. Saggy boobs that seem more tired than she is.
"Whatever," she mutters, turning away.
She climbs into bed, phone in hand. She scrolls. Scrolls past couples kissing, makeup tutorials she'll never follow, hot girls doing dances she has no bones for.
She doesn't even feel jealous anymore. Just tired.
The phone buzzes. System Notification: [New Program Installed.]
She frowns. She didn't install anything.
It buzzes again.
[Welcome, User. You are eligible for the Life Essence Optimization Program.][Requirement: Absorb Life Essence through sexual activity with willing partners.][Side Effects: Improved physical appearance, vocal tone, pheromonal output.][Do you accept? Y/N]
She squints. "The hell?"
Is this a virus?
She presses N.
The screen flickers.
[Decline Registered. However, Program cannot be removed.][You may accept at any time.]
She tries to uninstall it. She turns off the phone. She turns it back on. It's still there. The icon is a heart-shaped droplet pulsing faintly.
She stares at it.
Then she shrugs.
"Yeah, okay. This is my life now."