Elias had stopped believing in anything better a long time ago. Life felt less like a story and more like a rote instruction manual: birth, school, a scramble for college, a job that barely paid the bills. Birth, school, a scramble for college, a job that barely paid the bills—it all blurred together into a monotony so absolute it suffocated. And when you failed at even that? You ended up here. A voice on the other end of the line, barely human to the people calling in.
Bushwick’s shoebox apartments were full of people like him, wedged into spaces that refused to call themselves homes. Elias’ apartment was no exception—a single cramped room masquerading as kitchen, bedroom, and living space, the only walls separating him from his neighbors paper-thin. At least it was cheap. That was about all it had going for it.
Eleven hours into a twelve-hour shift, the hum of the call center was a relentless reminder of how far from anywhere he’d fallen. The air hummed with overlapping voices and the metallic ping of calls connecting, a dissonant orchestra of frustration and futility. Elias clicked the “Pause” button on his workstation, leaning back in his chair as he pulled off his headset. The worn pleather cushion squeaked faintly. The chipped mug was a gift from Max, but its inscription—No. 1 Call Center Agent!—felt like a cruel joke. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d believed in something as pointless as accolades, let alone a future that stretched beyond the walls of this place.
“Another moron?” Max’s voice broke through the white noise. His desk sat a mere foot away, cluttered with snack wrappers and sticky notes covered in doodles.
“Another moron,” Elias confirmed, his voice dry, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in the closest thing to a smile he’d mustered all day.
Max grinned. “This one, at least, call you any colorful names? Or just the usual nonsense?”
Elias let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “The usual. Complaining about a delivery service we don’t even offer.”
Max laughed, the sound loud and unbothered. “Man, I swear people will yell at anything if you give ’em a phone number.”
Before Elias could reply, A shadow loomed over his desk. Their supervisor, Linda Carmichael, stood there in her ill-fitting blazer, a clipboard tucked under her arm like it was part of her uniform. Her magnified eyes peered down at Elias, the glare sharp enough to slice through his remaining sliver of patience.
“Elias,” she said, her voice clipped. “Come to the office.”
Max’s grin faltered, and he gave a low whistle. “Good luck, man. Don’t let her eat you alive.”
Elias pushed his chair back, the wheels screeching faintly against the cheap laminate floor. He didn’t respond. What was there to say? Every step toward the supervisor’s office felt heavier than the last, his worn sneakers dragging against the ground.
It wasn’t fear—not exactly. Fear implied there was something left to lose. This was different. A quiet, numbing certainty that whatever lay ahead wouldn’t be surprising, just another notch in a long series of losses he’d already come to accept. He braced for the blow—not because he feared it, but because it didn’t matter anymore. Not when every door felt like it led to the same dead end.
The walk to the office felt less like a journey and more like a sentence being carried out. Each step carried the weight of inevitability, like an inmate’s shuffle toward the gallows. Elias knew what this was—he wasn’t being summoned for a promotion. That was as likely as the sun rising in the west. The last time he’d been called into Linda’s office, a month ago, it had been to discuss his failing quotas. Her words back then had been a monotone reprimand, more noise than substance, the corporate equivalent of white static. He braced himself for more of the same as he followed her down the corridor, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets.
The office was sterile, almost unsettling in its minimalism. Linda’s desk was bare except for a laptop and a single picture frame turned toward her, as though her personal life was something Elias wasn’t even allowed to glimpse. The walls were an off-white void, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something stale. She gestured for him to sit in the chair across from her, its hard plastic already uncomfortable before he even lowered himself into it.
Linda sat down, her movements precise, mechanical. Her glasses caught the pale light from the overhead bulb, obscuring her eyes as she began to speak in her polished, corporate monotone.
“We value every member of this team like family,” she began, her words as empty and formulaic as the motivational posters plastered across the break room walls. “It’s important that we all look out for each other, that everyone pulls their weight.”
Elias tuned her out. Family. That word again. Another hollow incantation from the company handbook, meant to inspire loyalty or guilt. Neither applied to him. His gaze drifted to her desk, to the tiny band of dust that framed the picture. Something about its imperfection felt more honest than anything coming out of her mouth.
“You haven’t met your quotas in two months,” she said, her tone shifting into something sharper. “Why is that?”
The question hung in the air, a knife waiting to be wielded. Elias shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair. He didn’t have an answer—not one she’d want to hear. He couldn’t explain the creeping numbness that had settled over him, the sense that everything he did was futile, that every call he answered only dragged him deeper into the abyss.
Linda’s gaze was fixed on him, dissecting him through the lenses of her glasses. “Do you understand how important it is that everyone pulls their weight?” she pressed. Her voice had taken on a faint edge of condescension. “If one person falls behind, it impacts the entire team.”
