You finally reached your workplace. The building towered above you, looking ready to fall and collapse. It was...beat up, to say the least.
Sighing, you cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. The receptionist eyed you for a moment before returning to her work, and you progressed through the halls.
It seemed to go on forever, just like the city blocks. Endless beige-colored halls seemed to stretch on endlessly in front of you, so boring that it could lull you to sleep.
You finally reached the door that led to your office. Bracing yourself, you opened the door.
At first, it was silent. The only thing that could be heard was the typing of keyboards and shuffling of paper. Typical office sounds. The infamous logo and slogan was plastered on the wall, paint chipping off after years of endurance. Something that you didn't have.
Voxtech: Trust us with your money.
You simply sighed, already wanting to go back to your apartment.
You walked towards your cubicle, trying hard not to be noticed by anyone. Especially not by the suck-ups trying to get a raise. Sitting down at your shitty office chair, you stretched your fingers and prepared to type whatever bullshit was on schedule today.
Until you heard a familiar voice behind you.
"(Y/N)."
You froze before slowly turning around to look your boss in the eye.
"Heeeeeyyyy...Eugene...what's poppin?" You plastered a half-assed smile at him, doing finger guns. A last attempt effort at keeping your job. Not a good one either.
Your boss simply scoffed in annoyance.
"Oh cut the crap, (Y/N). This is the 5th time in TWO WEEKS you've been late. What bullshit excuse do you have for me this time? Your car broke down? You stubbed your toe? The mafia kidnapped you? C'mon, I'm waiting."
He tapped his foot impatiently, his cigar shifting lightly in his mouth. An unpleasant frown formed on his ugly, disfigured face.
"Uh...well..so..uh," you stammered, the words caught in your throat. You coughed. "My..alarm....clock...was late."
"Your alarm clock was late?"
"...yeah..."
Your boss pinched his nose bridge with clawed fingers, clearly holding back his rage. Lots of rage. He inhaled before speaking calmly, his voice icy and cold.
"(Y/N). You are going to pack up your shit and leave the premises. Then, you're going to walk your sorry ass home to your shitty, small, cramped, old apartment. And I will never have to see your sniveling face again. Do you understand?"
You suddenly realized how tall your boss was, as he loomed over your frame threateningly. You paused before nodding quickly and getting out the emergency box you always kept under your desk just for this specific occasion. He watched you menacingly, crossing his arms. You gulped, your shaky hands trying to go faster.
You held the box to the edge of the desk and sloppily slid all of your office supplies into the box. One fell swoop, as a medieval peasant would say.
You missed your job at Spencer's. But then again you were 16, and now you were God knows how old. Hell will do that to you.
You walked towards the door pitifully. Not one person turned their head to look at you, all of them seemingly hypnotized by their VoxTech(TM) computers. You felt a sour taste in your mouth just thinking about it.
Shuffling the box to be held in the bend of your elbow, you awkwardly tried to open the door using one hand. You could feel your boss's stare burning into the back of your skull. You sped it up.
Pushing out of there, you stumbled into that dreadfully long hallway. Internally groaning, you began the long and tedious journey back to the building's exit. All of your belongings shuffled in the box with each step you took.
You tried to pretend that maybe he might call you back and say that you were the best worker at the company; that you were irreplaceable. Employee of the month, even. But you knew that wasn't true. If you were actually the best, Vox would've already had you wrapped around his finger.
And that would be...unfortunate, to say the least.
You snapped back to reality and out of your thoughts, as you just about smacked right into the glass doors. Sighing for the millionth time that day, you pushed them open with your side and ventured out into the landscape of hell.
If you ignored all the hellish creatures roaming around, then you could simply pretend that you were in Vegas. Sure, Vegas didn't have literal atrocities happening out on the streets, but that doesn't mean you can't pretend.
Around every corner was someone waiting to ambush you. Someone waiting to rob you. Someone waiting to kidnap you and sell your organs. Drug deals happened out in the open. People killed each other in various ways, out in the open. That's just how it was. And honestly, with no repercussions? It was fucking awesome. Every worry you once had disappeared when finally you figured out how things worked down here.
You glanced different ways for a hot second before seeing something that caught your eye. A poster.
It was stuck to a telephone pole using an oddly intricate thumbtack. The texture of the paper was...oddly smooth, to say the least. It read in very fancy handwriting:
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[I:D; AN OLD LOOKING POSTER THAT SAYS MINIONS WANTED: FULL TIME JOB (24/7), ALL EXPENSES WILL BE PAID FOR. PLEASE COME WEARING FORMAL CLOTHING, COME TO THE ADDRESS 666 SINNER LANE, PRIDE RING. THANK YOU]
The handout piqued your interest. A job with full benefits? And the only catch was that you had to dress nice? By business standards, that was what you called a steal.
You ripped the ad off the pole and shoved it in the pocket of your sweater. And with a glimmer of hope in your wretched soul, you set off.
---------------------------- I actually drew art for this chapter! Woah!
