The city of Metrospire stretched out before me like a glittering beast, all sharp edges and glowing signs, humming with the kind of energy that made you feel small but ambitious at the same time. Skyscrapers stabbed at the sky, their glass faces reflecting the late-spring sun, while the streets below buzzed with people just like me—some rushing to their last finals, others already plotting their summer escapes. I wasn't one of the lucky ones with a plane ticket to somewhere sunny. No, I was the guy hunched over a desk in the library, surrounded by textbooks thicker than my skull, trying to cram two semesters' worth of logistics theory into my brain before tomorrow's exam. Metrospire Community College wasn't exactly Ivy League, but it was my ticket to something better. I just had to survive it first.
That's why, when my phone buzzed with a text from Jake during my third coffee-fueled study break, I didn't ignore it. Jake's the kind of friend who always has a scheme up his sleeve—usually dumb ones, like the time he convinced me to join a campus scavenger hunt that ended with us stuck in a dumpster looking for a "legendary clue." But this time, his message was different.
"Yo, Ry, you still broke? Got a gig for you. Warehouse job. Good pay, easy hours. I'm already in—can hook you up. Hit me back."
I stared at the screen, my pencil hovering over a half-finished diagram of supply chain optimization. A job? Before summer break? I mean, sure, my bank account was basically a ghost town—last week I'd eaten nothing but instant ramen and a questionable burrito from the gas station—but I hadn't even thought about work yet. Finals were my dragon to slay. But the idea of cash, real cash, started creeping into my head. My lease was up in a month, and the thought of finding an apartment that didn't smell like mildew or come with a roommate who blasted death metal at 3 a.m. was… tempting.
I texted back: "Warehouse? Like, lifting boxes? Tell me more."
Jake's reply came in seconds: "Yeah, dude, at Titan Storage Co. Massive place on the edge of town. I've been part-time there since spring break. Pays $18 an hour to start, and they're desperate for summer help. I'll vouch for you. Application's online—just say I referred you."
Eighteen bucks an hour? For a college kid like me, that was basically winning the lottery. I could almost hear the cha-ching of a new life: my own place, maybe even a cheap couch that didn't sag in the middle. I shoved my logistics textbook aside, pulled up my laptop, and found the Titan Storage Co. website. It was sleek—too sleek for a warehouse, if you ask me. Glossy photos of smiling workers in crisp uniforms, a tagline that read "Efficiency is Our Legacy," and a job portal that screamed "corporate." I filled out the application in ten minutes flat, name-dropping Jake in the referral box like he was my golden ticket. Ryan Carter, 24 years old, logistics major, no criminal record, available immediately. Submit.
Two days later, after I'd stumbled through my last exam and was celebrating with a $2 taco from the food truck outside campus, my phone rang. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail—telemarketers love me—but something told me to pick up.
"Hello, is this Ryan Carter?" The voice was smooth, professional, like a radio host selling car insurance.
"Uh, yeah, that's me."
"Great. This is Amanda from Titan Storage Co. We received your application, and we'd like you to come in for an interview tomorrow at 10 a.m. Does that work for you?"
I nearly choked on my taco. "Tomorrow? Yeah, totally. 10 a.m. works. Where's it at?"
She rattled off an address on the edge of Metrospire, near the industrial district where the city started to fray into warehouses and empty lots. "Bring a resume and your ID. We're excited to meet you, Ryan."
"Cool. Thanks!" I hung up and stared at my half-eaten taco, grinning like an idiot. Jake was right—this was too easy. Maybe my luck was finally turning around.
The next morning, I stood outside Titan Storage Co., feeling like I'd stepped into a sci-fi movie. The warehouse was huge—a sprawling fortress of gray steel and tinted windows that stretched across half a city block. A massive sign loomed overhead, the company logo—a stylized "T" with a gear around it—gleaming in the sunlight. Metrospire's skyline shimmered in the distance, but out here, it was all concrete and quiet, save for the occasional rumble of a delivery truck. I adjusted my tie—yeah, I'd worn a tie, borrowed from my dorm mate who swore it made him look "employable"—and double-checked my resume. One page, slightly crumpled, but it'd do.
