Chapter One: The Ideal Employee
Ethan Mercer. That's the name on the badge.
I've been staring at it for five minutes, wondering if the font is intentionally intimidating or if I'm just prone to typeface-induced anxiety. My photo looks like a "before" picture in an ad for sleep medication, but at least the plastic is shiny.
They say finding a job in this economy is like looking for a ghost in a house that's already been demolished. Everyone spent years telling me the market was collapsing, suggesting I look into "stable" alternatives like beekeeping or professional hermitry. But then, I sent my resume to OmniSync Solutions exactly once. And I was hired. Instantly.
Either I'm a generational talent no one noticed until now, or this company is so desperate they'd hire a mannequin if it looked good in a tie. Given my track record, I'm betting on the vacancy.
I'm currently sitting at a desk that smells of industrial-grade carpet cleaner and the kind of cheap coffee that tastes like a lawsuit. I'm trying to look productive by clicking my mouse with rhythmic intensity, though I'm mostly just opening and closing an empty folder I named "Admin." It makes me look like I'm managing a crisis. I'm not. I'm just bored-the kind of hollow boredom that makes you want to start calculating the exact velocity required to throw a stapler through that "perfectly soundproof" window.
Stay natural, I told myself, my leg bouncing at a speed that could probably power a small city.
Just breathe. Don't look at the espresso machine; you'll find a way to make it implode just by thinking about it. And for the love of God, don't try to smile at the coworkers. You've been told your "friendly face" looks like you're rehearsing a confession.
The office is quiet. Unnervingly quiet. People here move with a mechanical, rehearsed pace.
Papers are stacked at perfect right angles. Even the hum of the AC sounds like a deliberate, low-frequency hum designed to keep us from noticing we're being watched. It's a "perfect system," which is a nightmare for someone like me, who hasn't found two matching socks since the mid-2020s.
I looked over my monitor just as Mr. Victor-the manager with a smile so white it looks like a dental advertisement-glided toward me. He doesn't walk; he moves on a track, like a character in a high-budget simulation.
"Mercer! Settling in?" Victor's voice was too smooth, devoid of any human jaggedness. He placed a plain blue folder on my desk. "This is a basic audit file for a logistics partner. Just cross-reference the digital logs and verify the timestamps. Take your time. We're all family here."
"Family? Great. Does that mean I can borrow your car this weekend? And maybe forget to refill the tank?"
The words were out before my brain's legal department could veto them. Victor stopped. He blinked twice-a slow, deliberate movement-then let out a dry, sharp laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Good sense of humor, Mercer.
The file's on your desk. Just sign the digital acknowledgement once you're done."
He walked away, and I immediately felt my heart hammering against my ribs. Nice one, Ethan. First day and you're already asking for the keys to the kingdom.
I opened the folder, expecting a wall of complex, soul-crushing data. Instead, it was... simple. Too simple. Just maintenance logs for a company called Global-Thru Logistics. It was a task designed for someone with half my IQ and twice my patience. I stared at the screen, my mind already weaving scenarios where these "maintenance logs" were actually secret codes for a rebellion, but no-it was just trucks and tires.
I reached for the mouse, my finger hovering over the "Approve" button. For a split second, I felt a weird, cold shiver-the kind you get right before you make a choice you can't undo. But the system was waiting. I clicked.
Ding. The chime was pleasant, almost cheerful. The system seemed happy. I felt like it just gave me a digital wink... and then quietly slammed a heavy, invisible door behind me.
