The phone hadn't stopped buzzing all morning.
Marcus let it vibrate against the cracked nightstand until it went silent on its own. The screen showed "Unknown Number". He didn't need to check—he already knew it was one of them.
He ran a hand down his face, feeling the grit of unshaven stubble, and sat up slowly in bed. His one-bedroom apartment smelt faintly of stale noodles and spilt coffee. The blinds weren't open. He didn't have the energy to open them.
A knock blasted through the silence. Sharp. Impatient.
Marcus winced. His stomach twisted as if he'd swallowed broken glass.
Another knock. A man's voice followed.
"Chen! Open the door. You think hiding makes the numbers go away?"
Marcus stayed frozen, listening to the dull thud of his pulse in his ears.
"Five minutes," the voice barked. "Or we'll come back with tools."
The footsteps retreated. Silence returned—but heavier than before.
Marcus pressed both palms over his eyes and muttered, "...$300,000. I can't even pay rent, and they want that."
The phone buzzed again. This time it was his mother's name on the screen. He almost answered. Almost.
Instead, he thumbed the call away and let the voicemail spin. A few seconds later, her voice blared through the room.
"Marcus… aiya, what are you doing with your life? Your father is sick with worry. We had to borrow from temple friends just to cover your cousin's tuition, and you—why can't you take a normal job? We don't need genius. We need you alive."
The message ended. Silence again.
Marcus laughed, but it came out cracked, like brittle glass. Normal job. After everything I gambled, ruined, and begged for.
He reached for the half-empty whisky bottle on the desk. A sticky ring of liquid had dried beneath it. He didn't care. The burn down his throat at least felt real.
The laptop sat open in front of him—its screen frozen on a headline from six months ago.
"ChenTech Logistics Collapses—Investors Call Founder a 'Delusional Con-Man'."
He'd read those words a hundred times, but today they seemed carved deeper, mocking him in pixels.
The knock came again. This time lighter, hesitant.
"Marcus?" A familiar voice. Female.
He froze—jaw tightening. It wasn't his imagination. It was Emily.
He stood automatically, adrenaline mixing with dread. He touched the front door but didn't open it.
Her voice was quieter this time. "You don't pick up calls, and you don't answer texts. I had to walk here from the precinct just to—are you even alive in there?"
"I'm alive," Marcus croaked through the door. His throat scraped raw. "Why are you here?"
"Because", Emily snapped, "someone has to make sure you don't choke on debt or whisky. Marcus, you—" She broke off, softer. "You were better than this."
He squeezed his hands into fists. The memory of her last words the day she left still flashed behind his eyes: 'I can't love a man who loves his company more than me.'
"Go home, Emily." His voice was flat. Tired. Unmovable.
A pause. The sound of her breathing was faint on the other side.
Then, softly: "You're really going to die in here, aren't you?"
She left. Footsteps fading down the hall.
Marcus leaned against the door, sliding down until he sat on the floor, staring at his shaking hands.
"Maybe," he whispered to no one.
Hours bled together. Afternoon was replaced by the pale light of evening. Marcus hadn't noticed until the shadows stretched across his room.
The bottle was empty. His phone rang again—three times, then silence. Finally, he answered on impulse.
"Marcus Chen?" A man's voice, smooth, clipped. Definitely not Emily.
"Who's this?"
"It doesn't matter who. What matters is you owe three hundred grand. Do you think people lend you that kind of charity out of kindness?"
Marcus flinched at the cold amusement in the man's tone.
"You'll get your money," Marcus muttered. He wasn't sure if even he believed it.
"When, Mr Chen?" The man's voice sharpened. "When? You've been saying that for six months. You think patience is infinite? We're not investors. We're not venture capital fairies. We collect. You understand?"
"I'll—I'll figure something out."
The man chuckled like a knife scraping glass. "Good. You got two weeks. If we don't see progress by then… somebody will pay for it. Maybe not you. Maybe your mother."
The line clicked dead.
Marcus dropped the phone. His heart thundered. Mom. Dad…
For the first time in hours, he stood. He paced. His legs shook but wouldn't stop. The walls felt like they were closing in.
He muttered, half-crazed: "I need… something. Anything. Even God throwing me a sliver. Or Devil."