The Glitch in the Grid
The chocolate bar was halfway to my mouth when I saw her.
A woman—barefoot, wild-eyed, and stunning in a way that made traffic part around her like she was Moses with better hair—was sprinting through the intersection, weaving between self-driving cars that honked in polite confusion. She didn't look back. She didn't slow down. She was heading straight for the woods.
I muttered, "Damn. I was just about to enjoy my favorite—simple chocolate, peanuts, no drama." I tossed the bar onto the passenger seat and hit the siren.
She didn't stop.
I pulled the squad car over and jumped out, boots crunching against the perfect pavement. Only in this flawless utopia, I thought, do you chase barefoot women into government-sanctioned wilderness zones.
The woods were quiet, curated, and supposedly empty. I ran for what felt like forever, the trees blurring past, until I saw her—finally stopped, breathing hard, staring at something in the distance.
I slowed my pace, catching my breath. "Lady," I said, "you better have a damn good excuse."
She didn't even turn. Just pointed.
"What's that?" she asked.
I followed her gaze. There, half-swallowed by vines and time, stood a building. Rusted steel, shattered windows, a faded sign barely legible in the moonlight.
A factory.
That was impossible.
Factories hadn't existed in years—not since Light's system replaced agriculture, manufacturing, and supply chains with engineered perfection. Every city was self-sustaining now. No farms. No factories. Just clean, efficient living. Light had solved every problem, and in return, we gave him the world.
He became emperor of Earth. One government. One system. One flawless reality.
And yet—here it was. A glitch in the grid.
The woman took off again, sprinting toward the factory like it held answers to questions no one was supposed to ask.
I sighed, watching her disappear into the shadows. "Damn. Why can't I just have a normal day?