In the dimly lit breakroom of the Nestlé factory, amidst the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional clatter of microwaved burritos, our hero—known to his colleagues as The Watcher—faced an existential crisis unlike any before.
It began with a simple glance at his phone. His digital lifeline. His portal to the world. His 12% charge.
Panic struck like an unexpected product recall. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, not from the grueling labor of the factory floor, but from the icy grip of dread squeezing his soul. Nine hours. Nine. Hours. An eternity in factory time. A vast, yawning chasm of uncertainty lay before him.
“How will I survive?” he whispered, clutching the device as though sheer willpower could summon a charge.
Would he be forced to endure a night of silence? Would he—perish the thought—have to make eye contact with coworkers? Engage in…small talk? The horror!
Desperate, he embarked on a journey across the breakroom, phone held high like a relic of lost civilization, scanning for a charging port like an archaeologist seeking an ancient power source. He checked every outlet, every charging station, every shadowy corner where forgotten chargers might lurk.
Nothing.
Then, as his battery plummeted to single digits, he knew what had to be done.
Summoning his last vestiges of strength, he crafted a frantic post on Facebook:
“I will not be able to be contacted. The blackout has occurred.”
A gasp echoed in the ether of the internet. Friends, family, casual acquaintances—all were warned.
And then—darkness.
His phone, his tether to reality, flickered and died.
A cold, cruel silence followed. The room seemed dimmer, the world distant. His very identity hung in the balance. He was no longer The Watcher, the digital nomad, the comment crusader. He was merely…a worker.
Hours passed, or perhaps centuries. Time lost meaning.
Then, at long last, the gates of salvation opened—the work shift ended. He stumbled through the factory exit, his body weary, his soul battered, clutching his fallen companion.
With trembling hands, he plugged in his phone. The tiny lightning bolt appeared on the screen. A heartbeat. Life.
He exhaled. The nightmare was over.
And as his screen illuminated, messages flooded in—comments of support, reactions of shock, memes in his honor. He had survived.
From that day forth, he vowed never to take his battery life for granted again.
