9:07 a.m.
The open-plan office air hung heavy with the sour stench of stale coffee. Alex stared at the Outlook interface on his screen. The blue "unread" dot stared back like a bloodshot eye.
The subject line was simple: Update regarding organizational restructuring.
There was no "URGENT" tag, no red flag. Just that specific administrative calm designed to crush a human being without making a sound. The CC field listed half the floor, but he only saw his own name.
He instinctively reached for the mug on the corner of his desk. His fingertips grazed the ceramic—it was stone cold. He recoiled as if burned.
They made a mistake.
That was the first thought. Immediately after, the calculator in his brain—the one responsible for survival—began to redline: Rent due in eight days. Credit card limit: $1,200 remaining. Fridge: half a carton of expired milk.
9:12 a.m.
HR offered no room for debate. Five minutes later, he was standing in the corridor, clutching the iconic cardboard box.
The elevator doors slid open. Inside stood Jason—the project lead promoted just last month. Jason held a Starbucks seasonal special, steam curling from the lid. He glanced at the box in Alex's hands. His gaze paused for exactly 0.5 seconds before sliding naturally to the digital floor numbers above.
It was the look one gives to roadkill. Not disgust. Indifference.
In that moment, Alex understood one thing: In this system, there is no "effort." There is only "pricing." You are either an asset or a consumable. Currently, he was the latter.
11:48 p.m.
The Apartment.
Neon lights from the street outside cast shadows of the blinds against the wall, barring the room like a prison cell.
Alex sat on the floor, his four-year-old laptop burning his thighs. The fan wheezed with a whirrr-clack-whirrr rhythm, sounding like an asthmatic lung. The battery icon in the corner was a glaring red: 7% remaining.
The job board refreshed. "Sorry, this position is now closed.""Sorry, we are looking for a more senior candidate."
He wanted to laugh, but his throat only produced a dry, hacking cough. This was the total weight of his seven-year career? Data that could be negated by a few lines of code?
"F*ck 'senior'." He cursed under his breath, slamming his finger onto the trackpad.
The laptop didn't respond. The cheap plastic right-click button had finally jammed for good.
In the corner, the old standing fan was spinning frantically on max speed. The wind it pushed out was hot, carrying the scent of burnt dust. Just as the digital clock flickered to 11:53—
Clack.
The fan let out a sharp screech of metal on metal, and the blades seized. A dead silence instantly vacuumed the room.
Then, a pale blue light seared directly onto his retina. Not on the screen. In the air.
CAREER SYSTEM INITIALIZED
Alex thought the low blood sugar was causing hallucinations. He blinked hard, but the text remained, etched into his vision.
[Market Value: 42][Resilience: 31][Hidden Potential: LOCKED]
A crisp chime resounded directly inside his skull—an electronic tone purer than any high-end speaker could produce.
Alex stared at the number "42." It wasn't just a digit. It was a mockery of seven years of overtime, endurance, and compromise.
In that instant, his heart constricted violently. A wave of vertigo hit him, a sensation of weightlessness that nearly bounced him off the floor. Cold sweat instantly soaked his back.
He had been quantified. Like a can of expired goods on a supermarket shelf.