The sound of an air raid siren shattered the silence at 5 a.m. Han's alarm. The contractors couldn’t wait. They needed their supplies. If he wasn’t at the store, someone would botch the order or charge the wrong account, and he’d have to fix it later.

  He lit a cigarette and slid open the balcony door. The heavy, yeasty stench of the brewery hit him immediately. The smell lingered day and night, even though the plant sat on the other side of the building. People got used to it, or pretended to. At least from up here he could see the ocean beyond the rooftops of the houses. Though it was three blocks away, the view still brought him peace and reminded him of childhood days spent playing along the shore, where he had first fallen in love with rocks.

  He couldn’t risk being late again. One more time and he could lose his job. He hurried out the door, past the wall of action figures, and headed out on the road. The city still slept around him. His condo was nowhere near work, forty-five minutes with no traffic, double or triple that when it was busy. But the ocean was close enough, and that kept him there, along with the fact that several units in his building had sat unsold for years. Who wanted to live next to a brewery?

  The sun was just rising when the store opened. The twenty-something manager on duty waved as Han walked in and settled behind his desk. Everyone knew Han would move more product in the next couple of hours than most cashiers moved in a full shift.

  A few contractors bypassed other stores just to come to him. Free pencils, hats, he always had something tucked away. He wasn’t merely the guy behind the desk. He was the one who knew exactly what you needed and where to find it.

  “Best sales numbers in the country,” the managers bragged whenever the head office visited. Han never asked for time off. Every year he took the cash payout for vacation instead of the days off.

  By 10 a.m. the morning rush had always ended. Han sat outside at his picnic table, smoking a cigarette after finishing his leftovers. Most of his coworkers were still mid-shift, while a few were just arriving. They nodded as they passed. Everyone knew him. He didn’t mind the solitude. They were nearly twenty years younger, listening to music he couldn’t stand. Divorced, a heavy smoker, and far more interested in rocks than in TikToks, he preferred his own company.

  As usual, he spent the rest of his lunch break playing casino games, and, as usual, he lost another fifty bucks. He cursed under his breath and returned inside to finish his shift.

  The drive home was always brutal: school buses stopping every block, children darting across streets, brake lights stretching endlessly. Traffic crawled bumper to bumper on the freeway.

  His small two-bedroom condo looked worn, decades of neglect etched into every surface. His mother had been a hoarder, and he had inherited both the place and its clutter. Barely any room to walk remained. The second bedroom overflowed with boxes and unused exercise equipment. The door wouldn’t even close. The living room fared no better, and the kitchen counter disappeared beneath unpaid bills.

  His bedroom, though, stayed relatively clear. Shelves displayed his treasures: anime figurines, some still sealed in mint-condition boxes; trays of labeled rocks, minerals, and fossils, their tags fading with time; and books on geology, astronomy, and anything rock-related.

  After a quick smoke on the balcony, he drifted back inside and sank into his gaming chair. The computer hummed awake, twin monitors bathing the room in artificial light. Casino games flashed on one screen, demanding attention. On the other, his favorite streamer girl winked and waved at her chat. He leaned back and muttered, “If I could just get lucky this one time, just this once.” Luck, like women, always seemed to elude him.

  Driving home from work one day, it felt as though nothing would ever change. His clothes were perpetually ruined, paint, spray foam, sap, but today the culprit was glue. Then, while stopped at a red light, he saw her at the bus stop. She looked about ten years younger than him, slim yet voluptuous, her long straight black hair tied back with a white ribbon that fluttered in the breeze. Everything about her seemed almost divine.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Rays of light broke through the clouds, illuminating her skin and hair. She felt strangely familiar, though he couldn’t place why. He stared far too long.

  The light turned green. Horns blared behind him. Snapped back to reality, not by the noise, but because she was looking directly at him. He flushed with embarrassment, ground the gears into drive as he shifted, and sped away, cursing. Her face stayed with him the rest of the night and followed him to bed.

