No one ate the takeaways for three months, and it was me who signed for them.
I opened a paranormal firm, and each of my teammates was more outrageous than the last: the man in science and engineering rewrote the underlying logic of the air conditioner, the shadow of a girl in society was afraid of being more assertive than myself, and the gossip queen was more excited about ghosts than melons. So poor that I want to sell my blood.
Superpower? All I can see are red envelopes for takeaways and plummeting stocks, which I can't turn off and receive rogue notifications around the clock. Until a blood-red barrage appeared - "Someone is watching behind you." The right eye is blind. The antique phone with its cord cut rang. "What are you going to eat today" is written dozens of times on the wall in the haunted house.
A red text popped up on the barrage: "Order Confirmed."
Someone is using my powers to place orders.
I was the one who ordered it.
