CHAPTER ZERO: By Invitation Only
ACT I — ZERO DAY
ze·ro-day /ˈzirō ˌdā/ noun
(computing) A software vulnerability that is exploited by hackers before the vendor becomes aware of its existence. The developers have had "zero days" to fix the breach.
A window of absolute risk where an intruder operates inside a system that does not yet realize it is under threat.
CHAPTER ZERO: By Invitation Only
A friend was always fond of the saying, “Everything in moderation, especially moderation.”
Find the middle ground. Mitigate the risk. Balance the scale.
Fucking boring.
And yet, that hesitation is exactly what keeps me from reaching my potential. I got the instincts; I know the move, I see the play. But a rot sets in when you talk yourself out of the risk one too many times. You stop trusting the gut, and you start trusting the fear.
Tonight, the fear won again. And I’ll tell you - that concrete tasted like motor oil with a dash of missed opportunity.
I didn’t try to get up. Not yet. There is a specific rhythm to a beating, a certain cadence to how the body shuts down and restarts. Right now my ribs were still somewhere in the silence between beats. I pressed my cheek against the wet pavement, watching a Newport stub float in a puddle inches from my nose.
The rain in Seattle doesn’t wash things clean. That’s a lie poets tell to make January bearable. Rain just makes the filth slicker.
“Hey.”
The voice was rough, wet with phlegm. I opened my good eye. A pair of boots, the leather cracked and held together by duct tape, stood by my head. I didn’t flinch. I just cataloged the details: the tremor in the man’s ankles, the smell of stale malt liquor and aged piss, the hesitation.
This was a scavenger more than a predator.
“You alive?” the man asked.
“Unfortunately,” I whispered. The word bubbled out with a metallic tang of blood.
“Don’t take it personal, world is goin’ to hell anyway, just tryin’ to get mines before the lights go out.”
The man knelt. He was older; his beard a black and gray tangle of wire. He reached out, his hand hovering over my jacket pocket; the movement slow and scared. He was waiting for me to shout, to strike out, to be the sort of alpha male that the bouncer inside the club had just proven I wasn’t.
He put his hand on my chest. I could have stopped him. I could have grabbed his wrist. He was weak and malnourished. A simple twist would have broken his grip.
But I didn’t move.
I thought about the wallet inside that pocket. I thought about the California driver’s license that said Elias Cole. I thought about the maxed-out credit cards, the expired gym membership, the photo of a mother who had grown tired of helping me out.
Elias Cole was a bad investment. Elias Cole was eighty grand in the hole. Elias Cole had just tried to count a six-deck shoe at the underground spot because he was arrogant enough to think he was smarter than the house. And stupid enough to get caught.
“Take it,” I said.
The man froze. “What?”
“My wallet,” I said, closing my eyes. “Just take the damned thing.”
His hand scrambled now, losing its hesitation. Thin fingers dipped into my pocket, fishing out the leather square. The furtive motions made him pant like a sputtering engine. He checked the cash—empty, obviously—but he shoved the wallet into his own coat anyway.
“I— I didn’t hurt you,” he stammered, a defensive reflex. “You was already down.”
“I know. Just go.”
Footsteps splashed away into the dark.
I lay there for another minute, letting the cold find its way through my coat, numbing the bruise forming on my kidney. I felt lighter though; a wild sensation. The weight of my name, of my foundered brand, was gone. My paper trail of failures was currently ambling down 4th Avenue.
I pushed myself up.
I was erased. My balance zeroed out.
I stood there in the rain, swaying. Across the street; a bar full of people who wouldn’t look twice at me. That was the thing about being broke. It wasn’t the hunger or the cold. It was the invisibility. Walk into any room with empty pockets and watch how fast the eye contact disappears.
The worst part was the other rooms—the ones where I’d actually had something to offer. The trading floor. The pitch meetings. The tables where I could see the play before anyone else in the room. I’d walk in sharp, I’d read the angles, and then somewhere between the handshake and the close I’d feel the clock. Ticking. Counting down to the moment they’d see through me. Not through the strategy. Through me. Through the kid from the Central District who taught himself to talk like them, dress like them, think like them, but could never quite shake the feeling that every room he entered was running a timer.
How long before they figure out you don’t belong here?
The answer was always shorter than I thought.
I started walking.
Never was I so thankful that the walk to Marcus’s apartment was less than 20 minutes.
