Brick Curtain, Steel Throat

I'm on the downslope of New Cross Road, knees soft, coasting. The chicken katsu bag is wedged in my thermal cube. The app says: drop 3C, top-floor flat, leave on doorstep. Easy money, minus the climb. My legs are still warm from the last sprint, tips at £17 so far, six more to midnight bonus. I hum along to nothing, earbuds dead since Peckham.

My phone buzzes again. New pickup: Ming's Kitchen, 1–3 Trevithick Alley. Trevithick doesn't exist on Google, but the tip is £12 up front and I'm thirsty for it. I shrug and press "Accept." The map zooms to a blue vein between two brick walls that shouldn't have a gap. I ride straight at them, bars steady, and the bricks peel apart like curtains, just wide enough for handlebars.

Inside is a shipping container with a red wok logo. One bloke is wearing a Deliveroo jacket two sizes too big, his eyes cooked red. He shoves a bag at me, no words. The food's hot enough to sting through foil. I pocket the cash and U-turn; the bricks close behind me like they never opened.

Another ping before I hit the main road. Same restaurant, same ghost alley. Tip is £15. I message support: "Address fake." A bot replies: "Use in-app navigation." I ride the vein again. Red-eye me is still there, like he never left, holding the next bag. Same weight, same steam. I take it and leave. This time, I notice the jacket's torn at the sleeve—the same rip I got snagged on railing last week, only fresher.

The third order lands while I'm still chewing air. £20 tip. I snap a selfie: me, alley mouth, caption reading "Marry me, mystery tipper." I post it, bricks already knitting closed behind me.

Fourth order. The container's longer inside—stainless steel, not corrugated. Four riders are waiting, all me: one with a scar where tomorrow's zit sits; one thinner like he's been skipping dinners; one older, beard salted gray. None speak. Their phones glow the same blue. I look down: my reflection in the prep counter shows eyes I haven't slept into yet. A chef appears with Dad's face if he ever smiled, and slides a bag and a tenner across. The paper's warm, damp, smells like the butcher's drain. I take both and back out slowly. The bricks seal.

Fifth order. A banner I've never seen, yellow on black: "Stay in saddle. Do not enter kitchen." Tip £30. I brake at the alley mouth. Scar me walks out, carrying my exact order. His eyes plead "Don't." He's on foot, no bike. I let him pass. When I look back, he's already shrinking into the dark between streetlights.

Sixth ping: return to Ming's, £50, accept or suspend. My hands freeze on the bars. I see Mum's catalogue balance, rent due tomorrow, Darren gone since he tapped "Report issue." I accept.

The alley yawns wider, lit like surgery. The container's now a corridor, stainless steel stretching further than eye. Riders line both sides, a conveyor of mes, each at different ages of knackered. They slap stickers, fold foil, never look up. At the far end, a kid collapses—fifteen, acne like constellations. No one stops. Chef Dad catches the bag mid-fall and sets it back on the belt.

I walk the line. The youngest Jay whispers without moving his lips: "Don't eat the food." The steam tastes of iron. I reach chef Dad. He offers the bag, plus the square thermal backpack they stopped giving out last year. Inside is my stolen bike light, cracked red plastic still blinking. Recognition hits like cold water: this shift never ends, every drop spits another me, another fee. The tips aren't love; they're gag money.

Two buttons on my phone: "Confirm delivery" or "Report issue." Confirm and I stay, become him, feeding fresh mes forever. Report and I'm logged off the way Darren was, phone dead, rent still due.

I press "Report issue." The screen glitches, the customer name pops up: Jay Turner, ETA zero minutes. I understand: I'm rider and order. I snatch the cracked light and smash it against the steel. Sparks, steam, alarm; but the line keeps moving, assembling the same tub, same foil, same logo. I run, backpack over shoulder, food bag in hand. The bricks fold behind me like a napkin, smaller, smaller.

I deliver to myself—a kid on a curb outside my flat, gym trainers glowing, waiting for the first ping. I hand over the bag and refuse the tip. Younger me blinks, confused. I pedal away. At Greenwich pier, I lob the phone and watch it sink. Wind hits my face; somewhere downstream, another phone pings, but it's not mine.