  In a dream, they walked together along the beach, hand in hand, laughing as gentle waves lapped the shore. They embraced beneath the moon. Then the mood shifted. She slapped his face. Bewilderment flooded him. She ran off crying, “Why would you leave me?” Han jolted awake, tangled in sheets, heart pounding, her voice still echoing. The dream had vanished, but the confusion lingered.

  A few days later, Han spotted her again and timed the traffic light to turn red perfectly. This time, though, three young men were harassing her. They tugged at her purse, grabbed for her phone, and shoved her to the ground.

  Fury erupted inside him like a volcano. Without thinking, he yanked up the emergency brake, leaped from the car, and charged like a bull released from a gate. Rage and determination poured off him as he stormed toward the assailants.

  One fled before Han even reached them. The second hesitated, half-turned in retreat. The third tried to play tough. “What you gonna do, old head?” the barely eighteen-year-old scoffed, right before Han’s fist connected with his face like a Saitama punch.

  “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” Han whispered as the boy crumpled like wet tofu. Han stood tall, grim-faced and ready for more.

  The second assailant dragged his unconscious friend toward the nearby park where the third had hidden. They hurled profanities and empty threats. “We’ll get you back! We know where you live!” But their voices faded as quickly as their courage. Han wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his already-stained clothes, then helped her to her feet.

  Car horns blared, pulling him back to reality. His Civic still blocked traffic, but the drivers seemed strangely forgiving this time. “Are you okay?” he asked, then blurted, “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  She hesitated, studying him. He hurried to add, “I just got off work. I’ve got time. I’d like to give you a ride.” He turned his head, embarrassed, bracing for rejection.

  Then she spoke. “Sure,” she said, glancing nervously down the street, “they might come back.”

  They walked to his car together. Her eyes widened as the bus approached, but she said nothing. Inside, Han was too star-struck to notice. He kept stealing glances at her beauty, wondering if this was really happening.

  “Where to?” he asked. “I grew up here. I know the area well. I’m Han Fist, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but mine are covered in blood and glue.” He chuckled nervously.

  “Take a left, please, Han.” Her voice was shy but honey-sweet. “I’m on my way to work, the library on 4th Street, if you know it. I’m Mars Wells. Thanks so much for helping me… Mr. Fist.” She giggled.

  Han's stomach dropped. The library. That was where he knew her from, the hot young librarian he used to tease with suggestive book titles just to see her blush. He risked a glance. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she excitedly pointed out her favorite café. It was definitely her. Thinking back, he realized it had been almost ten years since he’d visited the library, half for geology and astronomy research, half to flirt with the woman behind the desk.

  He had stopped going when he got a girlfriend, who soon became his wife, then quickly his ex. Two years of marriage had left him with over thirty thousand dollars in debt. It had taken years to pay off. Thank god that chapter was ancient history, he thought.

  The lights ahead stayed stubbornly green. He wished they would turn red so he could say something clever. Instead, he blurted the mundane: “How long have you worked at the library?”

  Mars perked up. “Just over twelve years,” she said. “And you, Han? Where do you work? How long have you been there, if you don’t mind me asking.” Her shyness softened her voice, but her eyes showed genuine interest.

  He turned the car right and glanced at her. “I’m a contractor consultant at the hardware superstore on 99th Avenue. Twenty years now.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, I hope I’m not taking you too far out of your way.”

  “No, not at all. I live near the beach. I love the ocean. The morning drive isn’t bad, and the drive home…” He hesitated, then smiled. “…the drive home led me to you.”

  Mars turned to the window, warmed by the words. Han stared ahead, surprised at how easily the words had come out. A red light finally stopped them, giving them both an excuse to look at each other. He scrambled for something to say. “Sooo… is it Mars like the planet, or Mars like the God of War?” he joked, immediately regretting it.

  She giggled. “It’s both.”

  Silence settled over the Civic, tinged with sadness that the ride was ending. The library loomed too close. He wanted to circle the block, make it last forever. Mars hesitated before getting out. “Maybe… I could get your number? We could grab coffee sometime? So I can thank you properly.”

  Stunned, Han rattled off his phone number three times in a row. She smirked, thumbs flying on her phone. A moment later his pocket buzzed: “This is me,” the text read. “Mars.”