Life is all about money, looks, and showoff—this bitter truth has become my daily mantra. Most
of my problems could be solved by money, yet to earn that money, I need to sacrifice my soul to a soul-crushing 9-to-5 job. Well, can't say anything now. The irony isn't lost on me.
Everything seems to be karma catching up, and here I am—Jake Cipher—just another cog in the
machine, living off the lowest paycheck from what they call a "reputable" MNC. Not even a
reputable position within it. All target-based work where a single error gives them reason enough to freeze your yearly increments. The performance review culture has turned us into nervous wrecks, constantly looking over our shoulders.
I still have a little over four years before I hit the dreaded thirty. But fate wouldn't have it easy for
me. Jake is a fat, 26-year-old man who should be thinking about settling down, maybe finding
someone to marry. But who would want him? Sure, he has decent features buried somewhere
under the layers of fat that no girl desires. The dating apps are brutal reminders of this reality—
left swipes as far as the eye can see. And here I have this weirdo roommate with his quantum circuits humming away in his corner of our cramped apartment. "Roney, get this shit out of here! The electricity bill is more than our rent!" I sighed, staring at the contraption that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie rather than our modest two-bedroom flat in the suburbs.
Roney is also a little over twenty-nine, brilliant beyond measure, with a love for physics and
biochemistry that borders on obsession. The guy is both the smartest person I know and
completely clueless at the same time. Research companies and prestigious colleges have been
throwing unimaginable packages at him—we're talking millions here. He's declined them all.
Every single one. Just for this forsaken project of his.
But Roney isn't in the room right now. Probably gone out to smoke or some shit. The guy has his
vices, just like the rest of us. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here with his machine that's driving our electricity costs through the roof. Three ACs are working at full speed just to keep this contraption cool, and the room temperature still feels normal, maybe even a little hot. Are the
ACs even working properly?
I've been thinking about my life a lot lately. How did I end up here? Four years ago, when I
graduated with my Computer Science degree, I thought the world was my oyster. Fresh out of
college, armed with theoretical knowledge and a head full of dreams. The career counselors had
painted such rosy pictures—"The future belongs to tech," they said. "Computer Science
graduates are in high demand."
What a joke that turned out to be.
The reality hit me like a freight train during my job search. The market had shifted dramatically.
Artificial Intelligence wasn't just a buzzword anymore; it was actively replacing entry-level
programmers. Companies were automating basic coding tasks, using AI to generate code, and reducing their human workforce. The jobs that remained required years of experience I didn't
have, or paid salaries that barely covered my education loan EMIs
I remember those endless months of applications, rejections, and false hopes. My parents kept
asking about my job prospects, and I kept lying, telling them everything was fine, that I was
being "selective" about opportunities. The truth was, I was getting desperate. My education
loan of ₹8.5 lakhs was accruing interest daily, and my parents had already stretched their
finances to support my engineering education.
When I finally landed this job at the MNC, I thought my prayers had been answered. The reality
was a harsh awakening. The salary of ₹3.2 lakhs per annum sounded decent on paper, but after
taxes, PF deductions, and my loan EMI of ₹12,000 per month, I was left with barely enough to
survive in the city. Rent, food, transportation, basic necessities—everything ate into whatever
remained.
The work culture was another nightmare altogether. Despite being called a "software engineer," most of my time was spent on mundane, repetitive tasks that could probably be automated. The
irony wasn't lost on me—I was doing work that AI would eventually replace, earning just enough
to stay afloat while drowning in debt.
My manager, Krishnan, was a typical corporate climber who treated performance reviews like
life-or-death situations. "Jake, your Q3 numbers are concerning," he'd say during our monthly
one-on-ones, as if missing a target by 2% was equivalent to corporate treason. The constant
pressure, the threat of frozen increments, the fear of being laid off—it all weighed heavily on my mind.