Ethan spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, the bizarre probability notifications flickering across his vision even with his eyes closed. A tiny cartoon Ethan, dressed in a lab coat, repeatedly face-planted into a digital wall labeled "SLEEP," accompanied by a chirpy, synthesized voice declaring, "Probability of successful REM cycle: 3.7%." He swatted at the phantom image, groaning.

Finally, exhaustion won. He woke with a jolt, late for his temp coding job at "Mediocre Microsystems" – a fittingly named company that specialized in outdated payroll software. The notification bar at the corner of his vision flashed a bright red: "Probability of termination due to tardiness: 78.2%."

"Great," Ethan muttered, grabbing a stale bagel and bolting out the door.

He was so preoccupied with navigating the sidewalk labyrinth of Seattle – dodging tourists gawking at the Space Needle reflected in puddles and aggressive cyclists weaving through pedestrian traffic – that he didn’t notice the two figures lurking in the narrow alleyway until it was too late.

"Wallet. Phone. Now," a gruff voice demanded.

Ethan froze. He’d never been mugged before. The probability notification popped up: "Probability of successful robbery: 92.1%. Probability of serious injury: 14.8%."

He considered his options. He could try to run. But the alley was a dead end. He could fight. But these guys looked significantly bigger than him, and he was still running on two hours of sleep and a stale bagel. He briefly considered explaining his newfound abilities, but the sheer absurdity of it stopped him. "Hey, I have this weird code that lets me see the future, but only in the form of annoying pop-up ads! Also, I heal to polka music!" Yeah, that would go over well.

"I said, now!" The mugger, a hulking figure in a hooded sweatshirt, stepped closer, brandishing a rusty-looking switchblade. The blade glinted menacingly in the dim light.

Ethan sighed. "Okay, okay. Just take it easy." He slowly reached into his pocket for his wallet. As he did, the other mugger, a skinny, jittery guy with a neck tattoo, tried to snatch his phone.

Instinct took over. Ethan, fueled by adrenaline and the lingering frustration of the previous night, reacted without thinking. He sidestepped the skinny mugger's grab and shoved him into the alley wall. The guy yelped, surprised by the unexpected force.

The hulking mugger lunged. Ethan, still fumbling with his wallet, stumbled back, catching the edge of the blade across his left forearm. A sharp, searing pain shot through his arm as blood welled up, staining his worn jacket.

"Damn it!" Ethan yelled, clutching his arm. The notification bar flashed again: "Probability of infection: 63.5%. Probability of long-term scarring: 88.9%."

He didn't have time to process the numbers. The hulking mugger, enraged, charged again. Ethan, desperate, kicked out. His foot connected with the mugger's shin. The guy howled, clutching his leg, giving Ethan the opportunity to scramble out of the alley and onto the busy street.

He ran. He didn't stop running until he reached the relative safety of a nearby cafe, "The Daily Grind," a haven for caffeine-addicted programmers and weary freelancers. He collapsed into a chair, gasping for breath and cradling his bleeding arm.

The cafe was buzzing with the usual morning rush. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the clatter of keyboards and the murmur of conversations. He looked down at his arm. The cut was surprisingly deep, and blood was still oozing out. He felt lightheaded.

"Are you alright, sir?" a concerned barista asked, noticing his pallor.

"Yeah… just… a bit of a scrape," Ethan mumbled, trying to downplay the situation. "Could I get a coffee? Black. Strong."

As the barista disappeared to prepare his order, Ethan glanced around the cafe. A small stage in the corner was set up for live music. And there, tuning his accordion, was a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache and a brightly colored vest. A polka musician.

"Oh, great," Ethan thought sarcastically. "Just what I need."

The musician cleared his throat and launched into a lively rendition of "Roll Out the Barrel." The upbeat melody filled the cafe, bouncing off the exposed brick walls and drowning out the usual morning chatter.

Suddenly, Ethan felt a strange sensation. A tingling warmth spread from his injured arm. He looked down, mesmerized. The bleeding was slowing. The edges of the cut were drawing together, closing at an astonishing rate. The deep gash, which just moments ago had been a gaping wound, was now a faint red line.

He stared in disbelief. Could it be? Was it possible? He glanced at the probability notification, which had suddenly switched from red to a vibrant green: "Probability of full recovery: 99.8%."

He looked around the cafe. No one else seemed to notice anything unusual. They were all too busy with their coffee and their laptops, oblivious to the bizarre miracle occurring in their midst. The polka music continued to blare, the accordion player seemingly oblivious to the life-saving properties of his music.

As the song reached its crescendo, Ethan felt a surge of energy. The cut on his arm was almost completely healed, leaving only a faint pink scar. He flexed his arm, testing its strength. It felt… normal. Maybe even a little stronger.

The song ended. The cafe erupted in polite applause. The musician bowed, then began to tune his accordion for the next number.

Ethan sat there, stunned. He knew, with absolute certainty, that the polka music had healed him. It was insane. Ridiculous. Utterly unbelievable. And yet, it was happening.

He remembered the strange coding error that had given him his abilities. The glitches. The probability notifications. The… polka-powered healing? It was all connected. Some bizarre, nonsensical algorithm was running in his veins, dictating his life according to its own twisted logic.

The barista returned with his coffee. "Here you go, sir. Extra strong. On the house. You looked like you needed it."

Ethan took a sip of the coffee, the bitter liquid doing little to clear the fog in his brain. He thanked the barista, then pulled out his laptop. He needed to understand what was happening to him. He needed to find a way to control these absurd powers. And he desperately needed to find out how to turn off those damn probability notifications.

He opened his code editor and started to type, the click-clack of the keys a comforting counterpoint to the polka music that had just saved his life. He felt a surge of determination, a renewed sense of purpose. He may not be able to debug his love life, but he could certainly try to debug his DNA.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Mediocre Microsystems: "Ethan, where are you? Missing in action. Call us ASAP."

The notification bar flashed: "Probability of termination due to continued tardiness: 99.9%."

Ethan sighed. Another glitch in the system. He closed his laptop. He had a feeling his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated. He also had a strong suspicion that he'd be listening to a lot more polka music in the near future. He stood up, ready to face whatever came next. He knew one thing, he needed to use the ability to get back at Julian Thorne. The man who had everything, who had no right to be with Victoria. That thought pushed him into action, revenge was on his mind.