Team. Family. Pulling weight. The words blurred together, losing meaning with every repetition. He didn’t bother meeting her gaze. Instead, he stared at the sleek surface of her laptop, the faint smudge of a fingerprint near the hinge. It was easier to focus on that than the crushing pressure of her expectations, or the leaden weight of his own failure.
“I’ll do better,” he said finally, his voice flat. The words felt foreign, rehearsed, like an actor delivering a line in a play he didn’t care to finish.
Linda tilted her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She studied him for a moment, her expression betraying nothing. “I’m afraid there won’t be another chance,” she said at last. Her tone was as lifeless as the ticking clock on the wall. “Your position has been terminated, effective immediately.”
The words hit like a distant thunderclap, muted by the inevitability of it all. Elias didn’t flinch, didn’t react beyond the slow blink of his tired eyes. He’d seen this coming. Failure wasn’t a stranger to him—it was an old companion, one that had walked beside him for as long as he could remember.
“You can pack your things,” Linda continued, already moving to shut her laptop. “There’s a box at your desk for your personal items.”
Elias sat there for a beat longer than necessary, letting the silence settle. He should have felt something—rage, shame, despair. Instead, there was only a dull emptiness, a vacuum where his emotions should have been. Finally, he stood, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Thank you,” he said, the words hollow as they left his mouth. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was an attempt to reclaim some shred of dignity, though it felt like a lie.
As he left the office, the fluorescent lights of the call center felt harsher than before, the cacophony of ringing phones and distant voices more grating. He returned to his desk, grabbed the flimsy cardboard box that sat waiting for him, and began to pack.
With every item he placed into the box—his coffee mug, a few pens, a notepad filled with half-scribbled reminders—he felt the weight of his life collapsing into something small enough to carry out the door.
Max wasn’t at his desk when Elias returned, likely off fetching coffee or cracking some joke to another coworker who hadn’t yet grown tired of his relentless optimism. Elias’ gaze lingered on the empty chair for a moment before he turned back to his own desk. The cardboard box sat there, almost mocking in its emptiness. He placed the last remnants of his call center existence inside—a battered notebook, a tangled pair of earbuds, the garish No. 1 Call Center Agent! mug from Max. It felt absurd, this act of packing up. As if his entire contribution to this place could fit neatly into a box.
No one looked at him as he worked. The rows of desks behind and in front of him hummed with activity—agents taking calls, their voices sharp and clipped, punctuated by the faint, static crackle of distant complaints. No one cared. They never did. People came and went in this place all the time, swallowed and spat out by the machine. Elias was just another casualty, nothing special, nothing worth a second glance.
He shut down his computer, placed the worn headset on the desk, and closed the lid of the box. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead as he rose to his feet. He didn’t look back. The steady din of voices—arguments, apologies, scripted empathy—followed him to the lobby like a cloud of smoke. By the time he reached the double doors, the sound seemed to sink into his skin. He wanted it gone. He wanted out.
The lobby felt cavernous compared to the cramped chaos of the office. The air was still here, quiet save for the faint hum of an elevator descending somewhere above. Elias pressed the button with one hand, balancing the box on his hip with the other. For a moment, he stared at the dull metallic doors, his reflection a distorted blur. The silence here was almost unnerving, pressing against his ears like cotton, muffling the distant chaos he’d left behind.
“Elias!” Max’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and breathless. Elias turned as his friend approached, his tie askew and his face flushed as though he’d been running.
“You got fired?” Max asked, disbelief lacing his words.
“Oh.” Elias blinked, his voice flat. “Yeah. Quotas.” He shifted the box slightly, glancing away. “It’s fine. I’ll get back on my feet.”
Max frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked at Elias. There was a pause—one of those loaded silences that made more noise than words ever could. For a moment, Max’s gaze locked with his, searching for something in Elias’ expression. He must not have found it, because his shoulders slumped slightly.
“Do you have… I mean, is there somewhere else? Another job lined up?” Max’s words came cautiously, like he already knew the answer.
“Nope.” Elias shrugged, his voice detached. “I’ll start with the classifieds tomorrow.”
The silence that followed felt heavier, thicker. Max shifted uneasily, opening his mouth as if to speak but hesitating. There was nothing to say, not really. Nothing that would change what had already happened.
“Call me,” he said finally, blurting it out just as the elevator dinged softly behind Elias. The doors slid open with a mechanical groan, and Max added, “If you need anything. You know, just… call me.”
