The phrase "We regret to inform you" had lost all meaning to Maclin Vance. It was just a sequence of pixels now, a digital stamp pressed onto the forehead of his shrinking existence.
He sat in the glow of his cracked laptop screen, the fan whirring like a dying jet engine. It was 11:42 PM on a Tuesday. His apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic drip of a leaky kitchen faucet that his landlord had promised to fix three months ago. On the desk next to the laptop sat his final notice for rent, printed on obnoxious neon pink paper.
His bank account balance currently sat at $14.12.
Mac rubbed his eyes, the grit of exhaustion scratching at his corneas. He closed the rejection email from a data entry firm he didn't even remember applying to, adding it to the graveyard of his inbox. Six months. Six months of tailoring resumes, taking agonizing personality tests, and smiling through automated video interviews just to be met with automated rejections.
The modern world didn't starve you all at once. It bled you out, one polite email at a time.
He reached for the power button to shut the laptop down, ready to surrender to another night of staring at the ceiling, when a new notification chimed.
New Message (1).
Mac hesitated. His finger hovered over the trackpad. It was probably just a newsletter, or another automated rejection slipping through the midnight batch. He clicked refresh anyway.
The sender name didn't match the usual corporate recruiters. It simply read: Crimson Cross Operations.
Mac opened it. The formatting was strange. There were no company logos, no cheerful headers, no boilerplate corporate speak. Just stark, black text on a white background.
To: M. Vance
From: Crimson Cross Operations
Subject: Immediate Placement – Night Logistics
You have been selected for immediate hire.
Role: Night Shift Transporter.
Compensation: $15,000 per completed route, deposited instantly upon return.
Requirements: None. No interview required.
Condition of Employment:
By clicking ACCEPT, you enter into a binding, non-negotiable contract for one (1) trial shift. Once accepted, you cannot refuse the route. You cannot quit until the shift is completed.
Do you accept the terms?
[ ACCEPT ] [ DECLINE ]
Mac stared at the screen. Fifteen thousand dollars. For a single night shift? It had to be a scam. A phishing email designed to steal his remaining fourteen dollars and change.
He moved the cursor to hit 'Decline' and delete the email. But as he looked at the neon pink eviction notice out of the corner of his eye, his hand stopped.
If he didn't pay his rent by Friday, he was out on the street. No car to sleep in. No family to crash with. Just the concrete. What did he really have left to steal? His identity? His credit score was already a joke.
Once accepted, you cannot refuse the route.
The phrasing sent a strange, cold prickle down his spine. It was overly intense for a scam. It sounded like a threat.
"Worst case scenario, it's a fake link and my laptop gets a virus," Mac muttered to the empty room. "Laptop's dying anyway."
He shifted the cursor over the bold, underlined [ ACCEPT ].
He clicked.
Instantly, the laptop screen snapped to black. The dying fan went dead silent. Mac recoiled, his chair squeaking against the linoleum. "Damn it," he hissed, hitting the power button. Nothing happened. The machine was completely bricked.
He ran a hand through his hair, a hollow laugh escaping his chest. Of course. The final punchline to a terrible day.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Mac froze.
The sound came from his front door. Three sharp, heavy strikes that rattled the cheap wood in its frame. He glanced at the digital clock on his microwave.
11:45 PM.
No one knocked on doors in this complex at midnight unless it was the police or someone looking for trouble. Mac stood up slowly, grabbing the heavy metal flashlight he kept on his kitchen counter. He crept toward the door, holding his breath, and pressed his eye to the peephole.
The hallway was empty. The flickering fluorescent light illuminated the stained carpet, but there was no one standing there.
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and lowered the flashlight. Just kids. Just a prank.
Then, he heard the faint snick of paper sliding against wood.
Mac looked down. A thick, manila envelope was sitting on his welcome mat, shoved halfway under the door.
He didn't want to touch it. Every instinct honed by a lifetime of bad luck told him to walk away. But the pink eviction notice was still sitting on his desk.
He knelt, picking up the envelope. It was surprisingly heavy. On the front, stamped in deep red ink that looked a little too wet, was an intersecting line. A crimson cross.
Mac tore the flap open. Inside rested a single, heavy, brass key, and a laminated piece of paper.
- Shift begins at 12:00 AM.
- Proceed to the street.
- Your vehicle is waiting.
- Do not be late.
Outside his window, the low, mechanical rumble of a massive diesel engine shook the glass.