The dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead mingled with the steady clacking of keyboards, forming an oppressive rhythm that pulsed relentlessly through the stale air. My cubicle was small, grey, and lifeless—a prison of plywood walls decorated only by faded motivational posters mocking my very existence. The screen before me was littered with endless data tables and incomplete reports. I stared blankly, feeling my soul being siphoned away with every passing second.

  I heard her before I saw her, the angry thud of her heels against the carpet, heavy and purposeful. My supervisor, Ms. Brenda Hartley, loomed in my peripheral vision, her broad frame squeezing between cubicle partitions, her face flushed a deep crimson beneath thinning curls. She wore a garish floral blouse that stretched painfully across her bloated figure, sweat patches visible beneath her arms. Her meaty hands clutched a metal stapler, wielding it like a judge’s gavel.

  “Joshua! What the hell are you doing?” she roared, punctuating every word with a violent slam of the stapler against my desk. My coffee mug rattled, pens rolling off the edge. Anxiety clawed up my throat as I flinched involuntarily. “This! Project! Was! Due! Yesterday!”

  I took a slow, controlled breath, hoping to quell the mixture of rage and despair bubbling inside. Her voice felt like sandpaper scraping across my mind. Every word stabbed at my dignity.

  “Yes, Ms. Hartley,” I muttered, voice low, barely audible over the office hum. “I’m working as quickly as I can.”

  She slammed the stapler down again, scattering papers across the cubicle floor.) “Quickly? Is this your idea of quickly?” (She leaned in, close enough that I could smell the sour odor of cheap perfume mingling with her sweat. Her eyes narrowed into accusing slits. “Do you think you’re special, Joshua? Do you think you’re too good for deadlines like the rest of us?”

  “No, ma’am,” I replied mechanically, gaze fixed firmly on my screen. Inside, my mind screamed defiantly. I’m nothing here. Invisible. Disposable. Just another number on payroll.

  “You’ve got exactly one hour,” she spat bitterly, emphasizing each syllable with another sharp bang of the stapler, “or you’re out. Do you hear me? Out!”

  “Understood,” I said softly, swallowing back the bitterness pooling in my mouth. My fists clenched beneath the desk, fingernails biting into my palms. How did it come to this? Trapped, chained to a desk, enduring constant humiliation for a paycheck barely enough to survive.

  She straightened, her body trembling slightly from exertion or anger—or both. With a final disgusted look, she spun on her heel, lumbering away to torment someone else.

  My breath escaped shakily. I stared numbly at the glowing spreadsheets. There had to be more to life than this suffocating misery. But the grim reality was clear—I was trapped. Imprisoned by bills, deadlines, and the fear of failure.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I moved my hands back to the keyboard, my soul heavy with weariness. This was my life. A wage slave, chained forever to a never-ending cycle of despair.

  My fingers trembled slightly as I resumed typing. Each keystroke echoed loudly in my ears, a stark reminder of my inadequacy. Around me, the endless drone of keyboards, muffled conversations, and ringing phones continued, indifferent to my personal hell.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  A sharp pain pulsed behind my eyes. I rubbed my temples, trying desperately to focus. My gaze flicked to the tiny clock at the corner of my monitor, each passing second another nail in the coffin of my self-respect.

  (Thirty minutes left.)

  I forced myself to type faster, eyes darting between columns of data. My head throbbed, my mouth felt dry. Behind the mounting stress, a quiet voice whispered—is this really worth it? What was I sacrificing to meet arbitrary deadlines, just to avoid another degrading verbal attack?

  “Hey man, you alright?”

  I startled slightly at the unexpected voice, glancing up to see Danny peeking over the cubicle wall. Danny, a tall, lanky guy with tired eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, offered a sympathetic smile. His shaggy hair was perpetually messy, and his wrinkled dress shirt matched the exhaustion etched across his face.

  “Yeah,” I sighed, lying unconvincingly. “Just Ms. Hartley on my case again.”

  Danny shook his head, looking over his shoulder to ensure Brenda wasn’t within earshot. “She’s been riding everyone today. Heard she practically threw the stapler at Mike.”

  I grimaced, picturing Brenda’s stapler hurtling through the air, weaponized rage aimed at another unfortunate employee. A sudden, bitter laugh escaped me.

  “This place is a joke, Danny,” I murmured, feeling hollow. “Every day it’s like this. Get screamed at, work harder, sleep less. For what?”

  Danny shrugged helplessly, “Bills, man. Rent, groceries. You know how it is.”

  Of course I did. We all did. Trapped, eternally spinning wheels just to survive another miserable month.

  Danny gave an apologetic nod and disappeared behind his own partition. I glanced back at the clock, swallowing the lump in my throat. Ten minutes left.

  My pulse quickened, panic clawing its way upward again. The numbers blurred, dancing mockingly on the glowing screen. I typed furiously, desperation fueling my aching fingers. Every second dragged painfully, until at last, with shaking hands, I pressed send on the final file.

  The weight lifted briefly, replaced almost immediately by dread. Would she accept it, or would she find another excuse to belittle me? Another reason to slam that damn stapler?

  I stood up, legs cramped, muscles aching. My body screamed for release from this prison of plywood and despair. I wandered numbly to the break room, pouring stale coffee into a cracked mug. The taste was bitter, metallic, yet strangely comforting in its familiarity.

  Through the window, gray clouds hung heavily over the city skyline. Below, cars crawled through gridlock traffic, tiny dots of humanity lost in their own daily drudgery.

  My reflection stared back at me from the grimy windowpane—eyes dull, face gaunt from countless sleepless nights. I hardly recognized myself. Who was this weary shell I’d become?

  “Joshua!”

  Brenda’s voice shattered the silence, making my heart jump painfully. She stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “You finished?” she snapped, arms folded across her ample chest.

  “Yes, Ms. Hartley,” I replied quietly, voice strained but steady. “Everything’s submitted.”

  Her eyes scanned me up and down, her lips pressed into a tight line. She seemed almost disappointed she couldn’t berate me again.

  “Next time,” she hissed, stepping forward until we were nearly nose-to-nose, her rancid breath making me want to recoil, “don’t make me ask twice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned, stomping away without another word. I watched her go, feeling a twisted mix of relief and shame. My hands shook again as I placed the mug back on the counter.

  How much longer could I survive like this?

  Returning to my cubicle, my weary eyes settled on my phone. A missed call. Strange. Nobody ever called me.

  With an uneasy feeling, I picked up my phone and listened to the voicemail.

  “Hello, Joshua,” the voice was deep, formal, and unfamiliar. “My name is Thomas Bradford, executor of your father’s estate. Please contact me as soon as possible. There is an important matter concerning the inheritance of his property.”

  I stared blankly at my phone, heart suddenly pounding. Father’s estate? Property? My father had passed years ago. We hadn’t spoken in even longer. Why now?

  I sank back into my chair, overwhelmed by confusion. Something stirred deep within—an unexpected hope, thin yet undeniable. Maybe, just maybe, this was my chance to escape.

  But hope, as I had learned, could be dangerous.