I fell from the sky wearing half an apron and absolutely no dignity. The wind slapped my bare ass like it owed it money, and my apron whipped around wildly in front—the world's least effective parachute.

  I've had bad Wednesdays before. Once, the espresso machine at Perky Beans exploded and gave me second-degree burns. That Wednesday sucked. But this? Plummeting face-first toward a stampede of space-goblin marauders, beneath a sky the sickly pink of pepto bismol? Yeah, this Wednesday might take the cake.

  A message flashed urgently in my vision:

  [Terminal Velocity Achieved!]

  [Pro Tip: Consider slowing down or aiming for something soft.]

  The System was helpful as always.

  "Todd!" I screamed into my earpiece, wind shoving the words back down my throat. “Little help here? I need options!”

  Todd’s nasally voice crackled in my ear. "Could you be more specific? Are we talking car insurance options? Hairstyle options? Better life choices, perhaps?"

  "I’m about ten seconds from turning into pavement paste. Got anything for that?"

  Below, the green-skinned goblins poured through a shimmering portal, scattering terrified civilians like bowling pins. From a thousand feet, they almost looked cute—like murderous green hamsters wielding oversized ray guns. Then I got closer, and the teeth-to-goblin ratio became horrifyingly clear.

  Frantically, I flicked through my skills menu as the ground approached way faster than what felt consensual.

  I shoved my hands into my apron pockets—the ones that gave physics the middle finger—and triggered [Espresso Cloud Deployment]. My apron shimmered, burbled, and spat out a steaming metal canister right into my palm. I hurled it downward, watching as it exploded into an enormous, fluffy cloud of espresso foam.

  I hit the cloud hard, bounced three times like a Temu crash dummy, and finally rolled to an undignified stop on the hot asphalt.

  I stood up, adjusted my apron, and took stock of the absolute dumpster fire around me.

  A soldier in black tactical gear raced toward me, firing short bursts into the approaching aliens. Her helmet identified her as SGT. RILEY. She skidded to a halt and scanned me up and down, lingering uncomfortably long on my lack of pants.

  "So, you’re the backup? They told me to keep an open mind but… "

  I tried to strike a heroic pose, realized just how exposed I was, and shuffled awkwardly instead. "That's me."

  She fired past my shoulder, blowing a goblin's head clean off. "Where are your pants?"

  "Interdimensional travel hazard," I said. "Long story."

  Riley’s radio crackled. "Riley! Report!"

  "I've got him, Colonel," she answered. "The, uh, specialist is on site."

  My HUD lit up:

  [THREAT ASSESSMENT: XARNATHI INVASION]

  [Hostiles: 400+]

  [Objective: Secure dimensional anchor]

  "Todd," I said, ducking behind a wrecked Kia as alien blaster-fire scorched the pavement around us, "give me the CliffsNotes."

  "They’re Xarnathi," Todd said. "They're opening a bigger portal for their overlords. If that happens, humanity becomes the galaxy's new all-you-can-eat buffet."

  "Well, that's deeply unfortunate," I muttered. "Guess it's hero time—again."

  "Excellent plan. Ten out of ten, would recommend."

  Riley gave me a frown that said, all at once, “we’re absolutely doomed,” and “there go my last hopes for humanity,” and “I wouldn’t date you if you were ten feet tall and proportionally gifted.”

  Okay, maybe I was reading into it a little. But that’s what it looked like to me.

  "Are you always this... well, this?" she asked, gesturing at me like I was an interpretive dance she didn’t ask to witness.

  I shoved a hand into my apron pocket, pulled out a fistful of glowing pods, and tossed one up casually. "Riley, I need cover fire."

  She eyed my hand skeptically. "What are those?"

  "Coffee bombs," I said.

  "Seriously?"

  I grinned, stepped out, and threw the pods into the alien ranks. They exploded into scalding geysers of dark roast destruction. The goblins shrieked and melted, flesh bubbling like cheese in an overpowered microwave.

  I yanked open my apron pocket—the one that broke the known laws of matter and good judgment—and it coughed up a can the size of a thermos and twice as angry. The label read:

  INCREME? – Triple Shot Combat Brew

  Warning: May induce invincibility, uncontrollable quips, and spontaneous murder ballet.

  The can hissed when I cracked the seal. Steam rolled out smelling like scorched caramel and poor decisions. I didn’t think. I never do when I drink this stuff. That’s part of the charm.

