The sterile, air-conditioned chill of the lobby was the last comfort Leo would feel before the city's sweltering breath hit him like a physical blow. He adjusted the knot of his cheap tie, the fabric a familiar, suffocating presence against his throat. The smile from the interviewer—a perfectly calibrated expression of polite dismissal—was already a fading memory, replaced by the dull ache of yet another failure.
This was interview number seventeen. Or was it eighteen? He'd lost count somewhere between the condescending tech startup that wanted a "data ninja" and the ancient financial firm that still used software from a decade ago.
"We're looking for someone with more… practical experience," the man had said, his eyes glancing at the single, barely-relevant internship on Leo's resume. The man's watch was worth more than Leo's entire student debt, a fact Leo had clocked the moment he'd walked in. A Patek Philippe Calatrava. Classic, understated, and screaming "I don't have time for you."
As he walked past the security turnstiles, Leo couldn't help but analyze the building's inefficiencies. The elevator system was poorly optimized, causing employee traffic jams at peak hours. The open-plan office, visible through the glass walls, was a cacophony of distractions disguised as "collaborative space." The coffee machine in the break room was a cheap model prone to clogging. He'd noticed it all in the ten minutes he'd waited. He saw systems, broken and flawed, everywhere he looked.
The bus ride home was a stew of humidity and quiet desperation. He stood, clutching a pole, surrounded by faces wearing the same weary mask he was. They were all cogs in a machine he couldn't even get inside of. He'd graduated top of his class, his thesis on market trend prediction praised by his professors as "aggressively insightful." But in the real world, that insight was worth less than a firm handshake and a well-connected uncle.
Back in his shoebox apartment, the air was thick and still. He tossed his worn blazer onto a chair already piled high with clothes. His laptop screen glowed, illuminating a dozen unread emails. He knew what they were. More rejections, all worded with the same soulless corporate empathy.
"Thank you for your interest…"
"While your qualifications are impressive…"
"We've decided to move forward with other candidates…"
He clicked open the website of the company that had just rejected him, Innovate Futures Inc. Their mission statement was a word salad of synergy, disruption, and forward-thinking paradigms. It was meaningless. He scanned the "Our Team" page, looking at the smiling, confident faces of the executives. They hadn't gotten there just by being smart. They had mastered a game he didn't even know the rules to.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. The system was rigged, a ladder with the bottom rungs sawed off. He leaned back, the cheap pleather of his chair groaning in protest. He stared at the CEO's photo, a man with a perfect smile and eyes that held the cold, hard certainty of a winner.
Leo's frustration, usually a low simmer, finally boiled over. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. All this wasted potential, all this analytical power, being snubbed by men who couldn't even optimize their own damn elevators.
He spoke the words to the empty room, a low and intense mutter that was half-prayer, half-curse.
"If I had a system… I'd run this whole company myself."