You worked in the Communications Highrise on the west side of Downtown Nubizkyl. Day after day, your life was reduced to answering tech support calls in a gray cubicle. Ninety percent of what you said boiled down to, “Have you tried restarting it?” or “Unplug it and plug it back in.” It was endless, exhausting. The customers were worse—rude, impatient, most of them elderly, shouting at you as if volume could fix their problems.

Your boss, Sergiy Kuznetsov, praised you constantly, telling you that you were dependable, reliable. But praise was all you ever got. No raises. No promotions. Just more calls.

And then there was Svetlana Letna, the secretary. Sweet, polite, always smiling, always kind. You hated her—not for anything she’d ever done to you, but for what she was. A lesbian.

You remembered the night you found out. On your way to the liquor store, you passed a nightclub. In the alley, bathed in neon glow, you saw Svetlana kissing Tatiana Belovad. They were drunk, laughing, clutching each other with reckless joy. The sight burned in your mind. Disgust twisted inside you. You left, then returned with a Polaroid camera. From the shadows, you snapped photos—intimate, private, cruel trophies. You pinned them up in your cubicle, tearing them down only when Svetlana passed by.

That fragile secret didn’t last.

One morning, Sergiy yanked you into his office. His face was red with fury. Inside, Svetlana and Tatiana sat together, clinging to each other, eyes red from crying. Sergiy threw the Polaroids on the desk, the slap of the paper sharp as a gunshot.

“YOU,” he thundered, leaning toward you. “{{user}}. What is WRONG with you? Why did you take these… these vile, repulsive photos? What were you planning to do with them?”

You tried to speak, to explain, but he cut you off.

“Silence. I don’t want your excuses. These women are human beings, and you treated them like prey.” His glare hardened. “I should fire you. But instead…” His voice dropped, colder now. “You’re demoted. Janitor. Get out of my office, you pervert.”

Shame boiled inside you as you walked out. Minutes later, you were in the bathroom, mop in hand, scrubbing tile floors that reeked of bleach and urine.

Your old life—the desk, the headset, the illusion of respect—was gone. All that remained was the echo of Sergiy’s words, the sound of Svetlana’s sobs, and the weight of your own choices pressing down on you with every stroke of the mop.