The flat smelled like steam and overcooked rice. Levin had left the lid on too long.
He didn’t care.
He was sitting in front of his laptop, half-eaten dinner beside him, staring at the screen with the same look he’d once reserved for unpaid bills.
YouTube was open. Search bar filled with the hopeful lie:
"UK side hustles 2025 - earn extra cash"
The results were a digital graveyard:
“AI Took My Job: The Death of Online Work”
“Print-on-Demand is Dead in 2025 – Here's Why”
“Don’t Bother With Fiverr Unless You’re a Machine”
“Passive Income Is a Lie (Here’s My Burnout Story)”
He clicked through one after another.
A man explaining how AI now writes the ad copy.
A woman showing how stock photo sites were oversaturated.
A teenager ranting about how he made £9 in six weeks selling eBooks.
Every thumbnail a face. Every face strained. Every voice flat.
Levin sat there, something in his chest sinking without splash.
He’d always told himself there were backups.
That if things got bad, he’d hustle. Flip something. Learn a skill.
Everyone said there were options.
But now the options were dead links, and the gig economy had become just another queue he was already too far back in.
He closed the tab.
Didn’t eat the rest of his rice.
Didn’t wash the plate.
He got up, put on his coat, and walked to the Co-op.
It was quiet inside. Fluorescent lighting. Two old women by the milk. A lad stocking shelves at the back.
No security guard at the door tonight. Budget cuts, probably.
Levin walked with purpose, but not to shop. He wasn’t thinking about dinner.
He was just trying to feel different.
He stood in front of the hot drinks aisle and stared at a packet of Matcha sachets.
Slim. £2.60.
Then something strange happened.
His arm moved.
His coat pocket opened.
The packets went in.
He didn’t think it.
He watched it.
8 packets of Matcha. 4 in each pocket. 20 quids' worth.
It was like watching a stranger move your own limbs. No fear. No thrill.
Just blank inevitability, like flushing a toilet or closing a drawer.
He grabbed a tin of chopped tomatoes and a bag of oats — paid for those.
Card machine. Beep. Bag. Exit.
The whole thing took four minutes.
Walking home, he felt the sachets pressing lightly against his leg.
Weightless. Silent.
He didn’t speed up. Didn’t sweat.
Didn’t feel victorious.
Didn’t feel guilty.
What he felt was:
"Well. That was easy."
Back at the flat, he laid the stolen sachets on the counter like evidence.
Then made a cup. Matcha, hot water, powdered milk.
It tasted bitter. He drank it all.
He stared at the cup afterwards, long after it was empty.
Then rinsed it, wiped it, and dried it carefully.
He updated the spreadsheet.
Didn’t write anything about the tea.
Just a new note at the bottom:
“Extra food sourced. £20.80 saved.”
Then, finally, he added something new.
“You do what you have to do.”