"…I'm sorry, but your profile doesn't match what I'm looking for. It's nothing personal—it's just… not a fit."
I nearly fell out of my chair. I was sitting across from Thomas Homhance himself, in his office, and my pulse was pounding like a drum in my ears.
I replayed everything. He had invited me to sit, asked politely about my academic background, my hobbies, my interests—then pivoted to team management, just as I had predicted. But what I hadn't predicted was that he would interrupt me, mid-sentence, just as I was reciting textbook management theory.
My heart raced even faster, and soon all I could hear was the deafening beat in my skull. "Mr. Félixe? …Mr. Félixe." "Yes, I'm sorry," I replied automatically, snapping out of my mental void.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said, rising from his chair.
All those years of effort, sacrifice, and hope—erased in ten minutes. But like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, I scrambled for one last chance, refusing to walk away empty-handed.
"Sir, please… this job means everything to me. I'd do anything to be a part of your company. Just give me a chance."
He paused. Then slowly sat back down. He pressed a button on the desk phone.
"Tell Roger he's fired. Someone else is taking his place tomorrow." "Yes, sir," came the reply.
He turned his icy gaze back to me. "I did what I could. You start tomorrow. Don't be late." "Yes, sir," I answered on instinct.
…
And here I am today, five years later—still at the same desk, performing the same five actions. I could have quit and looked elsewhere. But I'd dreamed of this company for so long that the faintest hope of a promotion was enough to keep me going. My relationship with my parents had deteriorated. I had become their greatest disappointment. All because of what? One man's personal preferences after a ten-minute conversation. Ten minutes that had shattered years of tireless work. I've already buried all my dreams and ambitions. Time does that—it erases them until you forget they ever existed. Now, I'm just an empty shell.
…Write the report. File it away. I had just finished my last circuit of the day. It was finally time to go home. I grabbed my coat, scanned my badge, and exited the testing lab. I could finally see the outside world— Too late. Night had already fallen.
The building was deserted. Only the moonlight and the glowing exit signs guided me out.
Outside, a cold night breeze brushed my face. It was raining—a soft, steady drizzle, just enough to refresh the plants. I boarded the magnetic train heading toward the suburbs and pulled my headset over my eyes.
It was my escape. In this new VR game, I could be anyone, do anything. It helped me survive the hardest days and kept me occupied on weekends. Through the headset's interface, I watched the skyscrapers shrink behind me. I was glad to be leaving—but I knew I'd be back tomorrow, without fail.
The sliding doors opened. I lifted my visor and stepped off the train. After an hour at over two hundred kilometers per hour, the rain was still falling. I liked my neighborhood. It was the opposite of the noisy, overwhelming city. Here, everything was calm. I could hear raindrops hitting the pavement. The soft glow of the few working streetlamps lit my way. I hurried home when I heard voices nearby—probably the usual group of thugs hanging around. Facial recognition unlocked my door. My small studio wasn't much to look at—but after five years, it felt like home. One bedroom-living room-kitchen combo and a bathroom. It was all I needed—or at least, all I'd convinced myself I needed. I microwaved some pasta—same as yesterday and the day before—ate in ten minutes, and collapsed onto my bed. My body only wanted one thing: sleep. But my mind was unleashed. It raced through memories, traumas, thoughts of life and death. I thought about death a lot.
It scared me—but I also found it beautiful. Death gives life meaning. It pushes us to move forward. Some say that because we all end up as dust, nothing really matters. I think it's the opposite. Because our time is limited, we should give it everything we've got. Kind of ironic, coming from someone who's been drowning in despair for half a decade. Death pushes us forward because it sets a limit. So—if I artificially set a limit on my time, shouldn't I, theoretically, move forward even faster? That was my new hypothesis. And I was ready to test it. From now on, I was no longer the same. A new version of me had taken over this body. And this version would die in ten years. That gave me ten years to live—really live. To be free. To embrace this rare, precious thing called life. At least… that was the idea.
In reality, by the next morning, I had already lost three-quarters of that motivation… as soon as I caught sight of the tallest building on the horizon: Homhance. By the time I sat in my usual place in the testing workshop, the rest of that resolve had vanished. Turns out, my "new life" resolution was just hot air. And so, the day was just as ordinary as the others. The five tasks remained unchanged.
