Prologue

  Tyler's consciousness clawed its way through the hangover fog, his temples throbbing in sync with the cheap ceiling fan spinning lazily above his bed. Last night's escapade at Sapphire's—the third this week—had left his wallet as barren as his refrigerator and his mouth tasting like someone had died in it.

  "Fuck me," he groaned, squinting at his phone. The 7% battery warning mocked him as he registered the time—18 minutes until his train departed. No time for a shower. No time to change out of clothes that reeked of stale cigarettes, overpriced bourbon, and exotic dancer perfume.

  At least I don't smell like regret, he thought, grimacing as he gathered his work bag. His work phone showed a merciful 40% charge. Small victories.

  He looked over his bed to his desk admiring his pride and joy, his gaming rig which had weathered all the damage Tyler had handed it. Dirt and grime and stains, but the 4090 he got on the low from his boss the vice president Philip, remained pristine.

  Tyler stumbled toward the door, patting his pockets in a futile search for cash. Nothing. The familiar panic of broke-until-payday squeezed his chest until his fingers found something in his change pocket—a crumpled twenty-dollar bill nearly escaped to the platform, almost snatched away by a sudden gust as the train approached.

  "You drunken bastard," he muttered to himself, relief washing over him as he clutched the bill, "at least drunk-you had the sense to hide this."

  The Long Island Railroad's familiar screech announced its arrival. Tyler collapsed into a seat, consciousness fading before they cleared the first stop. Sweet oblivion lasted until his work phone's jarring ringtone cut through his dreams.

  "Tyler," the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speaker, "some rich asshole at the Wellington Tower dropped his so called family heirloom ring down an elevator shaft. Since you picked up, you're the lucky winner. He's demanding immediate service."

  Tyler rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Bro, fuck. I just woke up and it's not even 8 yet. I'm getting coffee first."

  "Whatever, man. Just get there as soon as you can."

  After arriving in the city, Tyler made his way to one of the buildings on his maintenance route. The doorman—a good guy with an unnerving stare and too many stories about his hometown—greeted him with a knowing smile.

  "Working the weekend again, huh?"

  "You know me," Tyler shrugged. "Money beckons. Gonna grab some coffee first though. It's been a long night."

  "Yeah, I bet. You smell like cigarettes and sex had a baby." The doorman chuckled. "Unfortunately, our coffee machine broke this morning."

  "Of course it did. That's just my fucking luck." Tyler sighed. "Let me splash some water on my face at least."

  In the bathroom, Tyler’s hangover staged a coup—his stomach launched a full-on exorcism, leaving him hunched over the toilet like a gargoyle, hollowed out but weirdly proud of the acoustics. After washing his face with cold water, he stared at his reflection, barely recognizing the man looking back.

  As he headed out, the doorman called after him. "Before you go—T7 shutdown again. I called it in. If you want to take a look now, that would save everyone some trouble."

  "Got this uptight call from Wellington first," Tyler replied, checking his work phone. "Rich prick lost his ring. Gotta handle that before—"

  "Ok." Dom's smile faded as if Tyler was lying about something.

  "I'll be back, bro. Chill. I got you." Tyler rolled his eyes. "Giving me that look like I stole your cookies."

  Tyler made his way toward Wellington, but still felt like absolute shit. Instead of heading straight up to the building, he diverted to a nearby deli for a desperately needed coffee. The rich aroma hit him before he even opened the door, promising salvation in a paper cup.

  "Medium black, and let me get a scratch-off too. The Set for Life," Tyler said, handing over his crumpled twenty.

  His next check wouldn't arrive for another four days, but he knew he could always borrow money from Sandy or one of his co-workers if things got desperate. Somehow, despite his perpetual bad luck, things always worked out for him in the end—like the universe throwing him a bone after kicking him repeatedly.

  "You might as well buy a Mega Millions ticket," the clerk suggested, voice flat with boredom. "It's at 2.4 billion."

  Tyler snorted. What were the chances—one in a trillion? But 2.4 billion was too much temptation to pass up, even for a cynic like him.

  "Fuck it, I'll skip lunch again," he muttered, handing over his last four dollars for the lottery tickets.

  He downed half his coffee in three scalding gulps, then scratched off his ticket. Loser, of course. But then, giving it a second glance—holy shit—fifty bucks. Enough for lunch and another coffee at least.

  Instead of heading straight for Wellington, Tyler returned to the counter for a refill. The clerk—an Indian man with deeply etched lines around his eyes—mumbled something in his native language before handing Tyler his coffee and change.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Okay, bud. Thanks," Tyler said, unsure if he'd just been blessed or cursed.

  Coffee working its magic, Tyler felt his natural cockiness returning with each step toward Wellington Tower. He wasn't conventionally attractive, but for some reason, he never had trouble getting numbers from strippers. Sandy, a dancer he'd met at Café Royale, was way out of his league, but that hadn't stopped her from giving him her real number.

  Tyler worked out religiously—his body was the one thing he never neglected, muscles defined under his wrinkled shirt. Though both his parents were African American, Tyler had come out lighter-skinned than either of them, something his mother never let him forget.

  His musings were interrupted by a doorman dressed like a butler from the 1940s, who looked him up and down with barely concealed disdain.

  "How you doing, sir? I'm sorry, mechanics enter through the service entrance."

  "Nah, not me, dog. I'm your elevator mechanic here for emergency servicing. Lost ring," Tyler said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

  Before the doorman could argue, another well-dressed man cut him off.