Elias nodded, a slow, deliberate gesture. He tried to summon a smile, something to reassure his friend, but it wouldn’t come. His face felt too heavy, his thoughts too scattered. Instead, he stepped into the elevator, shifting the box in his arms as the doors began to close.
“I’ll see you,” Elias said, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the elevator’s machinery. Max nodded back, his figure shrinking as the doors slid shut, sealing Elias in.
The elevator was silent, save for the faint hum of its motor as it descended. Elias let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned against the cold metal wall. His reflection stared back at him from the brushed steel, fractured and ghostlike. He looked tired. More than tired—he looked hollow, like the shell of a man who’d been emptied out piece by piece.
The elevator shuddered faintly as it reached the ground floor. Elias didn’t move at first, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. This was it. The end of one chapter, the start of… what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that whatever waited for him beyond those doors, it wouldn’t be kind.
The lobby was almost silent, its sterility broken only by the soft clatter of the receptionist’s keyboard. She glanced up as Elias emerged from the elevator, her polite, practiced smile barely reaching her eyes. It was the kind of expression people wore when they didn’t want to ask questions but felt obligated to acknowledge you anyway.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice even, almost detached.
Elias nodded, setting his box down on the counter. He slid his access card toward her with a faint scrape against the smooth surface. “I’m here to return this,” he said. His tone was flat, but he added a forced, self-deprecating smile. “Guess my luck ran out.”
“Oh.” The receptionist’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by a fleeting flicker of something—sympathy? Pity? She quickly recovered, taking the card and scanning it with a mechanical beep. “I’m sorry, Mr. Elias,” she replied, her tone polite but distant. She reached for a sheet of paper, sliding it across the counter toward him. “Just need you to sign here to confirm you’ve returned the card.”
Elias picked up the pen, the motion feeling oddly weighty, like he was signing away more than just a plastic badge. He scribbled his name on the dotted line and handed it back. “That’s it?” he asked, his voice tinged with something between resignation and relief.
“That’s it,” she confirmed with a practiced nod, already filing the card away for whoever would take his place next.
He picked up his box but hesitated for a moment, turning back to the receptionist. “Do you know if anyone’s hiring?”
Her polite smile returned, slightly strained this time. “I don’t know of anything specific,” she said. “But there’s a restaurant down the street that might be looking.”
“Right. Thanks,” Elias replied. He waved with his free hand, a small, almost reluctant gesture, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the Manhattan night.
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The air outside was sharp and cold, biting against his skin as he stepped onto the street. The city was alive in its usual, indifferent rhythm—people moved in clusters like schools of fish, weaving through each other with practiced apathy. Cars honked in the distance, and neon signs buzzed faintly overhead, their lights casting fractured shadows onto the pavement.
Elias adjusted his grip on the box, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the cardboard. Just a few feet from the office entrance, an old homeless man sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, holding a weathered sign that read: Will work for food. His coat was threadbare, and the hat in front of him contained little more than a few crumpled bills and coins.
For a moment, Elias froze. His gaze lingered on the man, the weight of his own failure pressing harder against his chest. He crouched down, setting the box carefully at his feet. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the last few dollars he had—barely enough to matter—and dropped them into the man’s hat. The old man looked up, his eyes watery with exhaustion but grateful.
“Thank you,” the man murmured, his voice rough and strained. Elias didn’t reply, only nodded as he picked up his box and moved back into the crowd, letting himself dissolve into the endless stream of people. The man’s quiet thanks echoed faintly behind him, muffled by the noise of the city.
The subway entrance loomed ahead, a gaping mouth of concrete and flickering lights. Descending the steps, Elias felt the cold deepen, the air growing dense and electric. It prickled at his skin, though whether from the weather or something less tangible, he couldn’t tell. The station was sparsely populated—an occasional commuter leaning against the walls, their faces drawn and tired, and a pair of police officers scrolling idly on their phones, pretending to monitor the platform.
The faint crackle of the announcer’s voice came through the overhead speakers, distorted and barely intelligible. The next train will arrive in three minutes. No one reacted. The message wasn’t meant to be heard, just another backdrop in the cacophony of subway life.
Elias shifted the box in his arms, staring down at its contents. It was absurd, really—how little there was. The mug stood out, its garish slogan mocking him in the harsh fluorescent light. He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Instead, he just stood there, his legs feeling heavier with each passing moment.
For a second, he stepped closer to the platform’s edge. The yellow warning line stared back at him, its chipped paint a quiet reminder of the boundary between safety and something else entirely. The train’s wind hit him before its headlights did, rushing through the station with a cold, mechanical hiss that ruffled his hair. He stepped back instinctively as the train screeched to a halt in front of him, its metal doors grinding open to reveal a half-empty car.
