Once upon a modern day, in the kingdom of Comfortopolis, lived Khalid, a knight in shining tracksuit, whose most daring quests involved installing an IKEA shelf all by himself during the Eid holiday—when no one was around to help. That was a sweet, sweet victory, never to be forgotten.

Khalid lived in a fortress of solitude, armed with his trusty sword—a digital weapon promising knowledge and connection to the world: his iPhone Pro Plus Plus Extra Ultra. Three meals a day, rain or shine, he’d summon sustenance with a tap of the thumb. Connected via Wi-Fi, he worked online from home. His government paperwork? Renewed from his phone. Toilet paper and his favorite protein bars? Ordered through an app. Let’s not forget the supplements, consumed religiously to compensate for an otherwise unhealthy lifestyle. All delivered to his doorstep by unknown foreign heroes—some of whom he never even saw, as the boxes and sleek paper bags magically appeared like tributes at his threshold. When he did meet one of those strangers, the only words exchanged were, “Why are you late?”—often without eye contact, followed by excuses he never took seriously.

Khalid—named by his father after a legendary war general of the Muslim world—had everything he needed.

Even love—or so they called it. With a magical swipe of his finger, a match was guaranteed. His carefully crafted profile, full of wit and filtered truth, lured in the prize—not for who he truly was, but for the persona he had engineered.

But the dates never came.

Instead, Khalid found himself trapped in a cycle of flirtations with faceless women who promised affection in exchange for gift cards—Amazon, iTunes, even cryptocurrency.

In return, they sent filtered photos, skin-deep illusions, and long romantic messages copied from some forgotten website drenched in roses and cheap poetry, accompanied by a MIDI love song that sounded like it came from a dusty Nokia.

And when the screen dimmed, when the chats ran dry, and no one was watching— Khalid turned to the only place that never said no: Pornhub.

What more could Khalid want? The kingdom of Comfortopolis had granted him all his desires. The outside world was but a distant memory, a forgotten land beyond the moat of his doorstep. Old. Outdated.

 

But lo and behold!

The day everyone feared finally came.

His sword was down.

The internet was gone.

An unknown issue with the data provider had rendered him disconnected. Frustrated and in shock, Khalid shakily called customer service with an angry voice. How dare they take his life away? They promised to restore the connection as soon as possible, but that did nothing to silence the growling of his stomach.

He hadn’t had breakfast—and now it was lunchtime. Unprepared for such catastrophe, Khalid faced the ultimate quest: venturing outside to forage for food without the guidance of his digital map. It sounded easy. It felt terrifying. He had forgotten the time before time—before Wi-Fi.

The journey began with the first great obstacle: He couldn’t summon his horse—Uber.

He had to walk to the main street. With every step, the chaos of the outside world grew louder. Cars rushed in all directions. Many bore food and Amazon orders—for others. Jealousy swelled in his chest. None of these are for me, he thought.

Then he saw it: A shiny yellow car with black stripes.

A taxi.

His muscle memory kicked in. His arm rose. The car stopped like magic. He never knew his arms had such power.

But when he entered, the silence was awkward. The driver needed an address. Khalid had none. Without his trusted Google Maps, he didn’t know where to go.

“Where’s the nearest street with restaurants?” he asked.

Now the driver was in charge.

Khalid prayed he wouldn’t talk again. He feared not knowing the man’s name, which usually appeared on the Uber app. Everything felt unknown. Dangerous. Mysterious.

Suddenly, the car stopped.

He looked outside: The Shawarma Oasis.

A place of legend. A hall of feasting. A memory from the dark ages—before Wi-Fi.

To his surprise, it was nearly empty of regular customers as it used to be. Instead, only delivery knights remained, waiting to carry their boxed treasures to the corners of Comfortopolis.

As Khalid prepared to enter the restaurant for the next stage of the quest—ordering—a voice shouted behind him: the taxi driver demanding payment.

Oh no. Khalid had forgotten the rituals of cash. No app. No card. Just an ATM.

Luckily, one stood nearby.

He retrieved the colorful paper currency after performing the ancient rites with secret pins and codes, and—still hungry, still shaken—stepped inside the restaurant.

Excited for he had passed the point of no return.

