"Mr. Stone?"
Alex looked up, throat suddenly dry.
"This way, please." The assistant smiled, but it didn't calm the storm inside his chest.
He adjusted his tie, forced his legs to move, and stepped into the room, the fifth interview in three months. He was beginning to memorize the dance: sit straight, smile politely, answer confidently, hide the desperation.
The conference room was brighter than expected. Three people sat across from him: two men and a woman. Grey suits, sharp eyes, zero warmth. The man on the right didn't even look up from the papers he was flipping through. The woman had her hands folded neatly, but her expression was unreadable, polished, and cold, like a marble statue. The other man was typing on a tablet with the speed of someone trying to finish a different job.
Alex sat down when gestured to, his hands folded in his lap and legs tense beneath the table.
"You studied accounting?" the woman asked with her efficient voice.
"Yes, ma'am. Graduated top of my class." He added a smile, not too wide, not too eager.
"Top of your class," she repeated, not looking impressed. "Yet, four failed interviews in the last quarter. Why?"
Alex swallowed, trying not to let her words sting.
"I didn't fail the interviews, ma'am. The system failed me. They told me I wasn't the 'right fit.' Or that someone with a better certificate had applied… when I know it's usually someone with more connections."
That made the man flipping papers finally raise his eyes. Sharp and calculating.
"So... you're saying we're part of a broken system?"
Silence.
Alex sat still, aware of how loud his heartbeat had become. He could lie. He could backpedal. But he was tired of walking on eggshells.
"I'm saying I'm the right fit for the job," he said quietly. "But not everyone's willing to see that until they run out of options."
The air tightened. Even the assistant standing near the door shifted slightly.
The woman leaned back, her eyebrow lifting but barely, an elegant motion. "You're either bold or desperate, Mr. Stone. Possibly both."
"I'm both," he admitted. "But that doesn't make me wrong."
A pause.
The man with the tablet finally spoke, voice smooth and deliberate. "Describe how you'd handle a situation where two internal departments accuse each other of financial misconduct. No access to digital logs. Just paper trails and four years of records."
Alex blinked, he's caught off guard by the shift.
"First," he said, "I'd isolate both departments' ledgers and cross-reference their expense sheets. Look for duplicate entries, unexplained transfers, and unbalanced ledgers. Then I'd check for patterns, recurring vendors, rounding errors, forged authorizations."
"Forged authorizations?" the woman asked.
"Yes, ma'am. One of the oldest tricks in internal fraud. People assume no one will check signatures on an archived form. They forget most paper lies louder than digital logs."
That got a faint smile from the man with the tablet.
"And what if both parties insist on innocence?" the man with the papers asked.
"Then someone's lying. Or both are. That's when I stop looking at numbers and start looking at people."
The room stilled again.
"Interesting," the woman murmured. "What about ethics, Mr. Stone? Where do you stand when it's your boss in the wrong?"
"I report it," Alex replied without hesitation.
"Even if it costs you your job?"
"I've lost jobs for less, ma'am. But I have a little sister who watches everything I do. I want her to know that keeping quiet is never safer in the long run."
The woman blinked. For a second, something softened in her face. Then it vanished.
The man who hadn't spoken leaned forward, resting both hands on the table. His voice was dry, unreadable.
"We like bold. Bold is different. Tomorrow. 7 AM sharp. Our chairman will be seeing all newly approved recruits. Miss it and miss out. Don't be late."
Alex blinked. "Sorry… did you say?"
"For one who's bold, you seem not to be very smart. You're hired as a Forensic Financial Analyst in Argus Holdings International. Congratulations, Mr. Stone. Don't embarrass us."
He blinked again. A flush crept up his neck.
"I… thank you. I won't let you down."
"No, you won't," the woman said. "cause we'd replace you immediately."
The assistant opened the door behind him. The interview was over.
Alex stood up on legs that felt like rubber. He nodded to each of them, thanked them again, and then walked out of that office dazed like he'd survived a war. His chest rose and fell. Slowly. Sharply. Four failed interviews with rejections wrapped in politeness, and "We'll get back to you" lies. But this one… this was different.
Alex Stone, 25 years old, broke and burned out, had finally found a crack in the wall.
He walked with a new rhythm, almost in disbelief. His steps were lighter, but not free. No, never free. The weight was still there.
Outside, he didn't smile.
Not yet.
But by the time he was on the bus home, the grin broke through. He held it in for a while, then laughed. A full, pure, bubbling laugh. For the first time in months, the sun looked like the sun. Even the traffic didn't matter. Even the noise. Even the heat.
He had a job. A real one. They'd suffered enough.
"Dad would finally rest. Emma would receive good medical care, Sarah would be very proud, and maybe, just maybe, they'd all sleep a little easier at night. This calls for a celebration." Alex thought to himself as he stopped halfway to buy something small to celebrate. A little wine and a cheap cake. Something they could all share.
Emma isn't just Alex's 16-year-old sister; she's the reason he never gave up. Since their mother left, Alex had to grow up almost overnight. With their father overworked and aging, it fell to Alex to feed her, walk her to school, monitor her breathing at night, and learn which medications calmed her attacks.
She's soft-spoken, intuitive, and carries the kind of wisdom children aren't meant to hold, a result of living in survival mode. She adores Alex but secretly feels guilty for being the reason he couldn't fully live his own life. Emma often hides her asthma symptoms, not wanting to burden him further.
Sarah, on the other hand, is the fire to Alex's silent storm. She has a sharp tongue, so driven when it comes to justice, and determined to fix what she calls "the world's broken scaffolding." Her family is modest but stable, just enough to let her dream big and still feel the need to fight for others.
Sarah often tutors Emma, brings over groceries or medicine when she can, and never lets Alex wallow in self-pity for too long. She challenges his thinking, forces him to see systems beneath emotion, and reminds him of the line between compassion and naivety.
Though their relationship has always been platonic, there's a bond between Sarah and Alex that's deeper than romance, one born out of shared pain, and unresolved truths.
When the bus dropped him off on their dusty street, he took a breath. He could already imagine his dad's face: proud, tired, and relieved. The thought made his steps quicker.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
"Dad?" he called.
No answer.
He dropped his bag on the couch, still smiling.
"Dad? Guess what? You won't believe it, I got the job. I mean after all the rejections. Thanks for the early morning encouragement though…"
Then he saw him.
Lying there. Still. So still.
"Dad?" he whispered.
He froze.
His father's hand was limp. The color in his face was wrong, too pale, too quiet.
The world went silent.
"DAD!"
Alex dropped the wine bottle. It shattered, spraying glass and red over the faded tiles.
He rushed across the room, heart pounding like war drums, and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his father's wrist, searching for a pulse, anything. His fingers trembled, then panicked.
"No… no… please," he muttered. "Not today. Not after this."
He tilted his head down, ear to chest. Silence. Just silence.
Then something inside Alex snapped.
Tears blurred his vision. His legs felt numb.
The laughter from earlier died in his throat like it had never existed.
"Help! HELP!" he screamed, rushing to his phone. "Somebody help me! Please!"
His voice cracked. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely unlock the phone.
He pressed 911.