  I chugged it.

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  It hit my bloodstream like a riot. Muscles locked, teeth clenched, pupils wide enough to download the moon. My vision went neon. My thoughts split into two lanes—one screaming, one laughing—and my feet were already moving before I realized I’d left the ground.

  System notification blinked across my HUD:

  [BATTLE BREW CONSUMED: INCREME]

  Buffs Applied: +300% Speed / +400% Strength / +∞% Regret

  Catchphrase Protocol: ENGAGED.

  I screamed, voice three octaves too high. “It’s time to espresso my violent tendencies!”

  I did not mean to say that. I never do.

  I landed in the middle of a goblin squad, shattered the ground beneath my boots, and punched the first one so hard its torso spun completely around before the rest of it exploded.

  One tried to shoot me. I slapped the bolt out of the air with my bare hand and screamed, “Decaf is for cowards!”

  Why am I saying this? I hate this. I don’t even believe in decaf shaming. But the System does. It feeds off it. It wants this.

  Another goblin lunged, and I sidestepped, grabbed its ankles mid-air, and used it to bat four others out of the sky like I was playing Whack-A-Mole with live ammunition.

  They scattered. They ran.

  I ran faster.

  A cluster of them piled into a ruined bus for cover. I sprinted through the windshield, didn’t even duck. I was already inside, spinning like a blender full of rage and regret. Goblin limbs bounced off the walls. I kicked open the back door and shouted, “Your receipt’s in the pain-tray!”

  Again. Not me. The System has jokes, and I’m just the meat puppet with the caffeine addiction.

  The last wave regrouped, forming a tight semi-circle around the anchor point. Maybe fifty of them. Bigger ones too—warlords with glowing skull tattoos and shoulder pads made of human bones. Real “final boss of the stage” energy.

  “Any last words?” one hissed, leveling a plasma halberd.

  I cracked my neck. My skin was steaming.

  “Yeah,” I growled. “Hot enough for you?”

  “You really need to work on your catchphrases,” Todd said.

  But I didn’t care.

  Then I threw my hands wide, and my apron belched out twin mugs of molten espresso. I chugged one, hurled the other. It exploded midair like a napalm frappuccino, lighting up the front line.

  I hit the first warlord with an uppercut that sent his jaw into orbit. I swear I heard it ping off a satellite. The next got a knee to the gut and a headbutt straight through his helmet. I spun through the crowd like a tornado wearing a name tag.

  They fell. All of them. In screams and froth and a lot of splatter. The last one tried to crawl away, whimpering something about surrender.

  I stepped on his head.

  It popped like a balloon full of red paint and bad memories.

  Silence.

  Steam rose from the street. Ash drifted in the breeze. My fists were still clenched, and my teeth felt like they’d fused together.

  System flashed again:

  [STAT BONUS EFFECTS EXPIRING IN 3… 2… 1…]

  Shit shit shit.

  I collapsed against a smoking car, panting, shaking, soaked in sweat and gore and whatever the hell goblins use for blood.

  I didn’t say a word.

  Inside, I was screaming.

  Because I hate this part.

  I hate that when I drink one of those, the System takes over.

  But it works.

  God help me, it works

  Riley stared, slack-jawed. "That's not normal coffee."

  I wiped a smear of something green from my cheek, still catching my breath. "Yeah… definitely an acquired taste. Like revenge. Or gas station sushi."

  Then the portal belched out a monster—an absolute unit of a goblin, at least twelve feet tall, with four arms, a glowing chest tattoo shaped like a screaming face, and weapons that hummed louder than my grandma’s hearing aid on bingo night.

  “WAR PRIEST!” Riley shouted, already backpedaling.

  The thing roared, a guttural, bone-shaking howl that rattled windows, teeth, and possibly a few internal organs. “YOUR WORLD WILL FEED OUR MASTERS!”

  I stepped out from behind cover and called up to him, “How about a nice chai latte instead?”

  It responded by firing a blast of purple energy that turned a pickup truck into slag. Riley and I dove in opposite directions as molten shrapnel hissed past.

  “Todd,” I hissed, scrambling behind an overturned dumpster, “I need something stronger.”

  "There is always The Blend." Todd said, far too chipper.