I let myself in, my desire to be quiet betrayed by the heavy oak door groaning on its hinges. I stepped into the hallway, dripping water onto the hardwood.
“Elias?”
Marcus was in the kitchen, illuminated by the cool blue light of an open refrigerator. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt with an obnoxious AX on the front. He looked healthy and stable. Marcus looked like a man who paid his bills on autopay.
He turned, holding a carton of oat milk, and almost dropped it. “Jesus. What in the devil happened to your face?”
“Slipped,” I mumbled, heading for the bathroom. “Raining.”
“You slipped into a fist?” Marcus followed me to the doorway. He leaned against the frame, his concern battling with exhaustion. “Was it the poker thing again? Elias, tell me you didn’t go back there.”
I turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto my split lip. The stinging pain was grounding. “Blackjack. I’m fine, Marcus. Just need sleep, man.”
“We need to talk.”
I stopped, water dripping from my chin. That tone; a stakeholder cutting their losses.
“Can it wait until morning?”
Marcus leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “They’re saying the proxy war in the Congo is going to choke the global cobalt supply by spring, Elias. China is locking down the mines, and the market is seizing up. There is no ‘safe’ play anymore. You either get a real job, or you get crushed.”
“I keep up with the news, too. And?”
“And,” he sighed, rubbing his face. “Taylor is moving in,” he said with no delay. “In two weeks. The first of the month.”
I stared at my own reflection. The bruise around my eye flourishing into a violent purple. “Two weeks.”
“I know,” Marcus said, his voice softer now. “I told you when you crashed here it was temporary. But... she’s giving up her lease. We’re doing this. We need the room for Molly, Elias.”
“Right. Of course. Congratulations man, I’m happy for you,” I embraced my friend of 20 years, trying my damndest not to be angry with him. I got his stupid Armani shirt wet in the process.
“Do you have... anywhere? Somewhere you can go?”
“I’m working on it.”
“There’s a job,” Marcus said, shifting uncomfortably. “At my firm. In the mailroom. It’s mostly courier work, running documents between the downtown towers. It’s minimum wage, but it’s a paycheck. I could talk to the facilities manager.”
A courier. Walking packages between buildings in the rain. Eight months ago, I didn’t walk between towers; I looked down at the couriers, the bikes, the cars from the 40th floor.
“Thanks,” I said, drying my face with a towel that smelled like lavender detergent—a scent no longer in my budget. “Send me the details.”
There was no way I could sleep.
I sat on the edge of the pullout bed in the spare room, my laptop open on my knees. The screen was the only light in the room.
I cycled through the tabs.
Coinbase: $0.00.
Robinhood: $0.42.
Chase Checking: -$34.18 (Overdraft Fee Pending).
I stared at the transaction history. The crypto bets. The leverage. The margin calls. It wasn’t bad luck; it was a pattern. Every time I had built a small nest egg, I had torched it on a high-risk play, convinced I saw a signal nobody else did. Or worse - I’d fucking hesitate and miss my shot.
Constantly at the precipice of success; the good life in my grasp. I could taste it. Then instead of making that next play: fumble, hesitate, and checkmate. Boom. And I’m a non-fucking factor.
The tragedy was, I was smart. I understood markets, I understood people, I understood systems. But I didn’t understand myself.
I closed the laptop. Two weeks.
I needed a deposit. I needed first and last. I needed a credit score that wasn’t radioactive.
I picked up the sticky note Marcus had left on the bedside table.
1200 5th Ave. Ask for Greg. Bring your ID and Social.
ID.
I touched my empty pocket. I couldn’t even get hired as a courier. I didn’t exist.
The morning was gray, the rain reduced to a stubborn, non-commital mist.
I put on my suit. It was a charcoal wool blend from Men’s Wearhouse, tailored when I was twenty pounds heavier and ten times more confident. Now, it hung on me. I had scrubbed the mud off the elbow, but the fabric was stiff. Good news is it had $40 in the breast pocket.
I walked under the longest shadow in the city into the Columbia Center. The early sun glinted off the glass and black steel obelisk into my eyes.
I stood in the lobby, watching the morning rush. Men in bespoke suits walked with the aggressive stride of ownership, stoic in the command they had over their lives.
Mailroom – B1, according to the directory.
I intended to go down. To the basement. To beg the hiring manager for a job under the table because I had lost my wallet.
Then I saw an easel standing near the main security desk. It read:
ARE YOU OPTIMIZED?
