The alarm didn't ring this morning.
Not because I forgot to set it, but because the electricity had been cut off—again. And when the lights go out in our old apartment, the fan stops spinning, and the heat starts to thicken in the air like something alive and petty.
I woke up drenched in sweat, my back sticking to the faded bedsheet. There was a faint ache in my temples and a sharp one in my chest—the kind that doesn't have a name, only a history.
I sat up slowly and looked around the small room. It was barely wide enough to fit a worn-out mattress and a plastic table, both of which were technically my aunt's but only existed now because I never stopped working.
My phone blinked weakly at 9:14 AM.
Late.
Again.
I had twenty-three missed calls. Nineteen were from my team lead. Four were from Aunt Ramila. She had probably woken up and realized there was no milk in the fridge and blamed me for global poverty in the process.
I didn't sigh. Sighing would take effort, and I had none left to spare.
The thing about struggling is that it doesn't come all at once. It wears you down in whispers.
The job wasn't terrible. It wasn't anything, really. Office Assistant at Calein International. The bottom of the corporate ladder in one of the highest towers in the city.
I fetched coffees, sorted files, replied to condescending emails, and occasionally corrected reports that higher-ups forgot to spellcheck. Sometimes I stayed late so others could leave early. Most of the time, I wasn't thanked.
But I showed up. Every day.
Even when I didn't want to.
Even when the last person who called himself my boyfriend used me as a free therapist for six months and ghosted me the week after I paid off his credit card debt. Even when my aunt reminded me daily that she "sacrificed her best years" to raise me—while spending mine demanding I pay the rent she couldn't afford.
I showed up.
Because that's what people like me do.
We show up even when the world has already left.
By the time I got dressed, the power had blinked back on. I didn't cheer. It would go out again soon, anyway.
I ran for the metro, missed the first train, and squeezed into the second one, sandwiched between a snoring security guard and a woman sobbing quietly into a grocery bag.
It was strange how you could feel so alone in a crowd.
When I reached the Calein Tower, it was already 10:07 AM. I swiped in at the security gate, prepared to accept whatever version of hell my manager had saved for me.
But I wasn't sent to the office.
Instead, the receptionist gave me a tight-lipped smile and said, "You've been summoned."
Summoned.
As if I were a medieval peasant being called to the castle.
"Summoned… where?" I asked cautiously.
She pointed to the elevator—the one with no floor buttons, the one only the executive team used.
The one that led to the 40th floor.
The office of Richard Calein.
I had seen him twice before.
Once during an annual announcement speech, where he stood onstage like a statue of marble and fire. Cold, sharp-eyed, impossible. And once in the lobby, surrounded by security and silence. No one dared speak to him. Not even the board.
They said he was ruthless. That he fired people for breathing wrong. That he rebuilt the company after his father's sudden stroke and tripled the profits in under two years.
That he didn't smile. Ever.
I wasn't afraid of him.
But I was afraid of what I might say if I ever met someone like him.
Because exhaustion makes you honest. And honesty is dangerous in places like this.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened.
No one greeted me. There were no secretaries, no assistants.
Only white walls, a long corridor, and a single door made of dark glass.
When I pushed it open, I didn't know what I expected. An office? A boardroom?
What I saw was him.
Richard Calein.
Standing beside the window with the city behind him, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and fingers cradling a glass of water like it was the most important thing in the world.
His eyes—storm-colored and merciless—met mine.
"You're late," he said.
I blinked. "I wasn't told I had a meeting."
He tilted his head, and the faintest hint of a frown appeared.
"You work under Dinesh Kumar. Correct?"
"Yes."
"He's being demoted."
My stomach sank.
"Temporarily," he added, stepping closer. "You'll take over his responsibilities for now."
I blinked again. "…Sir?"
"Effective immediately. Your department has already been informed."
"But I'm just—"
"A name on a payroll?" he interrupted. "Or a worker with potential, depending on whether you show up tomorrow on time."
I felt like the floor had tilted. Why me?
"Why?" I asked aloud, before I could stop myself.
He studied me for a moment, as if dissecting something more delicate than a person.
"You don't complain. You don't pretend. You don't chase attention." He paused. "And most importantly… you look like someone with something to prove."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"You may leave now," he said.
I didn't thank him. I wasn't sure if I should.
When I left his office, the air in the elevator felt heavier.
It wasn't a promotion.
It was a test.
And I didn't know who I was becoming by agreeing to it.