I was late.

  Which, in my defense, was not my fault.

  Nobody told me the night shift started at moonrise. I thought it meant something normal, like a late-evening restock, maybe dodging a haunted mop or feeding the register goblin. You know—manageable weirdness.

  Instead, I showed up to chaos.

  Literal chaos.

  The front doors were wide open. Music blared from somewhere in the walls. Lights pulsed in colors I’m pretty sure don’t exist in nature. And customers were everywhere.

  A centaur argued with a vampire about shopping cart etiquette. A slime in a tiny bowler hat was browsing the sales bin. A seven-foot insectoid flicked through scented candles like it was comparing brands of blood.

  This wasn’t a shop.

  This was a bazaar of madness.

  I stepped inside like someone walking into a dream they really didn’t want to be having. Everything smelled like cinnamon and regret.

  “You’re late,” came the voice.

  I turned. Clipboard Tyrant, of course, appeared beside me like he’d been summoned by my confusion.

  “Do you ever sleep?” I asked.

  He stared down his obnoxiously long nose.

  “Your shift began at moonrise. You are two hours and fourteen minutes tardy.”

  “Nobody told me it started at moonrise!”

  He raised a single brow and flipped his clipboard around. At the very bottom of today’s schedule, written in barely legible ink:

  Temporary Night Shift: Beeg.

  Next to it, underlined three times:

  We Are Goblins.

  “This is worse than rat-based HR,” I exclaimed. “You can’t just scribble something no one sees and expect me to magically know it exists!”

  Clipboard Tyrant smiled. “Beeg, I can do whatever I want.”

  He turned and vanished into the crowd.

  I just stood there. Dazed. Bewildered. Some part of me was still hoping this was a coma dream. He was going to make my life miserable for blowing up Aisle Four, wasn’t he?

  The store was alive in a way I hadn’t seen before.

  The day shift? That was pretend.

  This? This was the real shop.

  Products floated, blinked, or tried to walk off the shelves. Gold changed hands with alarming speed. Spells sparked off in the corners. Somewhere behind me, someone yelled about a shortage of “non-euclidean paper towels.”

  I ducked as a flying receipt with wings buzzed past my head.

  And then it happened.

  A hooded figure, trying to be sneaky, slipped a glowing bauble into their cloak.

  The store went very quiet.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A groan came from the ceiling.

  The floor rumbled.

  And then, with no warning, the aisle snapped shut.

  Like jaws.

  There was a brief scream, a crunch, and silence.

  A moment later, the aisle slid back into place, neat as ever.

  The crowd applauded.

  “Another one trying to steal from Vaarg!” someone called, laughing.

  “Oh, they never learn,” a troll muttered, sipping a drink with six straws.

  I just stood there.

  Mouth open.

  My shift hadn’t even started yet.

  ——-

  “A half-elf? Really? A half-elf?”

  The night manager stared at me in exasperation. I stared right back with equal parts confusion. She wasn’t wider than she was tall, like “Clipboard Tyrant” Vaarg, nor was she tiny… or ugly. She looked like a normal goblin.

  I mean, aside from the absolutely gigantic purple bouffant on her head. But at this point, that was really just par for the course.

  The name “Matilda” was meticulously penned on her name tag.

  Matilda.

  A goblin named Matilda. Somehow…it fit.

  “—Most of our customers wouldn’t be caught dead in a room with an elf,” she was ranting. “The rest would sooner shiv a ‘umie than talk to ‘im. What the blasted, blubbering ‘ells am I s’posed to do with you?!”

  She stormed off, muttering curses about Vaarg under her breath.

  I found I could relate. I also realized she was the first goblin I kind of liked.

  No nonsense.

  Except now that she’d walked away, I could literally feel the hostility radiating off the other customers.

  “Ey, pipsqueak,” an ogre lumbered over. “Oi don’ like ee.”

  Naturally, he followed up that well-reasoned stance by trying to smash me into paste.

  No warning. Just raised his massive hand and brought it down.

  So this is how flies feel! I thought in terror, throwing myself to the side. Somewhere behind me, I heard Matilda screeching:

  “Oi, y’blithering ogre! That’s an employee!”

  The ogre didn’t look inclined to care.

  He stepped forward. The rest of the customers stepped back.

  And then, a hole popped into existence on the floor.

  The ogre fell in.

  The hole closed.

  The store burped.

  Burped.

  Everyone—Matilda, the customers, me—we just stared.

  “Ding! Level up!” someone shouted. The tension shattered, and everyone burst into cheers.

  This place is absolutely insane.

  “I been hangin’ ‘round zese rafters for yeeears,” a talking bat squeaked, “and I ain’t never zeen zee ztore protect zomeone before!”

  I patted the floor in… gratitude? Maybe. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt, knowing the store could eat me at any second.

  At least it was on my side.

  For now.

  And if the rumors about someone getting eaten in Aisle Three for being too clean were true?

  Not mah problem.

  I was buying a new mop bucket tomorrow.

  And a broom.

  And nice fresh dusting rags.

  Matilda grabbed me by the ear. “You’re working in the back tonight,” she huffed.

  “Everyone, get back to buying stuff!” she screeched, and the customers scattered like roaches.

  “Listen,” she whispered, dragging me by the ear. “I don’t know what Vaarg’s playing at, but ‘e is the boss. This place ain’t safe for ye at night, and I don’t ‘ave time to babysit ye. Just… make yourself useful.”

  We stopped in front of a door I’d never seen before. Granted, I hadn’t made it past Aisles Three and Four, so that wasn’t saying much.

  A plaque hung on the door:

  Q A

  “Wait… we have Quality Assurance?” I asked.

  Matilda snorted.

  “Oh honey. This is Quality Adjustment.”

  “…Quality what?”

  And she shoved me in.