Inside, the fluorescent lights reflected off the scratched metal walls, casting a stark, sterile glow over the passengers. Students hunched over their phones, their faces pale and ghostly in the light. Workers with sagging shoulders and heavy bags under their eyes stared blankly ahead, lost in their own private miseries. A street musician in the corner clutched an old guitar case, his hands fidgeting over the latches as if unsure whether to open it.
Elias stepped inside, the doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. He didn’t take a seat. Instead, he stood near the door, his reflection fractured and distorted in the scratched glass. As the train lurched forward, he leaned against the pole, his box of belongings resting at his feet.
The city blurred past the windows in streaks of gray and orange, a hollow, endless expanse. Elias stared at his reflection, trying to find something in it—some sign of life, some fragment of himself that still existed. But all he saw was the hollow gaze of a man trying to convince himself there was something left to hope for.
The man in the window didn’t even look like him anymore. His reflection was ghost like, stretched thin by the fluorescent glare and the motion of the train. His clothes hung loose, as if even they had lost the will to cling to him. Every jolt of the subway made the image flicker, fractured and wavering. The tunnel outside was an endless void, broken intermittently by graffiti illuminated in flashes of harsh light—colors and shapes blurred too quickly to decipher. Whatever they depicted, they were just fragments in a landscape of emptiness, lost to the speed of the city’s machinery.
Elias couldn’t look away. The figure staring back at him wasn’t just tired; it was hollow, drained of something vital. It felt as though his very essence was slipping through his fingers, evaporating into the air around him. The longer he stared, the more the reflection seemed like a warning, as if to say: You are fading. This is all there is left.
His thoughts slipped from the subway’s cold confines to somewhere far away, somewhere warmer. Home—not the shoebox apartment in Bushwick, but home. A small village by the Mediterranean, where the salt air clung to your skin and the ocean whispered against the shore. The place where his parents still lived, where every face was familiar, where even his cat would still be waiting for him by the door, her tail flicking impatiently.
The thought was both comforting and unbearable. Maybe he should just go back. Swallow his pride, pack what little he had, and return with his tail between his legs. The idea settled uneasily in his chest, heavy and suffocating. Wasn’t that the logical thing to do? Admit defeat? Let go of this fractured dream?
The train jolted, and the doors hissed open at his stop. The moment passed without resolution, like a sigh that never fully escaped his lungs. He grabbed his box, his movements automatic, and stepped out onto the platform. The train rumbled away behind him, leaving the station eerily quiet save for the faint hum of electricity. He was alone.
The air reeked of metal and dampness, mingled with the sharp, acrid stench of urine wafting from a shadowy corner. The smell was a harsh reminder that he was exactly where he was supposed to be—nowhere good. He let out a breath, the sound hollow in the empty station, and adjusted his grip on the box before trudging toward the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last. By the time he emerged onto the street, the cold had seeped into his bones, biting at his exposed skin. The flickering neon sign of the corner bodega cast a weak glow over the sidewalk, its light stuttering against the darkness. The streets were empty, silent except for the faint hum of a distant car engine. This was the city that never slept, and yet, here, it felt as though it were on the verge of collapse.
As he turned the corner toward his apartment, his thoughts began to spiral again. What would his parents say if they knew? They didn’t even know he’d been fired—or that he had been working in a call center at all. To them, his mere presence in the United States, in New York City no less, was proof that he had “made it.” He could still hear his mother’s voice in his head, so proud and hopeful, sending him messages about little things happening back home. He avoided answering her calls whenever he could. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her—it was that he couldn’t bear the shame of speaking to her, of lying to her.
What would I even say? The thought was a weight pressing down on him. He tried to imagine her reaction. The disappointment in her voice. The concern. The way she would tell him, gently but firmly, that maybe it was time to come home.
He didn’t know if he could handle hearing it.
By the time he reached his apartment building, the cold had turned his fingers numb, and the box felt heavier than it should have. He stared at the door for a long moment before finally pushing it open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The scent of damp walls and cheap cleaning supplies greeted him, mingling with the faint hum of a neighbor’s television.
Elias climbed the stairs slowly, dragging his feet as if delaying the inevitable. When he finally reached his door, he hesitated. The key hovered in his hand, trembling slightly. It wasn’t just the cold that made it shake. It was everything else—the weight of failure, the fear of what came next, the gnawing emptiness that had rooted itself deep in his chest.
Finally, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was exactly as he’d left it: small, suffocating, a place that barely felt like it belonged to anyone. He set the box down on the counter and stared at it, the fluorescent kitchen light buzzing faintly above him.
This was his life. For now, at least. And maybe, just maybe, that was all it would ever be.
