I Was Sent Into A Shitty Urban Novel

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."