Chapter 1: The Potato of Destiny

Chapter 1: The Potato of Destiny

The numbers on the dashboard clock of Léo’s 1992 Peugeot 205 seemed to mock him, each passing second a tiny hammer blow against his future. 8:57 AM. Three minutes until Professor Moreau’s Mechanical Dynamics lecture began. Three minutes until the notoriously punctual professor would close and lock the door to the amphitheater, sealing the fate of any straggler on the wrong side of it.

Léo’s knuckles were white on the cheap plastic of the steering wheel. This wasn't just any lecture. This was the final review before the exam that constituted seventy percent of his grade. Missing it wasn't an option. His scholarship, a fragile lifeline that kept him tethered to this prestigious university, depended on grades Moreau would consider "acceptable," a standard that began somewhere in the stratosphere.

He could already feel the phantom sensation of the professor's icy stare, that piercing, analytical gaze that could dissect a student’s entire academic career in a single, withering glance.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, his own tired reflection staring back from the grimy rearview mirror. Dark circles pooled under his intense eyes, the permanent mark of late-night study sessions fueled by cheap coffee and the constant, gnawing anxiety of being the poorest kid in a rich kids' school. The faint smell of engine oil clung to his faded hoodie, a souvenir from the two hours he’d spent this morning coaxing the ancient Peugeot back to life.

His path was blocked.

It wasn't an accident or a delivery truck. It was a brand-new, gleaming black Nissan X-trail, parked with an arrogance so profound it was almost artistic. It sat diagonally across the narrow exit of the underground parking garage, leaving a gap barely wide enough for a bicycle, let alone Léo's car.

Standing beside it, casually leaning against the passenger door, was a woman who perfectly matched the vehicle's obnoxious energy. She was a caricature of South-of-France glamour: hair bleached to a brittle, platinum blonde with an inch of dark roots showing, skin tanned the color of old leather, and a cloud of cloying perfume that drifted through Léo’s open window. She was shouting into a flip phone, one hand on her hip, completely oblivious to the world around her.

Léo took a deep breath, trying to quell the frantic pounding in his chest. 8:58 AM.

He gave a short, polite tap on his horn.

The woman’s head snapped towards him, her brow furrowing with irritation, as if he were the one inconveniencing her. She held up a single, manicured finger—wait a minute—before turning back to her phone call, her voice growing even louder.

Panic began to curdle into anger. He couldn't wait. He shifted the Peugeot into neutral, yanked the handbrake, and vaulted out of the car, the driver’s side door groaning in protest.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m going to be late. Could you please move your car?”

She ended her call with a sharp snap of her phone and fixed him with a look of pure contempt. Her eyes raked over his worn jeans, the grease under his fingernails, and the rust-flecked body of his Peugeot. A smirk played on her heavily-lined lips.

“Late for what? Picking up scrap metal?” she sneered, her Marseille accent thick and abrasive. “I’ll be two minutes. The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

“Two minutes? Madame, you’re blocking the entire exit,” Léo insisted, his voice rising despite his best efforts to remain calm. “I have an exam. I absolutely cannot be late.”

Her name, he realized, must be Sandrine, or something equally harsh. She embodied the local stereotype his grandmother warned him about: the cagole. Loud, entitled, and armed with an unshakeable belief in her own importance.

“An exam?” she scoffed, lighting a cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke in his direction. “Then you should have left earlier. Not my problem. I’m waiting for my friend. She lives right up there.” She gestured vaguely with her cigarette towards the apartment building above them. “This is the most convenient spot.”

“It’s not a spot! It’s the exit!” Léo’s frustration boiled over. The logical, engineering part of his brain screamed at the sheer, selfish irrationality of it all. “You can’t just park here!”

“Oh, can’t I?” She took a deliberate, slow drag from her cigarette, her eyes glittering with malicious glee. She was enjoying this. “Looks like I just did. Now go back to your little trash can on wheels and wait like a good boy.”

Defeated, Léo retreated to his car, the woman's mocking laughter following him. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing dully in the concrete garage. 9:01 AM. He was officially late. It was over.

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel, the worn material cool against his skin. A wave of despair washed over him. All the all-nighters, all the skipped meals to afford textbooks, all the pressure from his family to be the first one to graduate university—it was all about to be undone by this horrible, platinum-blonde woman and her stupid, shiny SUV.

His vision swam. The stress, the lack of sleep, the sheer injustice—it was all too much. He squeezed his eyes shut.

And that’s when it appeared.

A faint, blue-white light flickered at the edge of his vision. Léo’s eyes snapped open. He thought it was a migraine aura, a symptom of the immense pressure he was under. But it wasn’t a shapeless blur. It was a perfect, translucent rectangle, hovering in the air just to the right of his rearview mirror.

[Injustice Detected: Egregious Parking Violation by Grade-A Cagole.]

The text was sharp, written in a clean, sans-serif font. Léo blinked. It remained. He shook his head, a frantic, jerky motion. It was still there, steady and clear as if projected onto his retina. He was hallucinating. He had finally, completely lost his mind.

Then, the text changed.

[Choice Presented. Select Your Path.]

[Option 1: Suffer in Silence.]

• Accept your fate. Plead for mercy from Professor Moreau. Endure the public humiliation. Scholarship status: CRITICAL. Resentment level: MAXIMUM.

[Option 2: Embrace Divine Retribution.]

• The universe provides tools for those willing to use them. Justice is not a passive force. Minor risk, major satisfaction. Let the punishment fit the crime.

Léo stared, his mouth agape. This couldn't be real. It was a dream, a stress-induced fantasy. Yet, it felt more real than the crushing despair of a moment ago. He glanced out the window. The woman was still there, now examining her reflection in her car’s tinted window, completely unconcerned.

Professor Moreau would not accept an excuse. He would fail him. He would lose his scholarship. His family would be so disappointed. Option 1 was a certainty. It was the story of his life: suffer in silence while the entitled and arrogant steamrolled over him.

But Option 2… Divine Retribution. It sounded insane. It was insane. But a strange, exhilarating thrill, a feeling he hadn't felt in years, cut through the fog of his panic. What did he have to lose now? He was already late. His academic career was already teetering on a cliff's edge.

With a surge of reckless abandon, he focused his thoughts on the second option, a silent, desperate ‘Yes!’ screaming in his mind.

The blue screen flashed, accepting his input. The old text vanished, replaced by a new, startlingly specific set of instructions.

[New Mission Issued: The Potato of Destiny]

[Objective 1: Obtain one (1) potato from the Franprix grocery store across the street. Discretion is advised.]

[Objective 2: Firmly insert said potato into the exhaust pipe of the offending Nissan X-trail. Ensure a snug fit.]

[Objective 3: Return to a safe observation point and await results.]

[Rewards: +10 Karma Points, Skill [Petty Larceny] Lv. 1, Item [Lucky Coin].]

[Time Limit: 5 Minutes.]

Léo read the words once, then twice. A potato? Into the exhaust pipe? It was the most ludicrous, childish, and utterly brilliant thing he had ever seen. A slow smile spread across his face, the first genuine smile in what felt like weeks. The exhaustion in his eyes was replaced by a dangerous, mischievous glint.

He looked from the glowing blue mission screen in his vision to the little grocery store across the street, its green and white sign a beacon of hope. The cagole was still admiring herself, lost in her own world.

The clock on his dashboard now read 9:04 AM. He was already damned. He might as well have some fun on his way to hell.

He turned off the engine, the key sliding out of the ignition with a soft click. The game was on.