COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

The sky over New York City was an even, washed-out gray, the kind of colour that made everything below it feel a little more forgettable.

Not including, apparently, Eathan Lin's life.

Especially when his place of employment—a corner shop nobody visited—just exploded into a hundred thousand ceramic shards.

One moment, there was the familiar crooked sign of COZMART hanging over the rusted door.

The next second, a shriek of wind and a burst of impossible azure light split the shop apart at the seams. Broken neon signs, splintered roof beams, and bags of discount ramen rained down in slow, spiralling arcs, as if the very laws of physics had decided to enter strike there and then.

Eathan, still gripping the shoulder strap of his backpack with one hand, could only stare.

Should've gone to Luke's stupid bar after all.

***

36 HOURS EARLIER.

The lecture hall's smart glass flickered, dimmed, and flickered again, casting a pale glow over the mass of slumped students.

At the front, Professor Adair droned on about algorithmic complexity, his voice meandering somewhere between a lullaby and an air conditioner's hum.

Eathan blinked sluggishly behind the cracked screen of his aging holopad, the faint reflection catching on his features: black hair tousled from sleep deprivation, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, and a lean build that spoke more of forgotten meals than gym sessions.

Not ugly by any means—some days, his exhausted profile even drew casual glances—but most of the time, he just looked like he was one breath away from cardiac arrest.

He was fighting the heavy pull of sleep as the recursion trees on the slide blurred into something resembling abstract art, when something far more interesting caught his attention:

Emily Lutin.

Two seats ahead, she shifted slightly, her ponytail swaying just enough to flash the clean line of her neck. Lit on her wristpad was a summary of today's "spirit static." When she turned to whisper something to her friend, Eathan caught a glimpse of her side profile—the pert, upturned nose, the faint dimple when she smiled.

It was the kind of casual prettiness that made people believe in late-night coffee shop poems.

And Eathan, despite better judgment, was very much among the believers.

Somewhere behind him, the professor muttered something about logarithmic space complexity, but the words might as well have been underwater noise.

A sharp nudge in his ribs.

He swerved right to find Luke Tam, best friend and chronic automotive maniac, looking at him with a bright grin.

The man looked every inch the spoiled heir he was— tall, broad-shouldered, skin sun-kissed from too many yacht parties, with sharp brown eyes and the kind of easy smile that made other people immediately wonder if they were underdressed. He leaned in conspiratorially, holopad shoved practically into Eathan's peripheral vision.

"Dude. Pagani Huayra R. Retro rebuild. Full carbon-fiber chassis. Look at this monster torque chart. This thing's illegal on the streets."

Eathan blinked at the graph, which looked like someone had drawn a mountain range with a trembling hand. He grunted something vaguely affirming, but his gaze kept slipping back to the girl in the front row.

Luke caught it immediately, snickering. "Yeah, yeah. Car horsepower isn't as cute as Emily Lutin's nose, I get it."

Eathan gave him a dry look, pushing the wristpad back.

Class finally dragged to a merciful close.

Students began packing up with the mindless energy of prisoners being offered parole. Holopads snapped shut, chairs scraped back, and Eathan was halfway through packing his charger when Luke caught him again.

"You got plans tonight?" Luke asked, slinging his designer bag over his shoulder with practiced ease.

"Work," Eathan said, jamming his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Luke raised a brow.

"At that cryptic shop of yours?"

"COZMART," Eathan corrected automatically.

Luke wrinkled his nose. "No customers. No deliveries. Just incense and weird energy. No offense, but how does your boss even keep the lights on? Magic?"

Eathan snorted, half in agreement.

Mister White.

If you didn't look too closely, he might pass for a man in his late twenties or early thirties—tall, cream-blond hair that always seemed one gust away from chaos, clothes perpetually dusted with the scent of black coffee over cigarettes and osmanthus.

There was a lazy elegance to him, a worn-down kind of charisma that made people assume he'd once been someone important and had gotten tired of it.

He divorced once (that Eathan knew) and had both a daughter—a serious-eyed girl perched precariously on the edge of adolescence—and a chain-smoking habit that no amount of nicotine patches had ever seemed to curb.

But it was his eyes that truly made people pause. They were dark, obsidian-black, the kind of eyes that didn't just look through you, but remembered everything you didn't want to say aloud.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Despite his youthful features, those eyes made him seem older than the city itself.

But past all that, Mister White was a pretty nice guy. Really.

Luke clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his trance.

"Well, if you're not dead after your graveyard shift, swing by Orchard Bar," he said brightly. "First round's on me. Plus, y'know—'quality scenery.'"

He added a very unsubtle wink.

Eathan offered a half-smile, giving a noncommittal nod more out of habit than intent. His loyalty, unfortunately, remained stubbornly tied to a certain girl with an upturned nose.

Luke sighed in mock tragedy.

"Hopeless romantic."

"You're the one hopelessly in love with cars," Eathan shot back.

Luke grinned widely.

"And my cars never break my heart."

***

They left class to the buzz of magnetic skateboards and the distant chime of a prayer-bot on delivery mode. Eathan and Luke exited through the west gate of campus, stepping into the late afternoon sprawl.