Disheartened by my own inability to stay motivated, I hadn't realized how much time had passed. I was drowning in remorse and negative thoughts when the dimming lights around me reminded me it was late—too late to keep reading instruction manuals properly. The security staff had turned off the main lights in the hall of the tower.
I had just finished examining a flawless object. Two left to go before I could leave for the night. But as I stood to fetch the next item, a sound stopped me in my tracks. A slow, rhythmic clacking. At first, faint. I hoped I was wrong. But as it grew louder, clearer, all doubt faded. I recognized that sound too well. It was his footsteps—the CEO's. I had learned to pick them out from a hundred others. They always meant trouble. At this hour, I was the only one in this part of Homhance. If the boss had come here in person, it had to be for something serious. But what?
A tight knot formed in my stomach and swelled with each approaching step. I was frozen, barely breathing. With effort, I forced myself to inhale deeply, to calm down. But it was too late to avoid the encounter. I sat back at my desk, pretending to work. Behind me, the steps stopped. I knew exactly where he stood—just outside the glass door of the workshop. I didn't turn. I acted deaf. The door opened without a sound. Then, in the most casual tone imaginable:
"Good evening... Still as diligent as ever, I see."
There was no pretending anymore. I turned slowly.
"Good evening. Yes, I'm almost finished. Just one more to go," I said, my voice weaker than intended—my throat dry and knotted.
He stood backlit, his features mostly obscured, but his presence was unmistakable—calm, cold, impassive, just like always. Yet something about this moment brought me back to my interview five years earlier. Something I couldn't quite identify.
"Good. I'll need a word with you once your shift is over."
The knot in my stomach hit me again, this time like an uppercut.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be in the next room. Don't take too long."
The door shut behind him. As soon as he disappeared, I nearly collapsed on my desk. I rushed through the final routine: read the specs, inspect, write the report, file. My thoughts scattered in all directions, dizzying. I had no idea what to expect. A promotion? A firing? My curiosity was piqued, but I also wished time would freeze. In the end, I packed up my things and headed next door, ready to face whatever was coming. I opened the door hesitantly.
"Good. Sit down." I obeyed. He continued:
"I'll be direct—for both our sakes. Even though you didn't land the position you had hoped for, you stayed. And your work has been valuable. All the feedback I've received about you has been positive. No complaints. That suggests you're content here, too. Your loyalty and dedication have not gone unnoticed. That's why I'm offering you an opportunity—something of utmost importance to Homhance. It's a high-profile project. Confidential. And it carries great responsibility. But before I go into any details, I need you to sign this nondisclosure agreement. Of course, signing it doesn't commit you to anything."
He handed me the paper. Since it didn't bind me to anything yet, I saw no reason not to sign.
"Perfect. Now—this project is Homhance's newest prototype. It's been in development for three years. It's designed to revolutionize cybernetics, and it has recently moved into the testing phase. For that, we need a tester. Someone reliable. Experienced. Capable of handling responsibility. And you're the ideal candidate."
I didn't let the flattery distract me.
"All right—but what exactly is this new equipment?"
"I don't know the technical details. But it's a neural interface— one that's meant to drastically increase the speed and precision of communication between the brain and cybernetic systems."
"And what would the test involve?"
"I don't have all the specifics. Probably a standard installation, monitoring of your reactions, and a practical test."
I'd done plenty of product tests before. It didn't sound like much. But something about this felt… different.
"…"
My instincts whispered that something was off. But I remembered what I'd promised myself the night before: If I let fear of the unknown stop me again— If I stayed in my comfort zone— I'd remain stuck in this cycle forever. And this time, the offer had come straight from the boss. In person. My hesitation began to fade.
"So—what's your decision?" His tone pressed for an answer.
Well… There's no great reward without great risk. And maybe it was time—time to take that risk. For the first time in years, I answered with confidence:
"Very well. I'll test your new product."
"Thank you for your cooperation. I knew we could count on you."
He stood and headed for the door.
"Sir—when are the tests scheduled?"
"First thing tomorrow morning," he said without turning around.
"Have a good evening," he added as the door closed behind him.
The sound of his steady footsteps faded down the corridor…