The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m.
Rian turned it off immediately.
No groaning.
No hesitation.
He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling of his small rented room as pale winter light leaked in through the curtains.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Work day."
He sat up, ran a hand through his messy brown hair, and stretched until his shoulders cracked. The room was simple—bed, desk, chair, heater that worked when it felt like it. Nothing extra. Nothing missing.
He liked it that way.
Breakfast was whatever he could make in five minutes.
Toast. Coffee. Burnt, but drinkable.
Rian pulled on his hoodie, checked the weather on his phone—snow later, of course—and stepped outside. Cold air bit at his face immediately.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake," he muttered to the wind.
The walk to the convenience store was familiar. Same streets. Same cracked sidewalk. Same people passing by with their own mornings to deal with.
No one paid him much attention.
That was fine.
Rian didn't remember his parents.
That wasn't something he avoided thinking about—it just wasn't there. No faces. No voices. Just a date written in a file he'd once been allowed to see.
December 25.
Left at the doorstep of an orphanage with nothing but a blanket and a quiet cry loud enough to be heard before the morning bells rang. No name attached. No explanation.
They gave him one instead.
Rian.
He'd carried it without a surname ever since.
The store came into view, lights already on, growing warm against the gray morning. A red-and-white sign buzzed faintly above the door. He pushed it open.
Ding.
The sound was familiar. Comforting.
Inside, the air smelled like coffee and cardboard. Rian tied his apron, clocked in, and stepped behind the counter like he'd done hundreds of times before.
Ontario mornings were always like this—slow, cold, and steady.
He liked steady.
Morning regulars came first.
A construction worker grabbing energy drinks.
A woman buying cigarettes and a lottery ticket.
An old man who nodded but never spoke.
"Morning."
"Have a good one."
"Stay warm."
Rian said it all with an easy smile.
The hours passed in quiet loops.
Stock shelves.
Scan items.
Make change.
Wipe the counter.
During slow moments, Rian leaned on the register and watched the snow drift past the windows. He liked these hours. They didn't rush him. They didn't expect anything more than showing up.
Sometimes, he wondered if this was what life was supposed to feel like.
Stable.
Predictable.
The clock above the freezer ticked steadily.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Rian glanced at it.
For half a second, the sound felt… off.
Like the space between ticks stretched too long.
He frowned.
"…Huh."
The clock kept going.
The register beeped as a customer set items down.
Rian straightened immediately.
"Sorry about that," he said with a smile. "Next in line."
The moment passed.
Normal.
Unimportant.
Rian rang up the purchase, handed over the receipt, and wished them a good day.
Outside, the snow fell thicker.
And somewhere between the hum of the freezer and the ticking clock, the bell above the door rang again.
"Rian."
He looked up.
The store owner stood near the counter, coat half-on, keys already in hand. He looked tired in the way people who worked too much always did.
"You can clock out early today," he said. "Snow's getting worse."
Rian blinked. "You sure?"
"Yeah. You covered enough shifts this week." The man paused, then added, "Get home safe."
Rian nodded. "Thanks."
He slipped off his apron, placed it neatly beneath the counter, and grabbed his jacket. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he stepped toward the door.
Ding.
Cold air rushed in as he stepped outside, the snow swallowing the sound behind him.
The door closed.
The store returned to its quiet.
And Rian walked home like he always did—
unaware that this ordinary night would be the last one to stay that way for long.
Across the street, beyond the reach of the streetlight, two figures stood where the snow had not yet settled.
One leaned against a metal railing, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets. Messy sliver hair brushed his collar as he tilted his head toward the convenience store, hazel eyes following the boy's fading silhouette. His build looked lazy at first glance—until he shifted, and the tension beneath his jacket betrayed something coiled and ready.
The other stood upright, slightly taller, posture precise. Snow melted the moment it touched his shoulders. His gaze never left the closed glass door, brown-hazel eyes sharp, calculating, as if measuring something invisible above the roofline.
"That pressure," the taller one said quietly. "It spiked again."
The one at the railing exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Way higher than it should be."
A truck passed. Headlights washed over them—and then they were shadows again.
"This place isn't supposed to host it," the taller one continued.
"Doesn't matter what it's supposed to do," the other replied. "It's happening anyway."
Silence followed. Snow fell harder.
The taller figure finally turned his head.
"The kid?"
The other nodded once. "Center of it. Or close enough to get crushed when it drops."
Another pause.
"Do we intervene?"
A faint grin tugged at the corner of the other's mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Not yet."
They watched the empty street for a few seconds longer.
Then the pressure eased—just slightly.
"That's worse," the taller one muttered.
Neither of them moved as the night swallowed the sound of the city again