In high school, we were often warned that life after graduation wasn't as glamorous as it seemed. "Don't celebrate finishing high school," Mr. Luis, our most eccentric teacher, would say. "You should mourn. You're heading straight into hell." We all thought he was nuts—a dramatic man obsessed with the harshness of life.
I remember grinding day and night, desperate to ace my exams. I wanted those A's. And I got them. University followed, and I did well. Life didn't feel like hell—at least not until third year. That's when my mother died. She had been my anchor. After her death, everything unraveled.
First, I lost my bursary. Then I burned through my savings trying to feel alive again—clubbing, drinking, pretending I was okay. It was all a cover-up. Now, at 28 (turning 29 this August), I still owe the university over $100,000. I can't even make $5,000, let alone $3,000. I deeply regret wasting my savings on alcohol and distractions.
Today, I'm finishing another day job. Still no stable income. I survive off these one-day gigs, and this one came from my landlord, James. He hadn't told me what the job involved or how much it paid. Typical James.
Max Blake—me—was lying awake at 4 a.m., drowning in the mess of his life. I rolled out of bed to stop my mind from spiraling, stepped into the shower, and to my surprise, the water was warm. Maybe James forgot to switch off the geyser. After all, I hadn't paid last month's rent.
When Mom passed, I moved back into her house. Eventually, I sold it and tried using the money to pay off my varsity debt. But it was like dropping a pebble into the ocean. Now, I rent a cramped two-room apartment—bedroom with bathroom, kitchen merged with a tiny living space. And James, my landlord, never lets me forget what I owe.
By 6 a.m., I was showered and dressed. I raided the fridge for the last of my food: three eggs, milk, butter, and some bread. After a simple breakfast, I headed downstairs to James' apartment.
I knocked. James opened the door in a red silk robe, hair disheveled like he'd just crawled out of a chaotic night.
"God, did I wake you?" I asked, stepping back. "I'll come later."
"You're early," he said, groggy and annoyed. "I said 7 a.m. It's only six."
"It's actually 7:04," I pointed out, glancing at the time. "Forget it. Go back to sleep."
"Max, wait!" James called as I turned. "Don't start your day in a bad mood. You want the job or not? Come in already."
His apartment was cozy and warm—much nicer than mine. I sat on the couch as James stood before me like he was about to pitch a business deal.
"So, what's the job?"
"Straight to business, huh?" He smirked nervously. "No chit-chat, I get it."
"Just spit it out, James."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Okay… if you're up for it, the job is tonight."
"Tonight? You had me wake up at dawn for a job that's hours away?"
"I know, I know," he said, trying to soften my irritation. "But listen—this could change things. My rich friend is staying at Blossom Hotel. I owe him a favor, and he asked me to send someone... a guy... to serve him. Massages, champagne, a few jokes. He'll pay $80,000."
My eyebrows lifted. "A male servant? For massages and drinks? Can't he go to a spa?"
"He likes guys, Max. But he won't touch you. You just need to make him feel good—emotionally, not physically. Rub his shoulders, pour drinks, and leave. That's it. You do this, and you won't have to pay rent for the next two months."
I paused. "This is sketchy. I'm not gay. What if he crosses a line?"
"He won't. He's not into his servants. Besides, you're too buff to be his type," James said, trying to joke. "Just loosen him up, make him laugh. Get him drunk. That's all."
James wasn't wrong about my looks. I'd always kept in shape—broad shoulders, tight abs, muscled arms. I dyed my hair whitish-grey, leaving the roots black. My skin was fair, and my features sharp. The only thing throwing people off was my unkempt beard, making me look older, almost like someone's stressed-out dad.
"Alright," I finally said. "But if something happens—if he tries anything—I want double."
"Deal," James said quickly. "Here—wear this tonight." He handed me a sleek black suit, white tee, and a hotel keycard. "Also… for God's sake, shave that beard. You'll scare him off."
"Thanks. What should I call him? Mr. Alex?"
"No need. Just 'Alex'—he's chill. I'll let him know you're coming at 8 p.m. Relax."
Back in my apartment, I decided to spend the day getting ready. I cleaned every corner, mopped floors, tossed out the garbage. Around noon, I used my last cash for groceries at a nearby store. On my walk back, a street beggar stopped me.
"Sir, anything for food?"
I paused, hesitating. Then gave him the 50 I'd saved for transport. I couldn't bear the look in his eyes.
"Thank you! You're the first one today. This will help me survive," he said with a grateful smile.
"You're welcome," I replied, lying. "I didn't need it anyway."
"In return, take this candy. May your kind heart be sweetened by the gods." He dropped a small sweet into my hand before disappearing into the store.
Back home, I cooked lunch, then took a long shower. I shaved the beard off—my face looked years younger. The suit fit perfectly. The tight sleeves highlighted my biceps, and I even slipped the beggar's candy into my pants pocket for good luck.
Just as I locked my door, my phone buzzed. A message notification: $80,000 received.
Shocked, I walked to James' place. He pulled me in before I could even knock.
"Look at you! You finally shaved. Took you what—six years?" He twirled me around like I was a model.
"I just came to say I got the money. Heading out now—it's 7:10."
"Go get 'em, tiger. Just remember—relax."
I took a taxi to Blossom Hotel, paid with my card, and checked in. The receptionist directed me to the ninth floor. As I rode the elevator, nerves kicked in. Was I really doing this?
At 7:55 pm, I stood outside the room. I remembered the candy. It smelled like tropical fruit—sweet and exotic. I unwrapped it and popped it into my mouth. The flavor was overwhelming, in a good way. It made me feel oddly calm.
Then I opened the door.
Inside, a man in a pink blouse and jeans pointed a gun at another man in a white silk robe.
"Aha! So this is the guy you're cheating on me with, Alex?" the armed man shouted, now pointing the gun at me. "This street cat-looking nobody?"
The man in the robe—Alex—looked terrified.
"Murphy, no! I swear, I hired him just for a massage! That's all!"
I froze, heart pounding. "I don't even know Alex!" I stammered. "James sent me. He said I'd be massaging someone. That's all! Look—he even paid me already!" I held up my phone.
Murphy didn't budge. "Eighty grand? For a massage? Why not go to a spa, Alex? Explain yourself, or I swear—"
Alex tried to reason with him, offering his phone as proof. Murphy scanned the messages between James and Alex, his anger seeming to ease—until he remembered something.
"You remember Josie? That girl you 'didn't cheat with'? She was sent by James too." Murphy's eyes went cold. "I never trusted that snake. And I hate anyone connected to him."
He aimed the gun at my head. "I'll start with you, then go after James."
"What? No—wait—!"
A shot rang out.
Everything went black.
---
Then... I flinched.
I gasped, waking up in a sweat. "Oh my God... it was just a dream?"
I laughed nervously. "Imagine dying over a stupid favor."
But something felt... off.
I looked around. I wasn't in my apartment. The room was wooden—walls, furniture, even the bedframe. It was unfamiliar. I tried to move but couldn't. It seemed as if my feet were holded with something.
Heavy chains locked my feet to the bedpost.
"What the hell...?"
Panic shot through me. "Was I kidnapped? Is this real?"
Suddenly, a wave of pain hit my head, and I collapsed back onto the bed. My vision blurred, and then...
Memories not my own began to flood in—memories of an 18-year-old boy I didn't recognize.