It was a Monday morning, and Michael Charavi’s one thousandth, two hundred and ninety sixth day at the Yellow Metropolis. He had the odd habit of paying attention to the numbers. From how many days he had worked at his job to the number of paper clips he used last week Tuesday; the numbers circling around his head constantly.
“Ten… no, ten million, four hundred and eighty five thousand, five hundred and sixty bytes of data in the folder I sent you.” he told his boss over the phone while sipping his morning coffee. Most of his coworkers would roll their eyes or give him confused looks while his boss burst out laughing, making yet another jest about “Michael oh-so particular with the details.”
After leaving the warmth of his home and family, Michael took a lengthy silent drive in his car to work everyday. This was to him, a small price to pay for the comforts of gated community on the edge of the island city of Parvas. It was not always a gloomy venture, however. Driving to work through the open country had always brought back fond memories of his first time in the city.
Turning fifteen, he had left the small village of his childhood, hauling everything he owned tucked in an old rucksack. Life had been rough for him those three years, doing odd jobs for shady characters, moving from one hovel to another, digging through trash cans for food.
Those thoughts were interrupted by a notification beep on his phone. The abrupt disruption had him stealing a second glance at it when as a rule; he put away his phone when driving. It was a message from his His older sister Louisa.
She had called last week with bad news about their mother’s dementia. She could barely recognize Louisa or her children any more. Sometimes she forgot that Michael was now a full grown man living in the city and the neighbours could hear her call out for him to come repair her transistor radio so she could listen to the evening news. Michael made a mental note to check up on her when he got back from work.
It took over an hour for Michael to finally come upon the familiar busy city traffic. “Today’s flow is faster than usual” Michael thought with gratitude. It meant he would be able to get to the office before the condescending food court manager, Mr. Romano. It was an open secret in the company that he bore only contempt for Michael, many suspecting it to have something to do with his ethnicity.
Finally he arrived at the Yellow Metropolis Headquarters, a skyscraper looming over the island city. With hundreds of branches all over the Golden State Archipelago and boasting of the tallest building in the capital city, most would scarcely believe the mega- corporation’s humble beginnings in a fishing village on the island of Kallo, Michael’s hometown. For the three years he had worked there, walking into the building was an awe-inspiring experience for him.
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Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the reception area with gleaming Parvasian sunlight, accentuating the strategically placed hues all over the space. Amidst the elegant furnishings and upholstery stood the Sea Queen, a marble sculpture of a woman adorned in pearls. Of course, the Yellow Metropolis had bragging rights to the largest Sea Queen statue in the city.
Michael had to wade through a crowded lobby to get to his elevator, though just as he guessed, Mr. Romano was nowhere to be found. He took the elevator to the floor of his new office at the seventh floor of the building. This floor was almost dead silent in contrast, much to his delight.
Here on the seventh floor, there was an unwritten code of professionalism. You moved briskly to your office, giving only a curt nod to any colleagues you meet on the way, confining all casual banter to the break room.
Michael’s office was small and comfy and grey, the only touch of colour coming from the knick knacks which surrounded a small picture frame on his desk. He picked up the picture frame as he reclined back into his comfy office chair, reminiscing over his last summer vacation when this photo was taken.
His wife Aria was scowled at their young toddler Jo, holding up a handful of a mud pie with a beaming smile on his face. Only Michael faced the camera with his signature smirk. As silly as the picture was, it was a warm reminder to Michael why he chose the life of a dreary desk job worker.
He was still poring over the picture when he heard a knock on his door. It was the familiar constant light knocking of his new secretary.
“Come in, Elisa.” he said.
Elisa slightly kicked the door ajar and lumbered into the room with a stack of, nearly falling over. She gave out a flustered sigh, adjusted her glasses and scrambled for the papers which fell on the floor.
“I am really s-s-sorry sir!” she stuttered. “It’s just that all these documents need to be rearranged and I am behind schedule on responding to clients and there’s a letter for you and we still haven’t addressed the Mavis Beaker situation and —”
“Slow down Elisa. There’s a letter for me?”
“This morning, a postman came by the office and left it at the reception. Pauline told me he was very particular about you receiving the letter.”
Michael stroked his chin, “If he was so insistent on it. It must be something important I believe.”
“O-of course sir. I mean, who sends handwritten letters in this day and age” she chuckled nervously.
Michael ignored her attempt at humour and took the envelope. It was mostly blank except for the small font at the corner; “addressed to Mr. Charavi”, it said.
Elisa excused herself from the office as he opened the envelope with a pair of paper scissors. He took out the letter and winced as he unfolded it to read.
You will receive this letter at 8:15am this morning. You will not panic or make any drastic decisions because you do not want to compromise the safety of your wife and your little boy. We will tell you what you must do.
With Love
The Fisherman