Hexed (a short, absurdist story)

WARNING: I'm not good at writing fiction [1], so the plot is mine but to save time, the story is partly AI-generated. [2][3][4] Greg Brawinski’s skull felt cramped, like it contained more than just his brain. Between the upcoming Series B funding round and the stabbing feeling behind his left eye, he was barely aware of his legs moving. He stepped off the curb onto 4th Street without looking. A horn shrieked --a flat blare in the morning air-- followed by the squeal of brakes. Greg froze. The dented and rusted bumper of a transit bus came to a halt less than a meter from his knees. Inertia made the bus lean forward, bowing toward him like a predator about to pounce, before it veered back. Greg’s heart hammered against his ribs. His eyesight was blurry, and pareidolia set in: the rectangular headlights weren't just lights; they were narrow, murderous eyes staring down at him in a rage. Just under the right headlight, in flaking white paint, was the identification number: 57005. The two…