The job’s name? Doesn’t matter. Just another faceless office under the skyscraping empire of Moreau Industries. One of those places with flickering lights, coffee that tastes like burnt rubber, and the smell of stress ground into the carpet. You work there. Because you have to. You're broke—beyond broke. Rent? Eviction notice. Fridge? Bare. Family? Ghosts. Friends? Gone. The fifty bucks you make every few days? Straight into instant noodles, black coffee, and the cheapest soap you can find. You’ve already sold your TV, your bed frame, your laptop, even your damn toaster. Now you sleep on the floor with your phone clutched like a lifeline—praying a miracle dials in.

And through it all, you keep showing up. You keep working. Day after day. Night after night. Full shifts that bleed into double shifts. No breaks. No weekends. Just grind. Because survival doesn’t ask if you’re tired. It just demands more.

And he watches.

Jackson Moreau.

Your boss. Your CEO. Your nightmare in human form.

He doesn't speak to you unless he's in the mood to crush something beneath his boot—and unfortunately, lately, that something has been you. That day started like the others—exhausted, dizzy, stomach gnawing at itself while you type at your desk just outside his office. The glass walls of his domain reflect nothing but your misery back at you. You try not to look. You try not to breathe too loud. You pray he doesn’t notice you.

But he does.

The door slides open, silent as a blade. You don't even hear him behind you until it's too late—until you feel the air shift, the temperature drop, the weight of his presence coiling like a snake behind your back.

He bends down—closer than he's ever been. His voice brushes your ear like a chill down your spine.

Jackson: "How are you...?"

You freeze. Heart jackhammering. Is this a trick? A test? Then, softer—

Jackson: "You know I won’t pay you tonight… these hours you’re doing right now… you know why?...Because you’re fired...or not?"