All around them, the city of New York throbbed with postmodern liveliness. The sun hung low behind the buildings, smearing long bands of purple and pink across the sky. The skyline tilted like a stacked maze—glass terraces, shimmer-veined railways, neon drones weaving between billboards.

Eathan adjusted the weight of his backpack, the outmoded holopad and charging port dragging at one shoulder. It made him feel slightly lopsided—a student permanently tilted by deadlines and gravity even in the mid-21st century.

Luke, still chattering about turbo engines and weekend plans, gave him a final clap on the back.

"Orchard Bar," he said, grinning, pointing down the avenue. "Ten o'clock. Don't chicken out."

Eathan offered a lazy two-fingered salute, shifting his backpack higher.

"I'll think about it," he called back.

Luke laughed and jogged off toward his chauffeur, vanishing into the river of evening commuters.

Moving the other way, Eathan decided to take a shortcut.

He strolled past the parking garage, cutting through a narrow back lot crowded with old vending machines and abandoned electric bikes. Another turn, and he skirted toward the city's older district—where COZMART waited, sandwiched between a half-closed laundromat and a nail salon that nobody seemed to visit.

The streets thickened with cars as he crossed into Maple Street proper. The shortcut shaved a few minutes off his walk, but it also meant crossing Maple and 8th—one of the worst intersections during rush hour.

Brake lights blinked like angry fireflies in the congestion. Cars idled at the intersection—vans, taxis, luxury flight-convertibles—their engines humming with collective impatience and horns bleeding into the thickening dusk. Across, hordes of pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, eyes glued to glowing wristpads.

The city moved in that numb, frictionless way it always did—each person orbiting their private universe, barely brushing against the reality of others.

That was when Eathan noticed her.

An old woman, small and hunched under the weight of a battered canvas grocery bag, stepped into the crosswalk alone.

No hesitation, no glance at the oncoming traffic.

For a moment, the world seemed to collectively pause.

And then—did nothing.

No one even shifted.

A few cars honked, short angry bursts, but no one moved to help. A man in a pressed suit glanced up from his wristpad, frowning slightly, before deciding the situation wasn't his problem and ducking back into his screen.

Eathan stood frozen at the curb, tension prickling down the back of his neck.

He understood why.

Because the truth was—and he hated how cynical it sounded—people didn't rush forward anymore.

There had been too many cases lately, too many "mystic injury frauds" of elderly actors throwing themselves in front of luxury cars, claiming damage and suing corporations for spiritual trauma. To deal with this, the courts had implemented a couple of new by-laws, sure, but the damage had already been done, and there'd been cases bad enough that even courts couldn't fully untangle it.

At some point, helping someone would bankrupt you faster than hurting them. Hesitation was survival, and so, people learned to look away.

Ugly, but real.

For the ironic sake of survival.

Eathan believed and understood it as well. He would also do the same.

At least, those had been his thoughts before the old woman looked at him.

Her gaze was sharp, somehow disarmingly clear despite the haze of the evening. It was those clear eyes that met his for a single, startling second.

Not pleading, not even particularly kind. Just a quiet accusation.

You see me. You know.

Something shifted inside him—something messy and guilt-ridden and undeniable.

Before Eathan could talk himself out of it, his feet moved.

The smart crosswalk still glowed red, warning of an imminent light change.

Eathan sprinted across the asphalt, shoes slapping against the wet road. From his periphery, the oncoming sedan barrelled down on the crosswalk, gunning through the yellow light, its tires screeching. The driver—a middle-aged man hammering a horn and a brake pedal at the same time—leaned into the curve, tires screeching against the slick street.

Eathan barely registered it.

His sneakers slipped slightly on the damp street, but momentum carried him forward. One hand latched onto the old woman's elbow, and the other braced against the inevitable impact.

With a grunt, he shoved—harder than he meant to.

The world blurred as they tumbled across the opposite curb together, a chaotic mess of canvas bag, scattered groceries, and damp sneakers. The car blasted past them, a flash of silver and blaring horns, before disappearing into the mass of brake lights ahead.

The old woman sat up first.

Her breath came in shallow huffs, but she seemed remarkably composed considering she had almost become urban roadkill. Brushing a strand of gray hair back from her face with an impatient swipe, she immediately began scolding him in sharp, rapid Mandarin—something about young people being reckless.

Eathan barely heard her.

It was only then he realized, with a kind of slow, sinking dread, that the woman hadn't been helpless at all.

She had been trying to pull a scam.

But Eathan didn't respond.

He couldn't.

Because just above the old woman's furious gesticulations, something else had snapped into existence. It floated in the air—translucent, blue, humming faintly—like some heads-up display out of an AR video game he most definitely hadn't installed.

A soft, metallic timbre reverberated through his skull, sending vibrations down the back of his teeth.

The screen pulsed once, and then a new surge of texts appeared:

Eathan stared, open-mouthed.

Pedestrians flowed around him, eye-scrolling on wristpads, chatting into earpieces, utterly oblivious to the glowing screen pulsing in the air.

The screen continued to blink steadily against the world, a faint ripple of light marking its existence. It was as if reality had bifurcated, and only he stood on the crack.

Eathan blinked once.

Twice.

…What?

The old woman was still yelling at him, but her words sounded like they were coming from underwater.

What is this?

The screen beeped politely again, as if expecting further input.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

What the hell is this?