May uses intellect like inch-thick gloves. She wears them whenever she has to touch the world. The problem with gloves is that after a while, you forget you're wearing them.
so she walks away from every encounter believing that the world is made with plastic .
The factory pays her just enough to rent a room with a flickering light and a landlord who doesn't ask questions. She works the second shift — 3 PM to 1 AM — stacking boxes that never stop coming. The machines scream. No one talks. No one looks at anyone.
She's in her mid 30s savings. No friends. No man she hasn't paid to leave. The other women at the factory have kids, have plans, have something. May has a mask and a cap .
She tells herself she's choosing this. The invisibility. The silence. The plastic.
The phone buzzes at 2:47 AM. His father's face on the screen.
"You're going to kill yourself," the old man says. No hello. "Seventy hours this week. Seventy. Your heart's going to pop like a fucking balloon."
Dad im tryna make money
Who cares about money you literally gonna die
Braden like the rest of us needs to connect and relate to other people but hes unlucky enough to be born with a kind of brain that struggles to do exactly that . he thinks that he might be autistic and he frequently admits how difficult he finds human interaction.He uses drugs — cocaine, meth, alcohol — to lower the barrier. With them, conversation is possible. Without them, it is not.
He needs connection. He cannot achieve it without chemical assistance.exept the conclusion of hes objective rationality is to do crystal meth everyday so that he would be wanted by people he doesnt even like
His father's company made the money. His face has been in the local news twice — once for a charity gala , once for a car his father bought him.
A journalist sits across from him. Camera in the corner. Notebook open.
The questions are soft. "How does it feel to be so young with so much?" "What drives you?" "What do you want people to know about you?"
Braden rehearsed for three days. He still cannot make eye contact. His answers are short. Factual.
The journalist smiles. Writes something down.
Braden does not know if he is being liked or studied. He cannot tell the difference.
nterviewer: What's your morning routine?
Braden:
I wake up at six. Appetite suppressants first — Phentermine. Two capsules.
*Then anti-aging. NMN. Resveratrol. CoQ10. Spermidine. Metformin. Astaxanthin. Collagen peptides.*
Skin care. CeraVe cleanser. Skinceuticals C E Ferulic serum. EltaMD UV Clear SPF 46.
Then I work out at home. Mat. Dumbbells. Forty-five minutes.
Interviewer: "That's a lot for someone your age. What are you trying to slow down?"
Braden: "Everything."
Interviewer: "Including your father's shadow? He built Northern Star Development from nothing. Ground-up construction, then property management, now they're in twelve states. That's a lot to live up to."
Braden says nothing.
Interviewer: "Or is that not the plan? I've heard he's been selling off pieces of it. Quietly. No press."
Braden: "I don't talk about my father."
Interviewer smiles. Makes a note.
The interviewer closes their notebook. Smiles. Reaches into their bag.
"One more thing. Not for the piece. Personal."
They slide a thick card across the table. Cream paper. Gold edges.
"Annual Gala. Northern Star Development. Your father's event, obviously, but I have a plus-one I'm not using. Thought you might want someone to talk to who already knows the answers."
Braden looks at the card. Doesn't touch it.
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting, Braden. And because everyone at that party will be pretending. You're the only one who doesn't know how."
Braden picks up the card. Puts it in his pocket.
He doesn't say yes. He doesn't say no.
Next week braden
Her landlord locked her out that morning. No warning. Just a note on the door and her bag on the step.
She walked all day. No plan. No money. No one.
By midnight, she was on a street of big old houses. Dark windows. Quiet.
She found a basement window cracked open. Not broken. Just loose.
She pushed it. Dropped inside.
The basement was clean. Empty. A washer. A dryer. A few boxes. No dust.
She curled up behind the dryer. Closed her eyes.
She was asleep in minutes.
Braden came home at 2 AM.
He opened the basement door. Flipped the light.
Saw her.
He didn't ask who she was. Didn't wake her. Didn't call anyone.
He picked up the hammer from the shelf.
Swung.
He didn't swing to kill. Just to stop her.
When she wakes, her head is pounding. Her hands are tied behind her back. Rope. Tight. The kind that bites when she moves.
The basement stairs are behind her. The door at the top is closed.
She tries to stand. Her legs work. But her hands are useless. She can't climb. Can't pull. Can't open anything.
She could walk in circles. That's all.
She sits back down. Waits.
The light stays on. The door stays shut.
She doesn't know how long she waits. Long enough to stop crying. Long enough to stop hoping someone hears.
She kept sitting in the same position for hours then days
She wakes up on concrete. Cold seeps through her clothes. Her head throbs where he hit her. When she touches it, her fingers come back sticky. Dried blood.
The basement is maybe twenty feet by twenty feet. Gray walls. Concrete floor. One light bulb hanging from a wire. No windows. One door at the top of wooden stairs.
Her hands are tied behind her back with thick rope. Not zip ties. Not handcuffs. Rope. Old. Scratchy. The kind from a hardware store.
She screams. Her voice echoes off the walls. No one answers.
She kicks the door at the top of the stairs. Wooden. Solid. Doesn't budge.
She pulls at the rope until her wrists bleed. The rope doesn't loosen.
She cries until she has nothing left. Falls asleep on the floor. Wakes up in the dark. The light bulb turned off sometime while she slept.
She doesn't know what time it is. Doesn't know if it's day or night.
Day Two
The light comes back on. She doesn't know when. She just opens her eyes and it's there. Buzzing.
She's hungry. Thirsty. Her mouth is dry. Her lips are cracked.
The door opens. Braden comes down the stairs. He's wearing the same suit. Clean. Pressed. He carries a plastic water bottle and a paper bowl. Sets them on the floor a few feet away from her. Then goes back upstairs. Locks the door.
She has to crawl to reach them. Her hands are still tied. She drinks the water first. Half of it spills. She doesn't care. Then she eats the oatmeal. Cold. Plain. No spoon. She puts her face in the bowl.
She tries to talk to him when he comes back for the empty bowl. "Please." He doesn't look at her. Takes the bowl. Leaves.
The light stays on this time. She stares at the walls. Counts the cracks in the concrete. Falls asleep counting.
Day Three
The same routine. