“Yo, officer, any chance I can get your digits?” Jane flashed her best grin, batting her lashes at the cop like she was auditioning for a rom-com. Her dark hair bounced, and her green eyes sparkled with just the right amount of mischief. At twenty-something, she had the vibe of someone who could charm her way out of a parking ticket. Maybe.

“Try 911,” the cop shot back, his face blank but his tone dripping with sass. “I’d love to chat, but I’m on the clock, lady. Let’s talk about your little hot dog hustle instead. No permit, no dice. You’re coming with me.”

Jane stood behind her rickety hot dog cart, the air thick with the mouthwatering scent of buttery cheese and garlic-beef sauce. Her masterpiece—her plan—was crumbling faster than a cheap taco shell. The cart, her pride and joy, was decked out with condiments she’d spent hours perfecting. All for nothing.

Jane Garcia, 21, Mexican-American, was just your average community college kid majoring in accounting. Her life goals? Simple: snag a degree, land a cushy bank job, wear snappy blazers, and sip overpriced coffee with clients. She wasn’t chasing TikTok fame or a PowerPoint pitch on Shark Tank. Sure, kid-Jane had daydreamed about being a movie star or an influencer, but grown-up Jane? She just wanted a chill life. Maybe a cameo in a Netflix series to scratch the acting itch, but nothing too extra. Her real passion was photography—she’d blown most of her cash on a sweet camera and lenses.

Then last Christmas, her parents in Mexico dropped the bomb: they were broke. No more tuition money. Jane gritted her teeth and thought, Fine, I’ll hustle. She applied for student loans—denied. Worse, her visa got rejected. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she’d yelled at her laptop screen. Three years of high school in the U.S., two years of college, decent grades, and now this? Apparently, the immigration folks decided she couldn’t afford to stay.

Jane wasn’t about to give up and head back to Mexico. She wanted simple, not struggling. So, she took a gamble: a shady old dude sold her a secondhand hot dog cart, and she poured her heart into her signature butter-cheese and garlic-beef sauce. The plan? Sling hot dogs, save up, finish college, or maybe even bounce to Canada for school. Bank teller vibes, here she comes.

But reality’s a jerk. Her cart barely had a chance to shine before Officer Buzzkill showed up. “God, can’t you cut a girl a break?” Jane muttered, staring at her unsold hot dogs. One ride in the cop car, and her dreams—college, bank job, the whole shebang—were toast.

Just as Jane was about to yeet her dreams into the dumpster and climb into the squad car, something wild happened. Nobody noticed the sky turning weird, a massive swirl of clouds spinning like a sci-fi movie portal. Strange symbols glowed and twisted in the vortex. Then—BOOM!—a bolt of lightning blasted down, zapping Jane like she was the star of a superhero origin story.

As her vision faded, Jane’s last coherent thought was a scream in her head: “I just sold hot dogs without a permit, not murdered someone! Why’s the universe yeeting me with lightning?!”