Chapter 4 – Drop #004: Wrong Address, Wrong Dimension

The morning began with a bird hitting my window. Not a metaphor—a literal bird. It screamed mid-air like it realized too late that glass existed. I jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat clinging to my neck like it owed me rent.

I sat up in bed, trying to shake off the residue of yesterday's job: a laughing door, a collapsing hallway, and a key that shouldn't exist. I'd stuffed the so-called "Laughless Key" into my satchel last night, hoping I'd hallucinated the whole thing.

No such luck.

There it was, still humming slightly, nestled between a crushed energy drink can and a packet of ghost pepper noodles I never finished.

I didn't know what was worse: the cursed deliveries, or the fact that I was starting to get used to them.

My phone vibrated.

📦 DROP #004 – Address: [REDACTED] Lane, Sector 4. ETA: 10 mins.

Note: Some addresses are suggestions, not absolutes. Bring your balance shoes.

Balance shoes?

I had no idea what that meant. I tossed on my usual hoodie, boots, and a layer of reckless disregard for personal safety, then grabbed my satchel.

The city outside looked normal enough—if you ignored the flickering lamp posts and the occasional pigeon that blinked in and out of existence. But as I reached the edge of Sector 4, things started getting... weird.

The sidewalk began sloping slightly. Then a little more. Then a lot more.

By the time I reached the delivery location, I was practically climbing sideways like Spider-Man with a limp.

The house was perched on the edge of what looked like a landslide that had paused halfway through falling. The whole structure leaned at an impossible angle, like a drunk architect tried to build a Salvador Dalí painting and gave up halfway.

The mailbox read:

#∞ – Wrong Address, Maybe

I double-checked the app. Same place.

I approached slowly, each step a calculated wobble. The front porch groaned under my weight, as if offended by my choice of footwear. I knocked.

The door swung open on its own, revealing not an interior, but a spiral of shifting colors and impossible angles.

There was no way this complied with fire codes.

Still, a delivery's a delivery.

I stepped inside.

Instant vertigo.

The floor sloped like I was walking across a giant spoon. Walls twisted. The ceiling blinked. Every direction felt wrong.

But here's the kicker—I couldn't tell if I was moving or the house was moving around me.

"Hello?" I called out, instantly regretting it.

The house responded.

A low hum, like a whale song filtered through a fax machine, echoed through the walls.

"Package accepted. Follow the hallway that breathes."

I turned around.

There were now three hallways.

Only one of them appeared to be... inhaling?

The breathing hallway had soft, fleshy walls that pulsed gently like lungs. The floor was carpeted in something that felt suspiciously like mossy skin. I gagged.

But I followed it.

Because of course I did.

Ten minutes in, I realized I wasn't walking anymore. I was gliding, or maybe floating. The hallway curved upward, then sideways, then inward. Doors opened and closed on their own. Paintings melted off the walls. One of them whispered my name.

I finally entered a large chamber, shaped like a cube turned 45 degrees and stretched through a fisheye lens.

In the center was a pedestal.

No person. Just the pedestal, glowing faintly.

I placed the package on it.

It clicked.

A voice—not the house this time, but something... closer—spoke directly into my head:

"Delivery Confirmed. Payment Processing."

I didn't like the sound of that.

The pedestal hissed, and a drawer popped open.

Inside: a small glass vial filled with swirling silver liquid.

A label read:

"Tilted Eyedrop – DO NOT APPLY TO EYES."

I picked it up carefully. The liquid inside moved like it had a mind of its own, reacting to my heartbeat.

Suddenly, the room rumbled.

The walls shivered. The exit I came through blinked out of existence.

Then a new door appeared—hovering mid-air, slightly tilted.

It opened with a sharp schlorp, revealing a completely different place: a convenience store.

What?

I stepped through.

I was now inside a 7-Eleven. Or maybe a cursed version of one. The fluorescent lights buzzed in Morse code, and the slushie machine dispensed something that looked suspiciously like tar.

The cashier didn't even flinch.

"You blocked the vortex," he said, pointing at my feet.

I stepped aside. He nodded in thanks, then returned to rearranging cans of tuna in a spiral pattern.

I didn't ask.

I left the store, walked three blocks, and somehow ended up back near my apartment.

Back home, I tossed the vial onto my desk, sat down, and let my brain catch up.

My phone buzzed.

✅ DROP #004 Complete – Dimensional Stability Fee: Applied

🎁 BONUS ITEM UNLOCKED: Tilted Eyedrop

Warning: May cause perspective shift.

No kidding.

I stared at the vial.

Tilted Eyedrop.

"Do not apply to eyes," it had said.

Which of course meant... I wanted to.

But not yet.

Instead, I just sat there. Breathing. Thinking.

Trying to understand how my job had turned into interdimensional Uber Eats.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the house again. The pulsing hallway. The pedestal. The spiral.

Worse—my walls started leaning slightly. First just a few degrees. Then more.

I checked with a level.

They weren't tilted.

I was.

My own perception was warping. My inner ear rebelled. I tried walking a straight line and ended up in my closet.

Then I heard a knock.

From inside the mirror.

I didn't look.

I didn't want to see who—or what—was trying to visit.

Instead, I stared at the vial.

Maybe a drop would fix this. Maybe it'd make it worse.

I had to know.

I unscrewed the cap.

Tilted my head.

Dropped one bead of glowing liquid onto my tongue.

Everything froze.

Then—

Boom.

My mind turned sideways. I wasn't in my room anymore. I was everywhere. In the house. In the hallway. In the pedestal. In the sky. I saw routes, lines connecting places across dimensions like subway maps made by someone who hates logic.

And in the center of it all was me.

A courier.

A speck.

A Tiltwalker.

I collapsed onto the floor.

When I came to, it was morning. My mouth tasted like static.

I stood slowly.

The mirror reflected me.

Only it wasn't me.

It smiled before I did.

Then matched my movement again.

I stepped back.

My phone buzzed.

One message:

"You're ready for the next one."

DROP #005 arriving shortly.

No sender.

No number.

Just the company logo: DropDead Express.

I looked at the vial.

Still half full.

Then at the satchel, where the Laughless Key hummed softly.

And finally, out the window—where a mailman walked past.

Wearing my face.

And smiling upside down.