The fluorescent lights in the open-plan office buzzed like dying mosquitoes,
flickering just enough to make Lucien Voss's left eye twitch.
São Paulo, 2025, end of another shift that somehow stretched into unpaid overtime again.
His desk smelled of cold coffee and the faint metallic tang from the ancient AC unit that never quite cooled anything.
Papers piled up—reports on quarterly metrics that nobody would read.
His back ached from the cheap ergonomic chair that wasn't ergonomic for shit.
"Voss, one more hour on the dashboard fix. Client's breathing down my neck."
The boss leaned over the partition, tie loose, sweat stains blooming under his arms.
He didn't ask.
He never asked.
Just stated it like the universe owed him free labor.
Lucien stared at the screen, cursor blinking mockingly on a spreadsheet full of numbers that blurred together.
Thirty-eight years old in his head, but the body felt older after these marathons.
"Sure, boss. No problem."
The words came out flat.
Inside, his mind screamed something else.
He glanced at the cheap monitor clock: 8:47 PM.
Traffic outside would be a nightmare, horns blaring, motos weaving like drunks.
His phone buzzed on the desk—a notification from the bookstore app.
The final physical volume of his favorite series, the one with the ruthless system MC who hoarded everything and left bodies in his wake.
"Out of stock. Next reprint: unknown."
"Fuck."
He muttered it under his breath, thumb scrolling frantically.
Pre-order window closed two hours ago while he was stuck here debugging someone else's mess.
That copy was supposed to be his escape tonight, dog-eared pages and all, the kind of thing that made the commute home bearable.
The boss lingered, tapping a pen on the divider.
"You good? Eyes on the prize, right? Team player."
Lucien forced a nod, jaw tight.
Team player.
What a joke.
The guy had promised the raise three months back, then "budget cuts."
Same story every quarter.
Lucien's fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing lines of code that felt pointless.
Data entry for a company that treated employees like replaceable apps.
His mind wandered to the novel's protagonist—some isekai bastard who woke up with cheats and just took what he wanted.
No begging.
No overtime.
Just pure, unfiltered accumulation.
Lucien had binged the latest arcs on his lunch break yesterday, hidden behind a browser tab.
The MC laughed at gods, built empires from scraps, pulled beauties into his orbit without apology.
If I had that...
A sharp pain shot through his temple.
Stress headache, probably.
The office air tasted stale, recycled through too many lungs.
Colleague two desks over coughed wetly, not covering his mouth.
Typical.
He refreshed the app again.
Still out of stock.
The little "notify me" button mocked him.
Notify for what?
Another delay while some scalper jacked the price to triple?
Lucien's stomach growled.
He hadn't eaten since the soggy pastel from the corner vendor at noon.
Wallet felt light—rent due soon, and that stupid streaming subscription he kept forgetting to cancel.
Life in the big city: grind, commute, scroll, repeat.
Twenty-eight on paper, but the mirror in the bathroom showed bags under his eyes that belonged to someone twice that.
The boss finally wandered off, barking at another junior about deadlines.
Lucien leaned back, chair creaking.
He pulled up the novel's forum in a private tab.
Comments flooded in: "MC too OP, love it."
"When's the next harem chapter?"
"This faceslap arc slaps harder than my ex's drama."
He smirked despite himself.
Those readers got it.
The appeal wasn't heroism.
It was the fantasy of never settling, never scraping by.
Greed as fuel.
Wanting it all and actually getting it, consequences be damned.
Outside the window, rain started pattering against the glass, smearing the city lights into neon streaks.
São Paulo at night: endless towers, billboards pushing credit cards and miracle diets.
Lucien's phone screen dimmed, battery low.
He plugged it in, the cable frayed at the edges from too many yanks.
Another notification pinged—work email.
"Urgent: Review attached file before EOD."
EOD.
End of day.
What day?
This one bled into tomorrow anyway.
He rubbed his eyes, the heterocromatic thing in his imagination flashing for a second—nah, just fatigue playing tricks.
Real eyes were plain brown, nothing special.
Hair a mess from running fingers through it all afternoon.
Body average, nothing sculpted.
Just another guy in a button-up that smelled faintly of yesterday's laundry.
The boss circled back, voice lower this time.
"Come on, Voss. One hour. I'll buy you a beer after."
Lie.
He'd said that before and vanished into his car.
Lucien exhaled through his nose.
The pen in his hand felt cheap, plastic cracking under his grip.
He thought about the novel's opening—truck-kun or some bullshit, then boom, new world, broken system, infinite gains.
Readers ate that up.
Him?
He'd do it dirtier.
No noble bullshit.
Just take, multiply, own.
The rain picked up, drumming harder.
His knee bounced under the desk, restless energy with nowhere to go.
Colleague coughed again.
Someone's microwave dinged in the break room—leftover feijoada, probably burnt.
He locked his screen for a second, staring at the black reflection.
Face looked tired.
Jaw set.
That scar on his eyebrow?
Nah, just a trick of the light from the flicker.
Or maybe he'd always had it and never noticed.
"Fuck this."
The words slipped out louder than intended.
A few heads turned, then pretended not to.
Boss raised an eyebrow.
"Problem?"
Lucien met his gaze, something cold settling in his chest.
Not anger exactly.
Just... clarity.
The kind that hits when you're one notification away from losing the last thing that made the grind tolerable.
He stood up slowly, chair scraping.
"Yeah. Big one."
No more overtime tonight.
He grabbed his bag, phone still buzzing with that out-of-stock alert.
The walk to the elevator felt longer than usual, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Rain smell seeped in from the lobby downstairs—wet concrete and exhaust.
In the elevator, alone, he leaned against the mirrored wall.
The reflection stared back: average height, average build, average everything.
But inside, the thought looped louder.
Fuck it. If I die, I want to be reborn in a place where I never have to beg for what's mine again. I want to be the owner of the whole damn thing.
The doors dinged open.
He stepped into the downpour, no umbrella, letting it soak through his shirt.
Horns blared.
A moto splashed past.
Lucien Voss walked into the São Paulo night, the final line echoing in his skull like a promise he hadn't earned yet.