  “Oh, hell no! Last time I took that, it rearranged my internal organs alphabetically,” I snapped. “Pretty sure shit is still in the wrong place.”

  The War Priest stomped forward, crushing soldiers like ants, blasts of energy reducing their cover—and their bodies—to ash. Riley kept firing, but her shots bounced off its runed armor like spitballs against a tank. I saw the panic creeping into her eyes, the way her grip tightened, the moment she realized her rifle wasn't going to save her.

  “Oh god,” I muttered, heart pounding. “Fuck it.” I mentally selected the ability.

  I reached into my apron pocket again and pulled out a vial of swirling purple-black chaos. The glass pulsed like it had a heartbeat. A skull-and-crossbones label helpfully read: FINAL BLEND.

  My HUD flashed a bright red warning:

  [DANGER: FINAL BLEND is unstable. You ae already approaching Over-caffeinated status. Are you sure?]

  I slammed the override button with my mental thumb. "Let’s goooo!"

  Then I chugged it.

  The flavor hit like a war crime—burning, regret, and just a whisper of cherry cough syrup. For a second, nothing happened.

  Then lightning roared through my veins, and reality slowed to a crawl.

  I gulped it down. Flavor notes included burning, regret, and a hint of cherry. For an instant, nothing happened. Then lightning crashed through my veins, and reality slowed to a crawl.

  Alien lasers crawled past, inching forward slower than bureaucratic paperwork. Casually, I strolled toward the War Priest, sidestepping beams of death

  "You think you're a match for me?" it bellowed, and then let loose a barrage of raw, searing energy.

  The blast hit me square in the chest, launching me backward and obliterating the building behind me—except for a perfect, smoldering silhouette in the shape of me, arms flailing mid-sarcastic shrug.

  The creature froze. "Huh?"

  “You’re not special. You’re not even seasonal,” I said, and gently tapped him on the forehead.

  The War Priest shot backward as if punted by an angry god, crashing through three buildings and landing like a meteor.

  With exaggerated calm, I approached the glowing dimensional anchor, casually dissecting it with seven pinpoint strikes. It sputtered and collapsed with a dramatic shriek.

  The potion wore off, leaving me staggering back toward Riley. She stood in the middle of a smoking goblin massacre, jaw somewhere near the ground.

  "What the hell was that?" she whispered.

  I shrugged, exhausted. "Just a little pick-me-up."

  "You flicked their War Priest across town with your finger."

  "All wrist technique."

  Riley holstered her weapon, shaking her head. "I’ve been fighting these bastards for weeks, lost half my squad, and you solve it in five minutes without pants."

  "I’ve had practice," I admitted.

  My HUD pinged:

  [MISSION COMPLETE]

  [XP Gained: 12,400]

  [Pants Status: Still Missing]

  Riley let out a long-suffering sigh and unzipped her tactical jacket, revealing a sweat-damp tank top beneath. She handed me the jacket like a disapproving older sister tired of covering for my nonsense.

  “Tie this around your waist before someone calls in a public indecency charge.”

  “Much obliged.” I wrapped it around my hips like a makeshift kilt, already feeling slightly more respectable. Technically, any real pants I tried to wear got devoured by my dimensional pockets, but now that the immediate apocalypse was postponed, it seemed safe enough for fabric to exist near me again.

  “So,” I said, brushing ash off my apron like I hadn’t just flicked a War Priest into a different time zone. “What’s next?”

  “We head to Command,” Riley said. “Colonel’s gonna want a word with his new favorite disaster.” She started walking, then glanced back with a smirk that almost looked impressed.

  I was halfway through my best casual-hero strut when my stomach twisted like it had just read the fine print on my last ability use.

  [SYSTEM ALERT: OVER-CAFFEINATED. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY OR DIE SCREAMING.]

  “Wait, no—”

  I doubled over, violently projectile-vomiting in shades Earth hadn't invented names for yet. Neon puce? Ultraviolet regret? Whatever it was, it glowed.

  How did I end up here? Half-naked, covered in cosmic foam, and puking technicolor on a battlefield full of alien corpses?

  Good question.

  What’s my story?

  Look, I know everyone hates flashbacks—but tough beans. This is my story, and you’re strapped in now. No refunds. No exits. Just one steaming-hot backstory coming right up.

  I’ll keep it quick. Ish. And hey, I’ll fill in the blanks as I go—now that I actually know what the hell happened.