Michael's alarm went off at 6:30 AM as usual. He groaned, hit snooze twice, then finally got out of bed.
The small apartment carried the scent of yesterday's takeout and cheap coffee, a blend that had oddly become his signature aroma.
He brushed his teeth while looking at his reflection — an average face, tired eyes, the kind of guy who blended into the background at any company event and still ended up refilling the chip bowl at the end of the night.
"Morning, babe," he whispered softly. Sarah remained asleep in their bed, her blonde hair spread across the pillow as if arranged by a shampoo commercial director with too much time on his hands.
She'd been distant recently, but work had been stressful for both of them, or so he convinced himself.
He kissed her forehead, picked up his bag, and left. Just another Monday at Horizon Finance. Another day filled with spreadsheets and Richard's nonsense.
He had been at Horizon for three years, enduring early arrivals, late departures, dull desk lunches, and fake laughter at Richard Calloway's jokes about golf handicaps and stock options.
Three years of being the guy the senior partners called "reliable"—a term that sounded more like a consolation prize in that tone.
At twenty-four years old, he had already perfected the skill of invisible competence, performing tasks that allow others to shine.
He reassured himself that it would pay off in the end and that everyone has a beginning.
The spreadsheets would eventually become reports, the reports would turn into presentations, and those presentations would result in promotions.
That's the process. That's the way it's meant to be.
By 8:45 AM, he was already at the office, earlier than his usual time. The boss had sent a text last night about an urgent client file that "had to be perfect," written in all caps.
Three exclamation points. They serve as the digital equivalent of a man in a three-piece suit grabbing you by the collar.
Michael decided to get a head start, hoping to impress the team for once.
He nodded to the sleepy security guard, Carl, who'd worked the morning shift since the Clinton administration and always smelt faintly of menthol, then took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
The office was eerily silent. Most desks were vacant, chairs neatly pushed in, and computer screens remained dark.
This silence felt less like calm and more like the world pausing, as if holding its breath.
Michael's footsteps echoed loudly on the polished floor as he proceeded directly to the executive suite to deliver the completed report.
Richard's door was slightly open, with the lights on, casting a narrow band of warm yellow light across the hallway carpet.
Then he heard it.
A soft moan paired with the steady creak of a desk.
Michael froze, feeling a twist in his stomach that defied any name found in geometry textbooks.
The report in his hands suddenly felt heavier. He cautiously pushed the door open just enough to see, and that small glimpse, as it turned out, fundamentally changed his understanding of the world.
Sarah was leaning over Richard's mahogany desk, her skirt pulled up around her waist, with her panties hanging from one ankle like a white flag of surrender.
Richard — his overweight, self-satisfied fifty-year-old boss with a Rolex and a receding hairline he had been battling since 2015 held her hips and thrust into her forcefully, grunting like an animal trying to recall what the animal manual advised about grunting.
Sarah's face was flushed with pleasure, her moans unrestrained, echoing off the framed motivational posters on the walls.
"Fuck, Richard — harder," she gasped. "Just like that."
The report slipped from Michael's fingers and fell to the floor with a sound reminiscent of a quiet, respectful demise.
They both turned. Sarah's eyes widened in fear.
Richard's face contorted into a sneer as he kept one hand on her, appearing unbothered, a man who clearly decided years ago that shame was no longer part of his life.
"Michael?" Sarah whispered, scrambling to pull her skirt down.
Richard didn't bother to hide himself. He simply laughed, deep and harsh, the kind of laugh that had been born from decades of entitlement. "Well, well. The little cuck finally appears."
"You…" Michael's voice sounded odd, as if it belonged to someone else, slightly to his left. "You're fucking my girlfriend? In your office? On company time?"
Richard lazily zipped up, as if shutting a book he'd already read and found disappointing. "She's been mine for months, kid. Did you really believe someone like you could make Sarah happy? That's pathetic." He said it casually, as if referring to a parking ticket, just a minor inconvenience, not something worth serious feelings.
Sarah avoided looking at him, meticulously adjusting her collar in Richard's dark computer screen reflection as if she were rushing to a meeting.
"Michael, I... it just happened. You're always broke and dull—you discuss your five-year plan as if anyone cares. I need someone who truly lives."
Richard made a small noise of agreement, as though they were discussing a mutual investment strategy.
"Get out," he said. "You're fired, effective immediately. HR will have your belongings packed by lunch. If you say a word about this, I'll ensure you never work in this city again. I have friends at every firm from here to the harbor, and they all owe me favors. Do you understand what that means for a man with your resume?" He smiled. "It means nothing."
This version enhances clarity by detailing the timeline and specifics, smooths the flow, and preserves the original tone and intensity.
Michael stood there, feeling utterly hollow. The world seemed to tilt, as if someone had reached beneath reality and nudged it slightly out of alignment.
After twenty-four years of striving to be the dependable one, always the caring boyfriend, hardworking employee, who arrived early, stayed late, and avoided causing trouble, the result was this. This was the payoff for all that effort.
His girlfriend and his boss exchanged grunts across a mahogany desk on a Monday morning, with motivational posters observing.
He turned and left without saying anything further. Behind him, Sarah's nervous, high-pitched laugh echoed, while Richard's low, relaxed chuckle followed, calming and unconcerned, as he settled back into the furniture as if it belonged to him.
It did, he supposed.
He couldn't recall leaving the building. His feet moved automatically through the city streets, while his mind remained somewhere behind his eyes, refusing to engage.
The sky was gray and heavy with the threat of rain that never quite fell, much like his career, his relationship, and everything in his life that seemed poised on the brink of something but never truly reached it.
The city flowed past him like water around a rock. Cabs honked loudly. A street vendor shouted out. Someone's coffee steamed in a paper cup. But none of it registered with him.
By the time he arrived at the old pedestrian bridge over the river, his chest was tightening as if it were caving in.
The bridge was made of iron and showed its age, with rust seeping through old paint at the joints, an example of infrastructure the city kept intending to renovate but never followed through.
Below, the river was dark, slow, and completely indifferent — which, Michael reflected from a distance, was more than most people could manage today.
Nobody was nearby. Only the wind, the gray water, and the unique silence of a city that had carried on without him.
Michael stepped onto the railing, holding the cold metal with both hands. The iron pressed into his palms.
Tears burned the corners of his eyes, not quite falling, as if they too were hesitating to see if this was worth the effort.
He looked into the dark water, reflecting on the past three years and the upcoming thirty, but couldn't see a significant difference between them.
"Why bother at all?" he muttered quietly, to no one in particular, to everyone around, and to the unhearing river. "What's the damn point?"
He leaned forward, the wind tearing at his jacket and tugging at his collar, as the river swelled in his sight and the railing pressed into his palms. Just one more inch.
[Ding!]
A robotic but cheerful voice suddenly erupted in his mind, like a poorly timed notification from a god.
[MILF Cashback System Activated!]
[Host detected in critical despair. Initializing tutorial…]
Michael froze in mid-lean, muscles locking up instantly—likely the only thing preventing him from falling. His eyes widened, and he reflexively gripped the railing tighter, knuckles turning white.
"What the hell—?"
The voice persisted, slow and composed, with the seductive smoothness typical of someone who has never known a difficult Monday morning.
[Spend money lavishly on mature, beautiful women. Spoil them. Claim them. The more you give, the richer you become. A new economy awaits you, Michael. One where the exchange rate works in your favor for once.]
[Current Balance: $0.00]
[Cashback Rate: 1,000%]
[Status: Ready to Begin]