I sat in my chair, my head spinning with confusion.

  Sherlock Holmes, Miyamoto Musashi, Leonardo da Vinci—figures I had only ever read about in history books or seen in movies—were now standing before me, alive and well. What’s more, they all spoke fluent English and seemed perfectly at ease with the modern world.

  Then Holmes began to explain the bizarre truth behind it all.

  Apparently, when people die and go to Heaven, there’s a long-standing rule set by God Himself: those who make extraordinary contributions to Heaven can have one wish granted. Recently, Heaven had been going through a bit of a renaissance, and many individuals were stepping up with impressive achievements.

  Holmes had cracked the case of the missing Archangel Gabriel. Da Vinci had painted a mural in the newly built Hall of God and won the Celestial Arts Prize.

  “What about the swordsman?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Oh, him?” Holmes replied with a raised eyebrow. “He won the Heaven-wide Competitive Eating Championship.”

  I was speechless.

  “You see,” Holmes continued, “our greatest wish was to return to the mortal world. I asked to go back to England—word is the crime rate’s gone through the roof. Figured I’d have plenty to do.”

  “But Loki said we could only come back as tourists,” he added. “He’s the one who arranged everything.”

  “Loki?” I interrupted. “You mean that shabby old man from yesterday? I gave him ten bucks!”

  “Yup,” Holmes confirmed.

  “Damn it.”

  “But how do you guys know how to use an induction stove, shop at the supermarket, or speak English so fluently?” I asked.

  Da Vinci gave me a warm smile. “Before arriving here, we all went through a special orientation in Heaven. Language, modern technology, social customs—we studied it all.”

  “Think of it as tourist training,” Holmes added. “Heaven doesn’t want us walking around like clueless ghosts.”

  Gradually, I began to accept this utterly insane reality.

  “Well then,” I sighed, “at least clean up after yourselves when you’re done eating.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Before anyone could answer, a sudden sniffing sound broke the silence—as if someone were taking deep, greedy breaths.

  Then the door creaked open.

  That scruffy old man from yesterday stepped in, sniffing the air like a bloodhound and grinning from ear to ear.

  “Mmm, smells amazing! I knew someone was having a feast upstairs!” he said dreamily, walking straight to the dining table like he owned the place.

  I was just about to speak when he suddenly scowled at me and barked, “You little liar! You told me yesterday that I could pull money out of napkins at ICBC, RBC, and TD Bank! I tried every single one—and got nearly kicked out by the security guards!”

  I coughed awkwardly, trying to explain, but he wasn’t having any of it.

  Like a starving wolf, he dove headfirst into the food I’d painstakingly prepared. Fried chicken, fries, burgers—all disappeared into his belly within minutes. He even slurped the last drops of Coke like it was vintage wine.

  I stood frozen, too stunned to stop him.

  “These guys aren’t going anywhere,” he said between bites. “That’s the rule. You’re the host now, so get used to it.”

  “Wait a minute,” I cut in. “If I’m the host, how am I supposed to support all these people?!”

  A few minutes later, the old man sat back with a satisfied sigh and patted his stomach.

  “Ahh, now that hit the spot,” he said, grinning at me with greasy fingers. “Okay, kid. Since lunch was decent, I’ll let you in on a little secret—your salary.”

  He licked his fingers clean and leaned in like he was sharing a state secret.

  “Remember the empty McDonald’s box and the Tim Hortons coffee cup from yesterday? If you lick that box clean, you’ll gain 1% of the abilities of every historical figure you’ve come into contact with. And if you drink the last dregs from that coffee cup, you can temporarily borrow their full powers.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  That had to be the dumbest payroll scheme in history.

  Just as I was trying to make sense of it, the McDonald’s box on the counter let out a soft ding.

  The old man glanced over, shrugged, and said, “Huh. Looks like you’ve got another visitor on the way. Good luck, kid.”

  And with that, he gave a lazy wave and shuffled out the door.

  Suppressing the urge to curse, I hurried to the counter. Sure enough, the beat-up box now contained another mysterious card.

  I picked it up, and before I could even read it, the card vanished into thin air.

  A moment later, I heard footsteps upstairs.

  My heart skipped a beat. I rushed up to the second floor.

  There, in one of the small rooms, stood a stranger.

  He wore a wrinkled suit, had wild, unkempt hair, and a manic gleam in his eyes. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days—but was thrilled about it.

  “Hi there!” he beamed. “Is there a place I can run some experiments?”

  I froze. The aura of genius—and madness—was unmistakable.

  Nikola Tesla.

  With that, the rooms upstairs were officially full.

  Including myself, the rundown thrift shop was now home to five wildly different individuals: Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective with razor-sharp instincts; Miyamoto Musashi, a swordsman whose silence was as sharp as his blade; Leonardo da Vinci, always scribbling and sketching new inventions on scraps of paper; Nikola Tesla, whose erratic energy filled the room with static and strange ideas; and finally, me—Jason, an ordinary guy who still had no clue what the hell he was supposed to do with any of this.And me—Jason, a nobody still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  I leaned against the doorframe, staring at them in disbelief.

  They were just here for a vacation.

  But me? I was stuck figuring out how to survive all this.

  And worse—those filthy scraps from yesterday?

  Yeah… I still hadn’t thrown them out.