Goldscript: The Infinite Ledger

Darren Nova didn't trust golden and mysterious doorways.

They just screamed "trap," like a phishing link with better lighting.

But standing alone in a vault that had tried to liquidate him ten seconds ago, while holding a pen that might be worth less than the soul it cost—he figured the glowing corridor was... marginally better than waiting to starve next to a corpse.

"Screw it. I already bought the premium subscription to existential horror."

He stepped through the opening.

---

Few Hours Later...

He was passed out in an alley.

Well, this wasn't exactly the most glamorous way to wake up – face down in a sketchy alley, with a pounding headache and a serious case of "what the heck happened?" Blackout? Alien abduction? The f*cking bank Vault? The possibilities were endless, and none of them were exactly flattering.

As he slowly sat up, he rubbed his temples, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.

"Hmm, let's see... I went into the Bank— for what again? And then... Oh wait, nope, that's it. That's all I've got."

"What the hell happened in there again?" Hand still on his head.

He stood up and looked around....

The world didn't look different.

He was still in Cindervale..

Same towering skyline. Same cold air that tasted like corporate lawsuits and power. Same giant billboard playing an ad for Parallax Finance—the company that fired him few weeks ago for "reckless dissent."

(Translation: He'd called his supervisor an overpriced paperclip in a meeting.)

He stepped forward into the blur of late afternoon, still confused — where smog and honking and voices all blurred together. His fingers were twitching. He checked his bank app like an idiot. Still $0.27.

As Darren crossed the street, system tags glowed into view over people's heads. Faint, barely readable, like smudged reflections on a cracked phone screen.

[Credit Score: 622]

[Debt Risk: Moderate]

....

"Wait… what?"

He blinked. The tags disappeared. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe it was caffeine withdrawal. Maybe he'd officially lost his mind.

A coffee would've done fine right now, he thought.

Maybe that would've been funny if it didn't feel so damn poetic.

---

His apartment wasn't far. Five blocks of buildings too tall and people too busy to look down. He walked with his head half bowed, not quite from shame, not quite from exhaustion, just the kind of posture that life eventually molds you into when ambition dies.

When he reached his building, the cracked white paint on the walls greeted him like an old, disappointed teacher.

And taped to his door?

Of course.

FINAL NOTICE. TENANT: NOVA, D. EVICTION EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

It flapped a little in the breeze, like it was waving at him.

Darren didn't move.

He stood there for a full minute, key in hand, staring at the paper like maybe it would apologize. Or maybe he just wanted to punch it, but didn't have any strength left.

Finally, he pushed the door open. The apartment smelled like old food and forgotten ambition. He stepped in slowly, like a soldier checking for landmines.

The lights flickered once. Then settled into their usual dim buzz.

He dropped his bag. Sank into the couch. The cheap leather stuck to his back.

He should cry. That would be the normal thing. Cry, break down, scream at the wall, call someone who probably won't pick up.

But he didn't.

Darren just sat there, head tilted back, eyes closed. Counting the beats of his own heart to remind himself he was still alive.

This is the part where things are supposed to get better, he thought. Cue the miracle. Cue the twist. Cue the job offer from nowhere, the rich relative, the motivational montage...

Nothing.

Then he felt something in his pocket, like a little pinch. He pulled it out...

It was a pen, the fucking pen from the vault— you know, the one he might have gotten with his soul.

He looked at it for a while, still confused, still trying to understand what really happened at the vault. Then he just tossed it into the table.

He reached for his cracked phone, stared at the dark screen, then put it down again.

"Alright," he whispered to nobody. "That's it then."

And then a noise. The pen had hit a mug...

The mug hit the floor below.

Bounced. Spun once in the air. Shattered.

The sound was louder than expected. It echoed in his apartment like a gunshot, like a scream he didn't have the energy to make.

Darren stared at the fragments. His breathing was shallow. Jaw tight.

He wasn't even mad at the mug. It just happened to be in the way of a bigger problem.

The maybe cursed pen...

"This day just couldn't get any better," he said to no one, pacing now, stepping over unpaid bills like landmines.

"Degree? Got it.

Internship? Unpaid, but yeah.

Networking? I let men with haircuts like hedge funds talk down to me for years.

And for what?"

The room didn't answer.

Darren turned to the window. The city outside was alive, bright lights, moving cars, busy people with somewhere to be. Somewhere to belong.

He wanted to scream at them all. You don't even realize you're winning.

His gaze dropped to a faded photo magneted to the fridge, a picture of him and his former co-workers at some god awful corporate team building day. Matching shirts. Fake smiles.

He yanked it down. Tore it. Threw it in the sink.

There. Fixed.

He sat on the floor, hands gripping his hair, rocking slightly.

Not crying. Not yet. Just trying to keep his ribs from caving in.

And then—

A flicker again.

It wasn't loud. Wasn't flashy.

Just… a soft ping in the corner of his eye.

A notification box, faint, hovering like a thought he didn't remember having.

[Emotional Activity Detected]

Category: Despair | Intensity: 34%

Yield Estimate: $3.42

Would you like to convert?

[YES] [NO]

Darren blinked.

"What the hell..?"

He wiped his eyes. Looked again.

Still there.

[Would you like to convert?]

Is this a prank? A virus? Some new AI ad scam?

He reached toward it hesitantly, and his finger somehow—clicked.

A brief pulse.

No sound. No vibration. Just a second of eerie stillness.

Then his phone pinged.

He checked the screen with shaking hands.

Bank app. Balance: $3.69

It had been $0.27 thirty minutes ago.

He stared at it for a full minute. Then laughed.

Once. Sharp. Almost like a bark.

"Okay," he said, voice hollow.

"Either I'm hallucinating... or someone just paid me for being miserable."

---

He leaned back against the wall.

Looked at the broken mug.

Then back at the notification window, still faintly glowing in the corner of his vision.

[EMOTION REGISTERED. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION.]

His laugh turned bitter.

"Of course. Even sadness is monetized now."

TO BE CONTINUED.....