Elias dropped the box onto the counter with a dull thud and kicked off his shoes. The silence of the apartment swallowed him whole as he collapsed onto the couch—a worn, sagging thing that served as his bed more often than not. His face pressed into the scratchy cushions, and for a long moment, he stayed like that, motionless, as though the weight of everything could be crushed out of him if he pressed hard enough.
The dim light of the room barely reached the corners. The TV sat in the shadows, a black monolith reflecting his own emptiness. The curtains, thick and drawn tightly, kept out even the faintest intrusion of the city beyond. Elias exhaled, his breath heavy and ragged. He was so tired—of this life, of this city, of himself.
Then the ding of his phone shattered the silence, sharp and intrusive. He groaned, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve it. The screen glared back at him, displaying an email notification. The subject line screamed in all caps: RENT DUE - FRIDAY!!
His thumb hovered before opening it. The message was short, direct, and laced with passive-aggressive undertones. Pay by Friday or be out by Saturday. No room for negotiation. No mercy. Just cold, transactional reality.
Elias let the phone drop onto the couch beside him and sighed, long and slow, the sound of a man being drained dry. He curled onto his side, clutching a threadbare pillow to his chest as if it might hold him together for one more night. Sleep. Maybe if he could just sleep, he’d wake up to something different. Or not wake up at all. Either way would be fine.
The silence returned, heavier this time, settling over him like a second blanket. But it wasn’t restful. It was suffocating, stretching long and oppressive, wrapping around his thoughts. As his eyes fluttered shut, he felt like he was sinking—into the couch, into the dark, into something deeper and colder than sleep.
The knocking startled him awake. Three sharp raps on the door, fast and deliberate. Elias bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just stared at the door, half expecting it to burst open. But there was nothing—no sound, no movement, no footsteps fading down the hall.
In this building, footsteps always echoed. The floors and walls were too thin to hide anything. Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood, his muscles stiff and reluctant. He approached the door cautiously, every step measured.
Through the peephole, the hallway was empty. Just the same dim, flickering light and the scuffed linoleum that stretched out to the other apartments. No one.
Elias hesitated, his breath catching as he gripped the knob. Something about the stillness made his skin crawl. He unlocked the door and pulled it open anyway, poking his head out into the hallway. Left. Right. Nothing. But then his eyes dropped to the floor.
There it was. A box.
The rich black velvet seemed to absorb the faint hallway light, its surface unnaturally pristine. Elias bent down, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was soft, but there was a faint grain to it, something subtle that made it seem alive under his touch. His heart thudded harder in his chest as he glanced once more down the hallway, his instincts screaming that this was wrong. No one had delivered this. No one had left it. But it was here.
He stepped back inside, locking the door behind him, and carried the box to the counter. Under the dim kitchen light, the velvet rippled faintly, almost as if it were breathing. He tilted it, watching the shimmer dance along its surface, an illusion—or perhaps something more.
The box had no markings. No logo. No name. Just smooth, perfect sides that gave away nothing. Elias ran his fingers along its edges until he found it—a hidden seam that clicked open with an unnervingly smooth sound, quieter than a whisper.
Inside, there was no treasure. Just a folded piece of paper resting atop a card. The paper was thick, cream-colored, its edges embossed with swirling patterns that seemed to shift and twist at the edge of his vision. His breath hitched as he read the single phrase embossed on the outside of the paper in faint, shimmering gold:
Why You?
The question sent a chill through him, its simplicity more unsettling than any threat could have been. Hands trembling, he unfolded the letter and read.
Dear Elias Mercer,
You have been chosen.
This card, enclosed within this box, is not merely a tool but a doorway—a bridge between what you have and what you desire. With it, the limits of your world will unravel, granting you access to anything within reach. It is yours to command, though such gifts are never given without condition.
Understand this: the power of the card must remain your burden. Speak of its nature, and the thread will sever—its worth undone. Yet, if another glimpses its truth without your hand guiding them, the thread shall hold. Guard your words carefully, for they carry weight beyond their sound.
To accept, place your name upon the line below.
Your choice is yours alone, as all choices must be.
Yours in eternity,
The Benefactor
Beneath the letter, there was a blank line for his signature. Below that, one last cryptic sentence:
A secret untold holds no blade, but a secret given may cut twice.
Elias’ breath caught in his throat. His fingers brushed against the card beneath the letter, smooth and black, its surface faintly warm as though it had a pulse of its own. The air in the room seemed to thicken, his surroundings dimming slightly as if the apartment had shrunk around him.
His eyes flicked back to the letter. Why You?
The words seemed to burn into his mind, the question heavier than anything he’d ever been asked.