Miller Services. Executive Leadership Beta Program.
Today: Final Intake.
70th Floor.
By Invitation Only.
I stopped, looked at the basement elevator button. Then I looked at the sign.
A candidate walked past the security guard. The guy was young, mid-twenties maybe, wearing a suit that cost five grand, but he was sweating. He was clutching a leather folio like a shield.
I knew that look and exactly what that guy was afraid of.
He thinks he doesn’t belong here.
Adrenaline, sharper than the pain in my ribs, pulsed inside me. I looked at my reflection in the polished brass of the elevator doors. I looked battered. Desperate. I needed a line-up, my black curled hair looking unkempt.
But I didn’t look like a courier.
If I went to the basement, I was admitting I was broken. If I went to the basement without an ID, they would surely throw me out anyway.
I straightened my tie. Told myself to man the fuck up and stop being such a pussy. The negative feedback loop brought out faux confidence.
I didn’t have an invitation. And I had nothing left to liquidate.
My stride lengthened as I stepped towards the security desk - hollow mimicry of the aggressive rhythm of the men around me. I locked eyes with the security guard, giving a curt, bored nod. For a moment I looked like a man who owned the place.
The guard nodded back and buzzed the optical turnstile. The glass barrier slid open.
I stepped through.
~~~
THE SWAP
The elevator ride to the 70th floor was silent. The air pressure changed, popping in my ears, sealing me in.
When the doors opened, the lobby wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t a sterile waiting room. It was a lounge that smelled of intimidation and expensive espresso. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked down on the wispy cloud layer. A dozen candidates were already there, speaking in hushed but competitive tones.
And then there was the one nervous kid.
He was standing by the window, staring out at nothing, almost shivering. Up close, he looked even younger than he had downstairs. His suit was a custom navy blue joint, but he was sweating through the collar. He was gripping his leather folio so hard his knuckles were white.
I walked over. Not to help, nah. Just to stand near the edge.
“Long way down,” I said.
The kid jumped. He looked at me, eyes wide and dilated. Panic. Pure, uncut animal panic.
“I can’t be here,” he whispered. It wasn’t a statement; it was a plea.
“Then leave. Nobody is locking the doors.”
“My father...” He stopped, swallowing hard. “He funded my startup. He set this up. The Miller Program. He said if I didn’t complete the beta, the seed round goes away. But I... I can’t do this. I’m not... I’m not a CEO. I just wanted to write code.”
Does anybody still do that?
He looked at me, like, really looked at me, for the first time. He saw the bruise, the lip, the cheap suit that didn’t fit right.
“You look like you’ve been through a war,” he said.
“Just a Monday. I’m Elias.”
“Stephan,” he breathed. “Stephan Blankenship.”
I looked at him—this kid drowning in safety nets. I’d spent my whole life resenting the empty chair at the dinner table, the father who never showed up to teach me how to shave or how to be a man. But watching Stephan choke on his own heritage, I wondered if that empty chair was mercy. A father can be a foundation, or he can be a ceiling. Stephan was crushing his skull against the ceiling.
“Well, Stephan Blankenship,” I said, leaning against the glass, letting my own exhaustion bleed into my voice. “The only person who cares if you’re here is you. And your dad. But he isn’t in the room right now.”
Stephan looked at the registration desk. A line was forming. He looked back at the elevator.
“He’ll kill me.”
“He can’t kill you if you’re not here,” I said. “Go to a movie. Turn your phone off. Tell him you got sick. Tell him you failed the entrance exam. It doesn’t matter. Just breathe, man.”
For a second, I thought Stephan was going to argue. Instead, his shoulders dropped three inches. The relief that washed over his face was almost offensive. He didn’t just want to leave; he wanted permission.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He turned and bolted for the elevators, not looking back.
The doors close on Stephan Blankenship. This was a man who had a seat at the table but didn’t have the stomach to enjoy the meal.
I looked at the empty space where he had been standing.
Stephan Blankenship.
I checked my reflection in the window one last time. The bruise was ugly. Good.
I walked to the desk.
The woman behind the registration desk was young - maybe twenty-two. She had the frantic, wide-eyed energy of an intern on her first week. Her headset was slightly askew, and she was juggling two tablets.
I waited until she looked up but didn’t smile. Smiling implies you want something. I just looked tired and slightly annoyed.
“Checking in?” she asked, her voice pitching up.
“Yes,” I said. “Stephan Blankenship.”
