Chapter One

The storefronts blurred by as my dress shoes scuffed the sidewalk in a slow circle, seeking anything that even remotely resembled an office building. Wherever I was, it was built on the same stained, erosion-softened greige masonry that made up the city center, which is why I didn't question my destination until the damned rideshare was already pulling away.

Juggling the essentially-empty briefcase under my arm, an absolute conceit of an accessory intended to make me look more professional, I fished for my phone inside my suit jacket pocket. The rideshare had taken his sweet time, and now I was both lost and probably already late for the interview. I hated having to call for help before I'd even introduced myself, but better they think I was bad at directions than time management.

"No no no…. fuck! " My panicked expression glanced back from the smooth black glass of my phone's screen, the device in question completely dead. I'd made sure to charge it last night, so what the hell was going on? Had the rideshare app really drained the battery that quickly? The opportunity of a lifetime was actively slipping through my fingers because someone didn't know how to fucking code power management on an app. Teeth aching from stress-clenching my jaw, I forced myself to take a deep breath and relax the death grip I had on my brick of a phone.

Focus on solutions, not reactions . My last therapy session floated through the haze of anxiety, helping scatter some of it as I opened my eyes. Okay. This wasn't ideal, but maybe I could still salvage things. I needed a phone charger, right? Someplace around here had to sell chargers. Yeah, my debit card might have currently been on its last legs, but ten bucks in either direction wouldn't break me. Besides, I'd find the office, nail the interview, and use my first paycheck to fatten up my anemic bank account.

There. Problem solved.

I made a beeline for the sign-cluttered window of a small bodega, situated across a street so empty I could leisurely stroll from curb to curb on a green light. In fact, it was weirdly quiet for a Wednesday morning, which added to the creeping dread that I was not where I was supposed to be. As I pushed open the stubborn door, the trio of old bells hung on the hinge clanged against the thick glass, jangling three times as the door swung closed behind me. An odd echo of the sound bounced off the cluttered, dusty shelves behind me, a disorienting feedback better suited to a high-ceilinged chapel than this joint.

Before I could puzzle out the source of the echo, a phlegmy throat-clearing drew my attention to the counter. A slender, gray-haired man adjusted the cuff of his buttoned shirt from his perch on a stool, looking at me pointedly over the register.

"Oh, uh, hey, I really need a phone charger, do you have any?" I scanned the shelves behind him as I approached the counter, anticipating the item within arms' reach. Instead, every ledge was stuffed to the brim with dusty, creased boxes and ephemera I couldn't identify, even when I squinted at it. Was that a bird skull sitting on top of an old-fashioned clock? It had to be some kind of weird halloween decor, no way the city would allow bones in a convenience store, religious freedom be damned. A row of jars with Egyptian-looking animals gleamed in ivory just behind the man, mysteriously free of the dust that seemed to cover damn near everything else. His smile was a little too white, a little too big; a chill shivered over my forearms as my gaze skittered away from his.

A crooked finger tapped a small, handwritten sign clinging for dear life to the side of the register with a yellowed piece of scotch tape, misplaced emphasis quotes adding a gritty authenticity.

NO "CHANGE" AVAILABLE.

"No power here. Here, gift for you. Take one, call outside." Another crooked finger descended into a shallow "take a penny" dish on the counter's edge, stirring the unexpectedly-silver coins there like a cup of coffee as his thick, indeterminate accent washed over me.

My jaw clenched again as doubt crept in. Solutions, Milo. "No, I'm sorry Sir, I think you misunderstood me. I don't need change , I need a charger . For a phone?" I held up the traitorous object in question, wiggling it back and forth in the hopes of bridging the language barrier.

He gave a rheumy-eyed smirk, shrugged, and stirred the coins again, eyebrows raising in emphasis as he nodded towards the front window. Between two yellowing posters, I could just barely make out the silhouette of a payphone booth outside. I hadn't seen one of those relics outside of a movie for years—did the damn thing even work? Only one way to find out .

The old man beamed with cheer uncharacteristic of city-dwellers as I closed the distance between us, dropping the coin into my outstretched palm and physically closing my fingers over it with an overly-familiar squeeze. As I made my way back outside through the cluttered vestibule, the weight of the coin itched at my brain: it was definitely too heavy for a quarter, wasn't it? Focused on scoping out the phone booth, I didn't uncurl my fingers until I'd edged beyond the stuck, hinge-rusted folding door. The silver disc in my palm greeted me with a lumpy, well-worn owl imprint, rather than Washington's profile. Fuck . What the hell kind of funny money had the old man given me?

I groaned and bumped my forehead against the top edge of the payphone itself, closing my eyes. Who was I kidding? I was so late there was only a slim chance of redeeming myself at this point, and I was struggling to recall if the job opportunity had even given me a phone number to call. Sighing, I straightened and stopped as an oversized coin slot, far too thick for any American currency, caught my eye from the weather-worn chrome of the phone case. Rubbing the weird not-dime between my fingers, I realized it would fit almost perfectly. What were the odds of that?

