I Was Sent Into A Shitty Urban Novel-Chapter 23 - . Lucious

The knock at the door nearly unhinged the hinges.

Lucious stood there, helmet under one arm, delivery bag slung low across his shoulder. His blond hair was damp from sweat, teal eyes tired but alert. His polo shirt clung to him from the summer heat. Before he could even greet her, the door flung open.

An older woman stood there, arms crossed, already mid-scold.

"You think this is acceptable? Do you know how long I waited?"

Lucious blinked. "Ma’am, I was just—"

"I ordered at 6:13! It is now—" she checked the time, "—6:31! That is eighteen minutes! Unbelievable!"

Lucious sighed quietly. "The app said 30–35 minutes. I got here in 31. And I had a flat—"

"Excuses!" she snapped, snatching the bag from his hand. "I don’t want to hear it! I have a stomach ulcer! You want me to die?"

Before he could answer, she shoved a few crumpled bills into his palm and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Lucious stood there, blinking. Slowly, he unfolded the money—three dollars, coins included.

"Sixty seconds late," he muttered. "God forbid."

He turned back toward the scooter parked just off the curb, its kickstand loose and wobbling slightly. His last delivery of the day. Thank God.

Back at the shop, he slid the money into the register, nodded half-heartedly at his boss, and lingered just long enough to glance at the man’s wife—tall, dark-skinned, built like a trophy model—before heading out.

Home was a cramped one-bedroom at the edge of Riverstone’s industrial district. The wallpaper was peeling, and the hall smelled faintly of mildew and curry.

Inside, Lucious peeled off his work shirt and dropped it in the corner, heading straight for the shower. The water pressure was weak, but hot enough.

He scrubbed quickly, muttering to himself.

"Every day... same route... same people. Entitled brats with half a brain and a full mouth. Can’t even afford a decent scooter. And don’t get me started on the smell."

He slammed the water off and wrapped himself in a towel, stepping onto the cracked tile floor.

In the mirror, he studied his reflection.

"God, I hate this."

He dried off and wandered to the fridge, still grumbling. Inside: a single takeout container. He popped the lid, immediately recoiling from the sharp, sour scent.

"Shit."

Still, after a glance around the barren shelves, he sighed and grabbed a fork. The first bite wasn’t good, but it was edible. Barely.

He finished it, brushed his teeth aggressively, and collapsed into bed.

A year ago, life was different.

Back then, Lucious Grey had been that guy—spoiled, arrogant, blind to consequence. His parents ran a chain of small supermarkets. Not wealthy by old money standards, but well off enough. When he was seventeen, they brought him from the countryside to Riverstone, eager to shower him with everything they’d withheld in his early years.

Lucious soaked it up. Clothes, cars, access—whatever he wanted, they gave. It didn’t take long for him to start believing he deserved it.

Then came the club.

He was drunk, stupid, cocky. Saw a beautiful girl at the bar, turned on the charm, and got rejected. Tried again—rejected harder. Pulled out his wallet, bragged about his last car, his family’s name, their stores. Still nothing.

He tried to grab her wrist.

That’s when her bodyguards moved in.

They didn’t just remove him—they hospitalized him.

The next day, his father got a call. The girl was the daughter of the Fan family. Not just rich. Powerful. Connections in every corner of business and politics.

It wasn’t long before the supermarkets lost suppliers. Then customers. Then licenses.

Lucious remembered his father’s eyes when the final permit was denied.

A week later, both his parents were found in the garage, car still running.

Their will? Messy. What little money was left was swallowed up by distant relatives squabbling over assets.

Lucious was left with nothing.

No degree, no work history. No support. Just a scooter, a single friend from school who bailed after the scandal, and a delivery job that barely covered the rent.

Knock! Knock!

Lucious stirred at the sound of knocking. He ignored it at first, rolling over in bed.

Probably the landlord. Or worse—someone from the power company.

The knock came again. Then again. Relentless.

"Goddammit..."

He dragged himself to the door, still in boxers and a T-shirt. He yanked it open.

Standing there was an old man. Thin, short, back slightly hunched, with skin like wrinkled parchment and milky eyes.

"Can I help you?" Lucious asked.

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a hand and blew something into Lucious’s face.

White powder.

Lucious coughed violently, stumbled back, vision swimming. "What the f—"

He didn’t finish.

He collapsed.

The old man stepped forward, kneeling beside him.

"Wish I’d found someone better," he muttered, fingers already moving. "But you’ll have to do."

He dragged Lucious back into the apartment, closing the door with a click behind him. Then he stood over the unconscious boy.

"My job’s done."

He gave a weak, almost relieved smile.

"Now I can finally go see my wife."

And then, like sand in the wind, the man began to break apart—flakes rising and scattering. No blood. No noise. Just dust.

And then silence.

The room sat still, dark, and silent after the old man vanished—except for the occasional rumble of traffic outside. Lucious remained on the mattress, unconscious, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

An hour passed.

Then two.

A faint flicker stirred behind his eyelids. His brow twitched. He groaned.

Lucious blinked and sat up slowly, disoriented. "What the hell...?"

His throat was dry, and his mouth had a bitter taste—like rust and ash. The room felt colder than usual, and a fine white powder coated the floor just beyond his mattress, like flour spilled in a circle.

He staggered to his feet and stumbled to the sink. Splashing cold water on his face, he stared into the cracked mirror.

"You look like death," he muttered.

He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten back to bed. Last thing he recalled, he’d opened the door...

"Wait," he whispered, rubbing his temple. "Old guy..."

Lucious turned toward the front door. Still locked.

"Was that a dream?"

No messages on his phone. No signs of forced entry. He checked the floor again. The white dust had vanished.

A chill ran down his spine—not from fear, exactly. From... unease.

He sank into the chair near his window and lit a cigarette, the glow of the ember the only light in the room.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Not really. He dozed for a few minutes here and there, but every time he closed his eyes, something stirred behind them—a vision of trees without leaves, wind howling through grey branches. A voice whispering words he couldn’t quite grasp.

When morning came, his alarm startled him more than usual. The sky outside was pale and overcast.

Lucious stared at his uniform draped over the chair. Another day, same scooter, same streets, same people. Yet something gnawed at the back of his mind—an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He dressed slower than usual. As he tied his shoes, a flicker of movement outside caught his attention. A bird? A shadow? He didn’t know. But it passed by the window too fast.

He shook it off. "Get it together, man."

Updated from fr𝒆ewebnov𝒆l.(c)om