  "Come in, come in," the man said impatiently. "We've been expecting you sooner."

  "Yeah, I'm sorry but we start at 8 and I needed a pick-me-up. I'm here now though—what's the emergency, boss?" Tyler replied.

  The man looked Tyler over with thinly veiled contempt, as if thinking: who does this idiot think he is? Tyler knew he'd overdone it, so he adjusted his tone.

  "Sorry, had a long night," he said more professionally. "But I'm ready to work. Lead the way."

  The building manager—Tyler could tell by his tailored suit and the authoritative aura that screamed 'I deserve respect'—led him toward the elevator. An older man, maybe in his late 60s but looking half-dead, was standing in front of it. His skin had the waxy, yellowish pallor of someone acquainted with serious illness.

  "Let me talk to the mechanic alone, please," the older man said to the manager. "It's important he understands how valuable this item is to me. It's a private matter." His sentence ended with a coughing fit that sounded like a lung was about to eject from his body.

  "Damn, dude. You good?" Tyler couldn't help asking. His bluntness often got him in trouble, but it also frequently worked in his favor, opening people up when politeness would have maintained barriers.

  "No, I'm not," the old man replied flatly. He shot the manager a look that clearly said: leave us.

  Once the manager had retreated, the old man's demeanor changed. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I know your job keeps you busy with more important calls, but it's critical I recover that ring. I'm willing to pay you thousands for its retrieval."

  Tyler's interest immediately sharpened. He wasn't one who felt bound by corporate ethics—if someone was willing to pay that kind of money for a stupid ring, he was absolutely going to take it.

  "I dropped it on the 4th floor where the laundry room is. On this elevator," the old man continued, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Tyler was still calculating how a few thousand dollars would change his immediate future. He wasn't broke by any means—he made $54 an hour and enjoyed his work enough to put in an extra 15-20 hours of overtime each week. On some weeks, he'd work with Philip doing side gigs, which would bring him another thousand in just a few hours. He was easily pulling in two, sometimes four grand a week after taxes.

  That financial cushion was partly why he carried himself with such overconfidence. That, and the fact that he was genuinely good at his job, and he knew it. Most guys needed a partner for pit work; Tyler could handle any elevator solo.

  "So how does that sound?" The old man's raspy voice jerked Tyler out of his thoughts.

  "Yeah, sounds excellent," Tyler replied, refocusing. "I'm going to check the pit first. What does the ring look like, you know, besides being round? What color is it?"

  "It's green." Green like money, Tyler thought, as the man continued speaking. "And it's quite thick—the band itself is actually about half an inch in width, more like a bracelet."

  "Okay, let me go find it."

  "Before you go," the man grabbed Tyler's wrist with surprising strength, his yellowed eyes suddenly intense, "I need you to not put the ring on. It's vital that you only retrieve it."

  "Sure," Tyler gave him a halfway nod, mentally filing the request under "weird rich people shit."

  Tyler made his way down to the basement to access the pit. He was happy to see that there was a pit door for this elevator—some of the older buildings made you go through contortions to access the mechanisms beneath.

  Being the impatient asshole he was, Tyler opened the pit door when he heard the car stop above, then hit the stop switch. He heard people complain as they were now stuck in the elevator—not his problem.

  He closed the pit door and put the car back in service while he turned on the overhead light and his flashlight, sweeping the beam across the grimy floor of the elevator pit.

  "Oh shit, nice," Tyler muttered when he spotted a power outlet tucked against the wall. He pulled out his phone charger and plugged in, watching with satisfaction as the battery icon began to fill. Three messages from Sandy waited for him, and one from his mom. "I'll check it later," he told himself, refocusing on the task at hand.

  Tyler went back to searching, sweeping his flashlight methodically across the concrete floor. He noticed the ring almost immediately, but it was in the adjacent elevator shaft—the one that came all the way down to the basement. He'd need to be careful retrieving it.

  Just as the old man had described, that shit was green and looked more like those rings Egyptians wore in those history channel documentaries Tyler sometimes watched when hungover—wide as fuck, almost like a bracelet for your finger.

  He moved toward it, waiting for the elevator cab to come to a full stop four floors up before slamming the stop switch with a grin. "Why the fuck does life always allow me to get away with shit?" he chuckled to himself.

  This wasn't the first time Tyler had gotten a strange request and side money. Once, some hedge fund guy asked him to fix a door handle—took Tyler less than five minutes, and the rich fucker gave him three hundred dollars "for his trouble." Tyler had asked if he had anything else that needed fixing, only half joking.

  The ring was positioned in the front of the shaftway, right where the doors would open. The car was four stories above, doors closed, and Tyler noted with satisfaction as he looked up that there were no complaints echoing down the shaft—nobody inside to bother him.

  He reached down, picking up the ring. The fucker was gorgeous—it had a strange reflection, and the surface was smooth as silk. The metal looked like nothing Tyler had ever seen before, a brilliant green unlike any alloy he knew. At the center, a crystal or gem—whatever you call it—glowed like a yellow diamond.

  "Yeah, this shit's gotta be worth millions," Tyler thought, turning it over in his fingers. When would he ever have another chance to wear something this fucking fine? Despite the old man's warning, the temptation was too strong.

  He placed it on his middle finger in a "fuck you" kind of way, admiring how it caught the dim light of the pit.

  In that moment, the elevator control circuit bypassed his safety stop and the massive car plummeted down the shaft, smashing into Tyler's head with devastating force.