Floyd's day began the way it always did—like dragging a corpse out of a grave, except the corpse was himself, and the grave was his unmade bed. The alarm had long since stopped blaring, probably because it had given up on him. With the enthusiasm of a damp towel, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. Another day, another soul-sucking shift. The universe had cursed him with survival.

Brushing his teeth was the bare minimum, and Floyd prided himself on sticking to the bare minimum. Showering? Too much work. He threw on his white hospital coat over yesterday's wrinkled shirt and pants, barely glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back had eyebags that could double as luggage, but who cared? Certainly not him. Passion for his job? Please. Passion was a delusion for optimistic idiots who still believed in making a difference. Floyd had long since traded his dreams for a steady paycheck and a professional scowl.

After spending a solid twenty minutes staring blankly at the doorknob—contemplating absolutely nothing in particular—he finally left his disaster of a studio apartment. Breakfast? Why bother. Nutrition was just another scam of the human condition. Walking past his neighbors, he ignored their chipper greetings, their awkward nods, and their pitiful attempts at small talk. They didn't exist, as far as he was concerned, and frankly, neither did he.

Crossing the street to the hospital was both a blessing and a curse. No commuting meant less effort, but it also meant zero buffer time to mentally prepare for the hellscape that awaited him. As he entered the building, the sharp sting of antiseptics hit his nostrils. That, and the unmistakable smell of hopelessness. The fluorescent lights buzzed with the same irritation he felt every waking moment of his life.

And then there she was. The receptionist. That woman. Smiling as if life weren't an endless pit of despair. "Good morn—"

"No."

The single word shut her down like a malfunctioning vending machine. Floyd didn't need more optimism in his life; he barely tolerated the amount he had now, which was none. Patting his pocket, he felt the familiar shape of his cigarette pack and lighter. At least there was that. A small comfort in an otherwise bleak existence.

He clocked in with the enthusiasm of a brick falling off a ledge and grabbed the file for his new patient. Did he read it? Of course not. Reading required effort, and Floyd operated on a strict no-effort policy. Instead, he headed straight to the room, weaving through the hallways like a man avoiding eye contact with his own conscience.

The patient was asleep. Thank every god he didn't believe in. With a sigh that could flatten a city block, Floyd walked to the window, cracked it open, and lit a cigarette. Hospital policy be damned—he needed this. The first drag was heaven, or at least as close as Floyd ever expected to get.

And then he heard it. The unmistakable rustle of sheets. His eyes twitched. His teeth clenched. Of course. Of course, the patient would wake up now. Because why wouldn't he?

"Goddammit." Floyd muttered under his breath, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. Another day, another disappointment.