The fluorescent lights of OmniCorp Tower hummed a flat, monotonous funeral dirge, a sound that had become the soundtrack to the death of Ren's spirit. At 2 AM, the vast open-plan office was a graveyard of empty ergonomic chairs and sleeping computer monitors. But Ren was still at his desk, a lone ghost in the machine, buried under a mountain of work that wasn't his.
This particular mountain was Adrian's, a quarterly analysis shoved onto his desk with a condescending smile that never reached his eyes. "You're a lifesaver, buddy," he'd said, before leaving to meet Mia for drinks. Underneath Adrian's pile was Leo's project, the framework of which was a brilliant idea Ren had casually mentioned in a brainstorming session two weeks ago. Leo had presented it to management the next day as his own, and now Ren was left to execute the thankless details. And mixed in were the dregs from Mark, who delighted in spreading quiet, vicious rumors about Ren's second-hand clothes by day, then offloading his own tedious data-entry tasks by night with a theatrical sigh about his "crushing workload."
They did it because it was easy. Ren was a perfect victim. An orphan since a tragic accident had claimed his family, he was shackled to the massive debt his well-meaning but financially disastrous father had left behind. He had no powerful connections, no degree from a prestigious university, no social armor. He was the quiet, hardworking kid who never said no, the spectral figure who haunted the edges of their polished, back-patting corporate world.
The ultimate tormentor, however, was Mr. Thorne. A man carved from granite and ambition, Thorne didn't even see Ren as a person. Ren was a rounding error on a spreadsheet, a smudge on the pristine glass of his panoramic corner office view. Thorne was a man who had everything Ren didn't: power, respect, and a famously beautiful wife, Eleanor, whose society photos were a constant, shimmering reminder of a world Ren would never touch.
A sharp, crushing pain lanced through Ren's chest, stealing his breath. He gasped, the numbers on his monitor blurring into a meaningless smear of light. He'd been surviving on a diet of cheap energy drinks, stale office coffee, and sheer, bone-grinding desperation for weeks. His body, it seemed, had finally decided to default on its loan of life. The last thing he saw was the mocking glow of his monitor, the silent testament to a project he would die for but never receive an ounce of credit for. Then, the humming of the lights faded, and the world dissolved into a vast, silent darkness.