Chapter Text
He is running late.
Again.
7:30 AM. If he doesn’t move now, he’s not gonna hear the other end of the lecture.
But it’s not his fault the clouds decided to make it impossible to see traffic properly. Rain drizzled like tiny diamonds on the streets below, glinting off every surface, while he scrambled in his apartment, cursing the Monday gods.
Ethan stumbled over his own loafers, nearly tripping on the corner of a stray sock, as he conducted his twentieth attempt at finding his keys. Where are they? He swore he’d placed them near his laptop last night after finishing his reports. That was the plan. The plan had failed spectacularly.
“The hell…” he muttered, unzipping and zipping his workbag for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. Papers flew like tiny tornadoes, landing in stacks that could’ve been a modern art masterpiece if someone were paying good money for chaos.
7:35 AM. Five minutes. That’s all he had. Five minutes before the Head of Finance would unleash the fury of someone who, apparently, hates Mondays more than anyone else on Earth.
Did he leave them on the kitchen counter? Nope. He’d wiped it clean last night after a late snack. The counter was as empty as his motivation to get out of bed.
Nightstand? Nada. Drawer? Zilch.
His phone buzzed. His stomach dropped like an elevator with broken cables.
Is it the boss? A new project? A warning because he’s late… again?
He picked it up with exaggerated caution, as if holding it too firmly might cause spontaneous combustion.
Human CCTV: Ethan, I hope you didn't forget that you put your keys in your lunch bag.
“Wait… lunch bag?” he muttered, eyes widening.
He grabbed it and shook it upside down. Papers scattered, half a granola bar tumbled out, but then—
Metal clanged. The keys. They tumbled across the floor like tiny golden trophies mocking him.
He stared. Back at his phone. Back at the keys. Back at the phone. “Oh, for the love of—”
Human CCTV: Let me guess, they were in your lunch bag. You said you'd see them when you pack your lunch.
His phone buzzed again. Two new notifications.
DIVA: ETHAN. BABE. LISTEN. THIS CALLS FOR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.
He paused. Already he could hear the faint wail of crying emojis and angry demon emojis forming in his head.
DIVA: I'M OUT OF MY BELOVED GOLD SEQUINS.
Cue internal groan and involuntary chuckle. He already knew this was going to be a three-part disaster:
1) the panic
2) the pleading
3) the dramatic emoji meltdown.
He typed:
Financial Snacker: I'll pass by Target later after work.
Then hesitated. His thumb hovered over “send.” He added, almost like a desperate experiment:
Financial Snacker: Also… remind me why gold sequins are literally life or death?
DIVA: HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME. GOLD IS THE ONLY COLOR THAT MATTERS.
Ethan shook his head. Only Clifford could turn sequins into an international emergency.
Human CCTV: Ethan. You're gonna be late. I mean, you already are. But seconds are valuable.
7:36 AM. Four minutes. Panic dialed up to eleven.
He ran his hands through his dark hair, muttering “Monday, why… why do you hate me?” over and over, while simultaneously looking under every chair cushion and behind every stack of papers on his desk.
He nearly knocked over his coffee mug. “Nope, nope, nope,” he muttered, as the liquid barely missed the paperwork catastrophe forming below.
His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. He couldn’t handle two crises at once. Well… except, actually, one was self-made.
Metal jingled again. He picked up his keys—triumphant but suspicious. For a split second, their clinking echoed in his mind longer than it should have. Maybe he was imagining things. Definitely Monday.
7:37 AM. Three minutes. Time to run. Or sprint. Or do something, anything.
He shoved his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his coffee like a lifeline, and slipped into his loafers. The moment he stepped outside, the chill hit him like an unwelcome hug. Rain pattered lightly against his umbrella-less head. Cars honked, traffic lights blinked impatiently. The city didn’t care that he was late.
DIVA: YOU ARE A SAINT. AN ABSOLUTE BLESSING.
He smiled despite himself. If nothing else, he was someone’s saint. Someone ridiculously dramatic, sequins-obsessed saint.
The texts continued pinging, each one a tiny punctuation mark of chaos in his morning. He noticed for the first time the neighbor across the street scowling at him like he’d just committed a crime. Probably thought he was some kind of maniac yelling at his phone while dodging traffic. Which… fair.
7:38 AM. Two minutes. The elevator? Already gone. He’d have to take the stairs. Great. The floors creaked under his panicked footsteps. Every sound felt louder than it should.
He cursed silently, thinking back to last Friday—when he’d also forgotten his keys and Clifford had somehow mailed them to him using a glitter-covered box. Ethan shuddered. Monday was clearly personal.
7:39 AM. One minute.
He paused at the front door. A fleeting thought flashed through his mind. The streetlight flickered in a weird, jerky rhythm. A chill crawled up his spine. For half a second, he felt… odd. Not just “late-for-work” odd. Something small and buzzing, like a faint static in the back of his mind. He shook it off. Definitely Monday.
He sprinted to the car, nearly colliding with a cyclist. “Sorry!” he yelled. Coffee went flying. Keys jingled heroically.
7:40 AM. He was in the car. Engine on. Heart racing.
He glanced at his phone one last time.
Human CCTV: Seconds are valuable, Ethan.
He muttered, “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” as he merged into the traffic, the city humming around him like a symphony of chaos.
And somewhere in the distance, he could almost hear the faint echo of jingling keys…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ethan slammed the car door and realized he had exactly… zero time to get coffee. Of course. Why would Monday be easy?
He shoved his bag onto the passenger seat, muttering about keys, rain, and sequins all in one breath.
Then his phone buzzed again.
DIVA: Also. Don’t forget. Tonight. You promised to help me with the… uh… glitter situation.
He groaned. “Glitter situation” was definitely a euphemism. He didn’t even want to ask.
As he backed out of the driveway, he noticed a familiar black SUV pull up across the street. Ethan squinted. Could it be… no. Definitely not.
Except it was.
Clifford leaned out the window with that ridiculous smirk, hair perfectly coiffed despite the drizzle.
He waved.
“Morning, Hughes!” Clifford called. “Late again, huh? You smell like panic and coffee. Delicious.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You’re here… why?”
Clifford leaned back, eyes sparkling. “Oh, nothing. Just… keeping an eye on my saint. You never know when the apocalypse—or traffic—will strike.”
Ethan blinked. Then blinked again. He could’ve sworn there was something odd about the way Clifford’s eyes caught the light, like… static? Maybe it was the rain. Definitely the rain.
“Uh… thanks?” Ethan said, gripping the wheel tighter.
“Anytime, babe. You’re welcome,” Clifford said, winking, before speeding off.
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. Only in his life could showing up to work feel like a secret spy operation.
And maybe it kind of was.
Because, unknown to him, not all of the chaos around him was normal.
Some things… were just waiting.