A lone figure sat in a dimly lit office, fingers flying across the keyboard. The soft hum of the computer and the rhythmic click-clack of keys were the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence.
The young man, dressed in a crisp black suit and tie, was the last remaining employee in the building. His coworkers had long since left, eager to return home to their families, to their warm beds, to anything but work. Yet, here he was, bound to his desk, eyes glued to the glowing monitor as he made the final edits on a manuscript.
His brows furrowed. He was tired—no, exhausted—but he couldn't stop. Not yet.
His fingers moved faster, frustration mounting as he skimmed through the last few pages. The author had been careless again, riddling the text with inconsistencies and lazy structuring. It was always like this. He was the one who had to fix it, make it presentable, polish it into something decent.
A final keystroke.
Click.
"Hah… finally."
He exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair, allowing himself a brief moment of satisfaction. His dark eyes remained fixed on the monitor, watching the completion message appear on the screen.
With a sigh, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. After scrolling through his contacts, he tapped the call button.
The line connected almost immediately.
"Yes, it's me," he said, his voice flat and unenthusiastic.
"You finished it?" The voice on the other end sounded impatient.
"Yeah. I sent you the final copy just now. Check your email."
As he spoke, his fingers continued tapping at the keyboard, ensuring the file had been successfully transferred.
"That's excellent! Mr. Editor, about another project—"
"No. I'm not taking another contract."
His words were sharp, leaving no room for negotiation.
The client hesitated before speaking again, his tone shifting to something more desperate.
"Please, just consider it! I'll double the payment—no, triple it! You're the only editor I can tr—"
"I said no." His patience was wearing thin. "Just send me my payment, and we're done."
A tense silence followed before the client tried again, voice trembling.
"Mr. Editor, please! I pro—"
Click.
He hung up.
"Tch. Lazy authors."
He tossed his phone onto the desk and stretched his stiff arms. The muscles in his back protested as he arched his spine, hearing a few satisfying pops. Sitting for hours on end was torture, but at least the job was done.
He glanced at the clock—1:47 AM.
Grabbing his bag, he turned off his computer, dimming the last source of artificial light in the office. The room now felt emptier than ever.
Without another glance back, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.
---
The night air greeted him with an icy chill as he exited the building. The streets were quiet, bathed in the dim glow of streetlights. It was late enough that only a few cars remained on the road, their headlights cutting through the darkness like fleeting ghosts.
He walked at a steady pace, unbothered by the solitude. In fact, he preferred it this way—no distractions, no noise, just him and his thoughts.
Then, suddenly—
His steps halted.
For a moment, the world felt unnaturally still.
A strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck.
Then—
Vroooom!
A pair of headlights flashed behind him, rapidly approaching. The roar of an engine tore through the silence as a car sped past, momentarily bathing the street in a golden glow.
More vehicles followed, slowly bringing life back to the sleeping city.
The man stood by the roadside, gaze lowering to his hand.
Between his fingers, he held a small, black business card. A single number was printed on it in silver ink, reflecting faintly under the streetlight.
His expression remained unreadable as he studied it. After a few moments, he slipped the card back into his pocket and resumed walking.
---
Upon arriving at his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair. He loosened his tie with a sigh.
"Finally. Home, sweet home."
His place was modest yet comfortable. A single-bedroom apartment, sparsely decorated, but meticulously clean. Everything was organized—his bookshelves arranged neatly, his desk free of clutter, his kitchen spotless.
He lived alone. Always had.
Some would call it lonely.
But to him, solitude was freedom. No expectations, no obligations beyond his work. He could go days without speaking to another human being, and it wouldn't bother him in the slightest.
After a quick shower, he fixed himself a simple late-night meal—nothing extravagant, just something warm and filling.
"Mmm~ how I missed my homemade meals," he murmured, savoring the taste as he turned on the TV. The familiar sounds of his favorite show played in the background, creating a comforting atmosphere.
Once he finished eating, he washed the dishes and changed into a pair of comfortable pajamas. Then, with an almost childlike excitement, he reached for something on his bedside table—
A brand-new gaming console.
The latest model, freshly released.
"Just a few hours won't hurt."
With a soft beep, the screen lit up.
Beep. Beep. Slash! Slash!
The game loaded, bright animations flashing across the screen as action-filled music played in the background. He grinned slightly, completely immersed as he navigated through the opening cutscene.
Minutes turned to hours. His eyes grew heavier, yet he refused to stop.
Until finally—
Sleep claimed him.
The controller slipped from his fingers, the screen still glowing softly in the darkness.
...
...
..
...
The next morning, the young man groggily stirred awake, blinking as the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains. A yawn escaped his lips as he stretched his arms, but before he could fully rouse himself, a sharp sound interrupted his peace.
Knock. Knock.
"Young Master. Young Master, are you awake?"
The muffled voice from the other side of the door was accompanied by another set of firm yet respectful knocks. The man furrowed his brows, feeling an immediate sense of irritation. His sleep had been disturbed, and he despised being woken up prematurely. Rubbing his face, he grumbled under his breath and forced himself to sit up. However, as his eyes scanned the room, something immediately felt off.
The room was different. It wasn't his.
His once modest, modern apartment had been replaced by a lavish chamber that exuded wealth and nobility. A grand chandelier hung from the intricately designed ceiling, casting warm golden hues across the space. The walls were adorned with ornate carvings, and the bed he sat on was far too large and luxurious compared to his usual simple mattress. A silk canopy draped over the posts, and the sheets beneath his hands were made of the softest fabric he had ever felt.
His gaze moved to the wooden floor, polished to perfection, reflecting the light from the chandelier. A large, elegant wardrobe stood against the wall, its design ancient yet refined. The windows were massive, dressed in deep crimson curtains with gold embroidery. What irked him the most, however, was the placement of those very windows.
I never have windows in my room. I hate waking up to sunlight and the sound of birds.
His mind whirled in confusion, but before he could fully process the situation—
Knock. Knock.
"Young Master, are you awake? May I enter?"
His brows twitched in annoyance. The persistent knocking and the foreign voice were starting to grate on his nerves. Taking a deep breath, he decided to address the intruder.
"...Yes."
With a soft click, the door opened, and in walked a woman dressed in a traditional maid outfit. The contrast of black and white fabric was accentuated by frills at the edges of her sleeves and apron. She appeared to be in her early twenties, her features delicate yet sharp, exuding a professional and disciplined aura. Her chestnut brown hair was tied into a neat ponytail, with a few stray strands framing her face. She had warm brown eyes, yet despite their softness, she carried herself with the poise expected of a high-ranking servant.
She stepped forward, placing a hand over her chest as she bowed respectfully. "Good morning, Young Master. It is time to start your day."
The young man, now being addressed as 'Young Master,' remained silent. His sharp eyes studied her intently, noting every detail of her appearance, from her crisp uniform to the way she avoided meeting his gaze directly. Something about the entire interaction felt eerily rehearsed, yet familiar to her—as if this was part of her daily routine.
"...Name?" he asked, his voice calm but distant.
The maid blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Pardon?"
__