Inside, the lobby was pristine. White tiles, a receptionist desk that looked like it belonged in a spaceship, and a faint hum of air conditioning. The woman behind the desk—Amanda, I assumed—smiled as I approached.
"Ryan Carter, here for the 10 a.m. interview," I said, trying to sound confident.
"Perfect. Take a seat, and Mr. Grayson will be with you shortly."
I plopped onto a cushy chair, clutching my resume like a shield. Five minutes later, a guy in a sharp suit—Grayson, probably—strode out of a side door. He was older, maybe 40, with slicked-back hair and a handshake that could crush a walnut.
"Ryan? Good to meet you. Let's head to my office."
The interview was a blur. He skimmed my resume, asked about my logistics classes ("Uh, I'm pretty good at optimizing stuff?"), and nodded when I mentioned Jake. "Jake's a solid worker. If he says you're reliable, that's good enough for me." Ten minutes in, he leaned back in his chair and said, "We're short-staffed for summer, and you seem like a good fit. How's $18 an hour sound, starting next week?"
I blinked. "That… sounds awesome. I'm in."
"Great. Welcome to Titan Storage." He slid a stack of paperwork across the desk—W-4s, safety waivers, the usual—and I signed it all without a second thought. When I walked out of his office, I felt like I'd just won a prize. A job. Money. Freedom. I could already picture my new apartment: maybe something downtown, close to the campus...and the beach—but far enough from the chaos. No more ramen dinners. Maybe even a pizza now and then. Life was looking up.
I was still riding that high as I wandered back through the warehouse, following the signs to the exit. The place was a maze—endless rows of shelves stacked with crates, forklifts whirring in the distance, and a faint smell of cardboard. Workers in reddish uniforms moved like ants, efficient and focused. Jake had warned me it was big, but this was next-level. I was halfway to the lobby when I spotted him.
He was hard to miss. A tall—really tall—guy mopping the floor near a stack of pallets. Like, freakishly tall. I'm 6'10" on a good day, and this dude towered over me. Nine feet, easy. Maybe more. His uniform hung off him like it was tailored for someone half his size, the sleeves barely reaching his elbows. He moved the mop in slow, mechanical strokes, back and forth, back and forth, like a robot stuck on a loop. His head was down, face shadowed by a mop of dark hair, and he didn't seem to notice the world around him.
I don't know why I stopped. Maybe it was the logistics nerd in me, calculating how someone that tall even fit in a place like this. Maybe it was just curiosity. Either way, I stepped closer and said, "Hey, uh, hi. Nice day, right?"
He didn't look up. Didn't even flinch. Just kept mopping, the wet slap of the mop against the concrete echoing in the quiet. I frowned, shifting my weight. "You… work here long?"
Nothing. Not a word. But then, slowly, he raised his head, and I froze. His eyes—dull, gray, empty—locked onto mine, and a chill ran down my spine. It wasn't just that he looked tired or bored. He looked… gone. Like there was nothing behind those eyes. No spark, no life. Just a blank stare, like an NPC in a video game waiting for its next line of code. My stomach twisted, and I took a step back, forcing a laugh.
"Uh, cool. Well… see ya around, I guess."
He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just stared, mop still in hand, until I turned and booked it toward the exit. My heart was pounding by the time I hit the lobby, and I didn't stop until I was outside, the warm Metrospire air hitting my face. I glanced back at the warehouse, half-expecting to see that giant figure looming in the doorway, but there was nothing. Just steel and glass, same as before.
"Get a grip, Ryan," I muttered, shaking it off. "You're just tired. Finals fried your brain."
But as I headed for the bus stop, replaying that empty stare in my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that something about Titan Storage Co. wasn't right. Jake hadn't mentioned anything weird, but then again, Jake once ate a week-old sandwich from his backpack and called it "fine." Maybe I'd ask him about the tall guy later. For now, I had a job, a paycheck, and a future to plan.
Still… what the hell was up with that guy?