Inside, he saw them: A line of delivery drivers, mostly Asian. Different shades of skin. Different countries. All clad in helmets and protective armor—shimmering yellows, pinks, and greens. Logos of companies he recognized from his dead phone. These were the knights of Comfortopolis, bringing food to the hungry. How nobel this job must be.

For the first time, Khalid saw them not as background figures—but as real people.

He stepped into their line, looking out of place. They looked back at him. He noticed something in their eyes: weariness.

As Khalid stood in line, feeling a sense of accomplishment (even though no shawarma was yet in hand), boredom crept in. Instinctively, he reached for his phone—to scroll reels. Pranks. Cats. Twerking. But it was useless. Dead.

He looked around the restaurant, memories flooding in—high school days, chatting on car hoods with friends. He didn’t remember the conversations, but he now craved that feeling of connection.

But with whom?

Maybe the delivery warrior ahead of him, now on a call in a foreign language?

Then a voice from behind, in broken Arabic:

“Now it’s peak time. Don’t worry. The line will go fast.”

Khalid turned slowly. Had his unease been that obvious? Or was this a mind-reading wizard?

The man wore the most famous yellow logo. A tired smile on his face.

Khalid hesitated. Small talk? How terrifying.

“I’m not in a rush. That’s okay,” Khalid lied.

But he saw a chance—

“Is it always full here?” he asked.

“One of the fullest. Everyone likes Shawarma Oasis,” the warrior replied.

“What about you? Do you like it? What kind do you prefer?” Khalid asked, hoping to bond. Dreaming the next question would be about sauces.

But the man replied:

“I’ve never tried it, sir.”

His face said it all—“Isn’t that obvious?”

A dagger pierced Khalid’s heart. He had never considered it: These men smell the food they never taste. Deliver it—but never eat it. They work twelve, sometimes eighteen hours—not for our convenience, but to feed families in distant lands. Their true homes.

These were not warriors in armor. They were laborers in chains. Not chains of iron, but of circumstance. Branded by logos. Bound by need.

Khalid looked around again. These weren’t armor suits. They were uniforms of servitude. The logos? Brands of ownership.

He thought, maybe they’re not forced. But was freedom even possible when you’re enslaved by circumstances?

This wasn’t just a small talk.

It was an awakening.

Amidst the shouts from the kitchen and the flickering number screen, Khalid had an epiphany. Visions of a forgotten era came to him—eye contact, handshakes, conversation.

Reality?

Overwhelmed by nostalgia, Khalid made a valiant decision. He would renounce the app kingdom. He would fight to free himself—and maybe others.

With a shawarma in hand and a heart heavy with realization, he returned to his fortress. Still no internet. Still many thoughts.

He lay down in bed, and slept deeply—dreaming of freedom, of change, of becoming a hero.

The next day, dawn broke.

Khalid the Great rose from his bed with a strange determination still flickering inside him.

The fridge was empty. No protein bars. No leftovers.

This could only mean one thing:

The supermarket – A wild, mythical place buried deep in the dust-covered shelf of memory.

He got dressed, tied his shoelaces like battle armor, and walked toward the door. Hand on the handle. Ready to step outside once more.

And just then—the sound.

Ding.

A single notification.

Then a flood.

Ding. Ding. Ding-ding-ding.

The internet had returned.

Full signal.

Full force.

Full glory.

The screen lit up like a siren. Emails. Updates. A flash sale. A message from an app he hadn’t opened in months.

Khalid paused. He looked at the open door, then at the glowing screen.

Just one task, he thought.

Just a quick check.

He sat down.

One scroll became two. One reply became four.

And without realizing—without deciding—he ordered lunch.

He remained on the couch, shawarma in hand, eyes on the screen, a wry smile curling on his lips.

Because in Comfortopolis, old habits die hard.

And the siren song of convenience is a melody too sweet to ignore.

And so, our tale ends:

Sir Khalid, on his couch, feasting on his delivered bounty, a wry smile on his face. He had remembered human connection—for a moment. But the realm of click-and-order was home. A home he now questions.

Khalid now knows the truth:

He, too, is enslaved.

Not by force—but by circumstances.

In his case, of conveniences.