A quick, suspicious glance around found no cameras or lurking social media influencers through the grimy booth windows. Was this some kind of weird, unmanned art installation? Given that I was already in the middle of god-knows-where and well past my interview time, I shrugged and surrendered the silver owl-stamped coin to the thick slot, chasing a fatalistic kind of curiosity.

The phone rang.

I jumped at the unexpected noise coming from the phone itself, rather than the receiver still resting in my hand. Confusion swept in after the second ring: this wasn't how payphones worked, was it? I'd never had to use one before, but in the movies it looked as if people put the money in and then dialed a number themselves. Maybe it was just extremely coincidental timing, or a wrong number?

My fingers squeezed the receiver handle before I considered it too deeply, lifting it to my ear with a voice still breathy from surprise. "Uh, hello?"

"Milo. There you are. Got a little lost, did we?" The rich, masculine tone on the other end of the line was full and low, like it was having a good-natured joke at my expense. A jolt of arousal tumbled through me: I'd always been a sucker for deep voices. I blinked at the weather-worn stickers trying desperately to peel themselves away from the top of the payphone, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

"I-Sir? I don't understand how you know where…" Looking frantically through the windows of the booth again, I frowned as I realized there were no buildings tall enough to look down on this sidewalk, on this booth. "...where I am. I apologize for being late, I'm not familiar with this part of town and the driver drop-" I stopped my rambling, straightening my spine, recentering my thoughts, and falling back on what I'd been working on with my therapist. Express gratitude for patience, not apologies for tardiness.

I gripped the receiver handle, pushing confidence into my voice. "What I mean to say, Sir, is thank you for your patience. If you're still willing to give me an hour of your time, I'll do anything-"

"Are you asking to see me, Milo? I can't invite you here unless you really want to come." The voice on the other end, evidently the man who'd placed the ad I responded to, used my name with a familiarity that left me feeling off balance. I had no idea what his name was, though I wasn't stupid enough to assume the first name-basis thing went both ways. I wished I could call him something other than Sir . There were certain non-work-friendly connotations to that title that made my brain go inconveniently fuzzy.

"Yes, Sir. Absolutely. If you just give me an hour of your time, I promise to make it worth your while." My stomach did somersaults in the decades-long pause that followed, the receiver handle going slick with sweat in my nervous death grip.

"Well then. You've got yourself a deal. Leave the booth, turn around, and walk one block up. Turn left and you'll see the building. 13th floor. I'll see you shortly."

The droning hum of the disconnected line told me I'd been dismissed and needed to hustle. There was something appealing about my potential—no, definitely my future damnit, think positive Milo— boss' efficient, no-nonsense command. Decidedly-after-hours parts of me liked it too, but I shoved those thoughts down like the overdue bills piling up back home. Work first, fun later: I couldn't jeopardize this chance by letting my libido off the leash with the guy that would be signing my paychecks.

Then again, it had been months…

No. No, bad Milo. Jesus, keep it in your pants for the interview at least. He's probably some balding middle-manager type anyway.

After a deep breath and sternly ordering myself to get back in line, I hung up the receiver and edged out of the booth. Spinning around, I walked with a purpose, the creases in my stiff dress shoes digging uncomfortably into the tops of my feet as I ate up pavement. The block passed quickly, anxiety starting to crest that I still didn't know the name of the company or what the building looked like. As I turned left and crossed another oddly-quiet city street, some of my tension ebbed away: there was only one building that could have fit 13 stories.

The front was museum-like in its grandeur: stone lions roared above stately columns, flanking a glossy black sign that read Weaver Incorporated in large, tasteful engraving. My stomach tightened: even wearing my best suit and uncomfortable new(ish) shoes, I might be underdressed for this. My last job had been mindless filing for a shabby lawyers office downtown, vanishing a few months after I was hired when he was disbarred for tax fraud. This seemed bigger .

Tugging the heavy front open, the cold brass of the elongated handle soothed my overheated palm. Black stone tiles echoed with my footsteps, leading into a cavernous front lobby dotted with pricey-looking potted topiary trees. Classical muzak piped in quietly from hidden speakers, a musical trickle of water nearly overpowering it as I realized I was the only soul in the room. On the far wall to my left, a water feature gently cascaded from the ceiling, flowing down a ridged, golden panel and sluicing into a slender river that snaked beneath glass floor tiles in front of an imposing reception desk.

The counter was bank-height, but a quick peek over it told me my ears hadn't deceived me: I was alone. Nervous energy flooded my senses again as executive dysfunction throttled my temporary calm: should I just head upstairs? My potential—no, new —boss had given me the floor, so he obviously intended me to go straight there, right?

A soft ping blessedly solved the issue for me, a warm light illuminating on a nearby wall as it slid open, revealing a gold-framed, mirrored elevator interior that probably cost more than my entire shabby apartment.