1:07 a.m. The garage under the office sounded like a hollow metal drum—fluorescent lights buzzing, air tasting of rubber and cold dust. Ethan Cole hugged a cardboard box to his ribs, the kind Security gives you when they decide your future fits inside twelve by eighteen.
His phone showed three percent. The lock screen was too dim to read unless he tilted it into the light. He rounded a concrete pillar and stopped.
A black Tesla idled two lanes over, taillights pulsing like a heartbeat. The windshield was painted over with breath-fog. The wipers ticked once, clearing a thin crescent of glass—and in that crescent two shapes moved too close to be professional.
His grip tightened. The box flexed and gave.
The center screen flared for a second, throwing pale light across a jawline he knew from a hundred all-hands. A silk pocket square lay on the passenger floor—VP blue, the exact shade their department head wore like a signature. The woman's hair tumbled over a bare shoulder Ethan had kissed a thousand times. A ring flashed, hesitated, and disappeared under someone else's hand.
Laughter—his—low, the same tone the VP used on stage when he said, "Targets are a compass, not a cage." Then her breath, a whisper: "Relax. He won't be here."
The box slipped. Paper cups, sticky notes, a framed photo of the two of them scattered across the concrete. In the photo she was bright and soft, their temple-to-temple smile cut neatly by a matte-black frame. In the car, her profile rose and fell in fog.
Ethan walked forward and rapped his knuckles on the glass.
Panic rustled inside. The window slid down two inches and the night pushed in. He looked up first—shirt unbuttoned at the throat, tie hanging from the rearview like a trophy. Surprise flickered and died, replaced by that courteous, managerial smile Ethan had once mistaken for decency.
"Ethan?" The VP tilted his head. "Burning the midnight oil?"
She turned a beat later. Her eyes met his. Her fingers brushed her mouth, then stopped as if there was nothing to hide. "You should have texted," she said, irritation tossed like a coin—like he'd interrupted a board meeting, not this.
"We're discussing work," the VP answered for her, palm settling on her thigh in a gesture that stamped ownership. "You know how things are. Pressure's high. Some conversations only happen after hours."
"In the back seat?" Ethan said.
The VP didn't bristle. He relaxed, like a cat discovering the bird couldn't fly. He slid the tie from the mirror, smoothing it as if that made the moment civilized. "Ethan, you're competent. Hardworking. But you're… idealistic. Business isn't a rom-com. And—" He paused, eyes narrowing to a point. "She needs stability. A future. Not clipping coupons with you."
She said nothing. Headlight glow carved her cheekbones into something expensive and far away. When she finally spoke, it was the measured tone of a verdict. "We're done, Ethan. We both need to move on."
"Move on?" Ethan bent for the photo, pinched it until the glass creaked. "Out here? Now?"
The VP sighed, generous. "Don't come in tomorrow. HR will reach out. Severance—within reason, I'll push for you. We've been colleagues two years. I'll do what I can."
The engine murmured like a sleeping animal. The entire night narrowed to the rectangle of the open window and the taste of metal rising in Ethan's mouth. Humiliation burned; absurdity tipped; something terrible and clean went quiet inside him.
Two truths clicked into place: he'd been betrayed, and this place was no longer his.
"Fine," he said, surprised by how even it sounded. "Starting tomorrow, your futures have nothing to do with me."
He turned away before the rest of him could crack. His footsteps rang on concrete, a metronome that refused to look back. The window whispered up behind him, sealing them in, sealing him out.
By the elevator, the polished steel panel threw back a tired man with red-rimmed eyes, a wilted collar, a collapsing cardboard box. Ethan caught himself smiling—at the vanity of wanting to look composed in a place that ate composure for breakfast.
The car arrived with a bell. He stepped in and hit G. The doors began to slide and his phone vibrated once in his pocket.
—Ding.
The screen glowed awake. A line of text rose out of the black like a verdict:
[Catastrophic personal event detected — Initializing Global E-Commerce System…]
The doors met; the floor dropped. Another message pulsed across his palm:
[Newbie Task: Make 1 sale within 24 hours. Reward: Traffic Boost ×1.]
Ethan lifted his head. In the stainless steel, his eyes didn't look like a man begging a locked door anymore. They looked like someone who had finally decided to knock it down.
"Okay," he said to the phone, to his reflection, to the night that had tried to swallow him. "We start now."