THE NEW MILLER

CHAPTER TWO

A knock sounded at the door. It wasn't a polite knock. It was a heavy, rhythmic pounding that made the thin walls vibrate.

"Get your ass out here, Miller! You're ten minutes late!"

The voice belonged to Marcus. He was my supervisor at the logistics hub, a man whose personality was as abrasive as the sandpaper he used to scrub his calloused hands. In my first life, I had spent three years apologizing to him every single morning.

I stood up slowly. My muscles felt weak, underdeveloped. I felt a surge of disgust for this version of myself, but beneath the disgust was a spark of something else. Hunger.

I opened the door.

Marcus stood there, a mountain of a man with a neck thicker than my thigh and a face that looked like it had been carved from a potato. He was wearing his grey foreman's jumpsuit, his arms crossed over a barrel chest.

"Look at you," Marcus sneered, his voice a low rumble. "Still in your pajamas? Do you think the world stops turning because Aeron Miller needs a little extra beauty sleep?"

I didn't flinch. I didn't apologize. I didn't look at the floor. I looked him straight in the eyes.

The silence stretched. Marcus's brow furrowed. He was used to me stuttering, used to the way I would shrink into myself like a salted slug.

"What's with that look?" Marcus asked, his voice dropping a bit." You having a stroke?"

I stepped forward, closing the gap between us. I could smell the stale tobacco and cheap coffee clinging to his breath.

"I'm coming, Marcus, stop shouting." I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears, quiet, but steady. I went back inside the room and freshened up, Marcus was still standing dumbfounded outside the door when I came out again.

He blinked, his expression shifting from annoyance to confusion. He stepped back a half-inch, a subconscious reaction to the lack of fear in my gaze.

"Since when do you talk back?" He asked.

"Since I stopped caring about your opinion," I replied.

I walked past him, my shoulder brushing against his. He stood shaken in the hallway, his mouth slightly open. I could almost feel the gears turning in his head, trying to process my sudden courage in talking back at him without flinching. I left the cheap dorm where most of my coworkers lived.

As I walked toward the transit station, the city of Oakhaven unfolded around me in all its decaying glory. It was a metropolis of contradictions. Floating mag-lev trains zipped between shimmering chrome skyscrapers where the corporate lords lived in eternal luxury, while below, the streets were a labyrinth of neon-lit slums, steam vents, and crowded markets.

I watched the people. A woman in a tailored suit ignored a beggar; a group of teenagers laughed while kicking a discarded drone. They were all so blissfully ignorant. They had no idea that in one week, their jewelry would be worthless, their credits would be meaningless, and their only currency would be blood and steel.

I reached the logistics hub, a massive warehouse where we sorted the shipments of synthetic proteins and medical supplies for the upper sectors. It was a place of noise and grime, filled with the rhythmic clanking of conveyor belts and the shouting of stressed workers.

As soon as I stepped onto the floor, a hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around.

"Hey, Wimp!"

It was Brad. He was a few years younger than me, a gym-rat with a permanent smirk and a cruelty that was as effortless as breathing. He was flanked by two other guys who existed solely to laugh at his jokes.

"I heard you gave Marcus some lip this morning," Brad said, his grip tightening. "Everyone's talking about it. The little mouse finally found his squeak." Everyone laughed and jeered like usual.

I looked at his hand on my shoulder. In my first life, I would have asked him to let go. I would have tried to laugh it off, hoping he'd lose interest.

Now, I saw the opening, I shifted my weight, pivoted my hip, and drove the heel of my palm upward into the soft tissue beneath Brad's jaw.

The sound was a sharp, wet crack. Brad's head snapped back, his teeth clicking together with a jarring force. He stumbled backward, his eyes rolling in his head as he collapsed into a pile of empty shipping crates.

The warehouse went silent. The conveyor belts continued to hum, but the people stopped. Every eye in the room was on me.

Brad groaned, clutching his jaw, his smirk replaced by a look of sheer bewilderment. He tried to speak, but it came out as a garbled mess of saliva and confusion.

"What the hell was that?" One of his friends shouted, stepping forward.

I didn't look at the friend. I looked at Brad, who was staring up at me with a mixture of shock and burning rage.

"You're in my way," I said.

I walked toward my station, leaving them in the silence. My heart was hammering against my ribs, not from fear, but from the rush of it. The physical act of fighting was different this time. My body was weak, yes, but my mind knew exactly where the pressure points were. I had spent five years fighting things that could tear a man in half with a single swipe. Brad was nothing.

I spent the next four hours in a trance of calculation. While I sorted crates, my mind was mapping the city.

The first rift. October 17th, 12:00 PM. Location: The Old Cathedral District, specifically the basement of the Saint Jude ruins. The monster that emerged was a Shadow-Stalker—a creature of smoke and obsidian claws. It had killed forty people in the first ten minutes, but it dropped the Seed of Agility, a rare item that increased movement speed by twenty percent.

In my first life, I had found that seed three days later, long after the area had become a graveyard. This time, I would be there at 11:59.

I felt a presence behind me.

"Miller!"

I turned. It was Marcus. He looked livid, his face a shade of purple that matched the holographic ads outside. If it was the old me, I would be shaking like a wet rat.

"My office. Now! he bellowed.

I followed him into the small, glass-walled office that overlooked the warehouse. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Marcus screamed, leaning over his desk. You attack a coworker? On my floor? Do you have any idea how much paperwork an assault report generates?"

I leaned back against the door, crossing my arms.

"He started it, I said.

"He started it?" Marcus mocked, his voice reaching a screech. "He's been messing with you for years! That's just how it is! You're the bottom of the food chain, Miller! You're a nobody! You're a useless, pathetic little worm who is lucky I even let him clock in!"

I looked at him, and for a brief moment, I felt a strange sense of pity. This man thought he was powerful because he could yell at a twenty-something warehouse worker. He didn't know that in seven days, his authority would be as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

"You're right, Marcus, I said softly.

He paused, thrown by the sudden agreement.

"About what?"

"About the food chain," I replied. I stepped closer to the desk, my voice dropping to a whisper. "The thing about the food chain is that it changes. Sometimes, the predator becomes the prey."

"Don't you think so?"

" Mr Marcus?"