Derek's apartment was a mess. Not the kind of mess you see in homes with a hint of chaos but normalcy underneath. No, this was the aftermath of a storm—a storm fueled by desperation, anger, and too many bottles of whiskey. Clothes were strewn haphazardly across the floor, ashtrays spilled over the coffee table, and empty liquor bottles clinked whenever he moved too close. The air reeked of stale smoke and alcohol, the perfect setting for a man teetering on the edge of ruin.
Slumped on the edge of his leather couch, Derek stared blankly at the flickering TV screen. He wasn't even sure why he'd kept it on; maybe it was the faint illusion of company. The channel was set to Drama Network, known for its gossip, scandals, and endless speculation about the lives of people like him. Usually, he avoided it like the plague. Tonight, though, he couldn't look away.
The polished anchor sat behind her desk, perfectly composed as she read the news with the air of someone delivering a casual weather report.
"…in breaking news, actor Derek Cain's is facing allegations of drug involvement. Sources close to the star claim that erratic behavior on set and mounting unpaid debts have brought these accusations to light. The actor's representatives have yet to comment…"
Derek's grip on the whiskey bottle tightened, the glass slick with condensation from his sweaty hands. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the words on the screen.
"…if proven true, these allegations could mark the end of Derek Cain's career. The actor, once celebrated as an A-lister, has seen a noticeable decline in recent years due to rumors of substance abuse and financial trouble. Our sources indicate that his current project—"
Derek grabbed the remote and muted the TV, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. He didn't need to hear the rest. He knew exactly how this story had gotten out, and the knowledge only added fuel to the fire raging inside him.
"This is bullshit," he hissed, slamming the bottle down on the coffee table. Whiskey sloshed over the rim, pooling next to the ashtray. "Fucking vultures."
But anger wasn't enough to drown out the fear clawing at his chest. The truth was, he was spiraling. His debts were staggering, his drug problem was worse than ever, and his reputation was hanging by a thread. The only thing keeping him afloat was the paycheck from the movie he was filming. Seven million dollars. It was a lifeline—one he desperately needed to hold onto.
But now, even that felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers trembling as he grabbed his phone from the couch. Scrolling through his contacts, he found the name he was looking for and hit call.
The phone rang twice before the line clicked.
"What?" The voice on the other end was low, hoarse, and cold.
"You were supposed to give me more time," Derek snapped, his voice cracking with a mix of desperation and fury. "I told you I'd take care of it. I just needed more time!"
There was a pause, and then the man spoke, his tone calm but cutting. "I already told you, Derek. The door moved with time. It's not up to me anymore."
Derek's chest tightened, his breath hitching. "What the hell does that even mean?" he demanded. "This fucking door? What are you talking about?"
The man didn't answer the question. Instead, his next words were delivered with chilling finality. "They've decided your time's up."
"No," Derek's face turned pale, as if this news were more terrifying than anything that's happened so far.
"They no longer see your worth. Your eight years have expired."
"Who?! Who fucking decides this?!"
"Your Audience of course."
Derek turned colder. "No, please, just a little more time."
"I hope you've enjoyed the services of The Door so far. We have done as we promised, making you a household." The man said the words blankly and emotionlessly.
"I'm fucking miserable because of you people! I'm a fucking junkie!"
"The Door would like to send our appreciation for the years you've spent with us. What was given eight years ago will be reclaimed in due time, please expect our repossession soon. Goodbye." With a cold spiel the call went click.
"What? No! You can't just—"
The line went dead.
Derek stared at his phone, his hand trembling as his mind raced. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. The man's words resounded in his head, over and over: The door moved with time. They've decided your time's up.
Panic surged through him, cold and unrelenting. His legs gave out, and he sank to the floor, his back against the couch. The phone slipped from his hand, landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
A single tear slid down his cheek, cutting through the stubble on his jaw. He didn't even bother wiping it away. For the first time in a long time, Derek felt utterly helpless.
He'd always managed to scrape by, to charm or manipulate his way out of trouble. But this time was different. This time, it felt like there was no escape.
His gaze drifted back to the muted TV, where the anchor was now smiling as she moved on to a lighter story about a charity gala. The contrast was jarring, almost surreal.
Seven million dollars. That was supposed to be his salvation. It was supposed to fix everything. Now, it felt like nothing more than a cruel joke.
He buried his face in his hands, his mind replaying every mistake, every bad decision that had led him to this point. The drugs, the debts, the lies—it was all catching up to him, and he had no one to blame but himself.
But blame wouldn't save him. He needed a plan, something, anything to get him out of this mess.
With a shaky breath, he reached for the whiskey bottle on the table. He didn't have a plan yet, but for now, drowning his sorrows seemed like the only option.
As he took a long drink, the words echoed in his mind once more, sending a shiver down his spine.
The door moved with time.
And Derek Cain knew, deep down, that his time had run out.