Under The Radar

Chapter 1: The Price of Control

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a hive of mechanical bees, casting a harsh, sterile glow on the rows of soulless, plastic-wrapped merchandise. It was midday, but the inside of the store felt like its own universe—timeless, devoid of any sense of morning or night, just an endless, monotonous present. The kind of place that smothered the human spirit one sale at a time.

Casey Heart stood behind the counter, scanning barcodes with a beep that seemed to pulse in rhythm with her own heartbeat. She didn't even need to look at the screen anymore. Muscle memory had taken over weeks ago, leaving her mind free to wander into more interesting territory—like how long it would take for her to gouge out her eyes with the plastic price tag gun.

She forced a smile as the next customer, an elderly woman wearing enough perfume to trigger an asthma attack, approached the counter, scowling at her receipt.

"Is there a reason this jar of almond butter is three cents more than the shelf tag said?"

Casey's smile tightened, her fingers hovering just above the register keys. Breathe. Just breathe. She'd heard this exact complaint—about three cents or less—at least six times that week alone. She was starting to believe it was a government experiment to see how long it took for a retail worker to snap.

"Let me check that for you," she said, her voice honeyed with the kind of fake politeness that made her teeth hurt. Inside, her mind whirled with biting retorts. Because the world is a hellscape of corporate greed, and you're paying for it with your precious almond butter, lady. Next question?

As she tapped the register keys, her eyes flicked up to the CCTV cameras dotting the ceiling. They never moved, never blinked, but they watched all the same. Just like everything else around here, she thought bitterly. Between the store's unblinking surveillance and her own ever-present sense of monotony, it felt like life was closing in on her, one beep at a time.

She handed the old woman her adjusted receipt, her forced smile firmly in place. "There you go, all set. Three cents off."

The woman grumbled something under her breath, snatched the receipt, and waddled off with her almond butter like she'd won a small victory against the forces of capitalism. Casey just stared at the customer's retreating figure, her hand dropping from the register like a puppet with cut strings.

Her shift had only just started, and already she felt like she was suffocating.

In the back of her mind, she remembered when things were different. Back when she was still in school, still burning with curiosity, still convinced she'd be doing something—anything—that mattered by now. Anthropology had been her way out, her way of understanding the intricate power structures that controlled societies throughout history. Now, she couldn't even afford the classes that would let her finish the damn degree. Life had ground her dreams down to something small, like the fine print on a receipt—barely visible, easily missed.

With a glance at the clock, she let out a heavy sigh. Four more hours to go. Four more hours of scanning, smiling, and silently screaming into the fluorescent void. This isn't where I'm supposed to be.

As she settled back into her usual routine, the next customer, a guy in his late forties who looked like he'd barely survived rush hour traffic, approached the counter. His shirt was untucked, tie halfway undone, and he dropped a pack of batteries on the counter with an attitude that made it clear this was the last place he wanted to be.

"Twenty bucks for this? For batteries?" he barked, jabbing a finger at the price tag like it had personally offended him.

Casey didn't even blink, barely looking up from the register as she scanned the item with a bored beep. "Yeah, that's what it says."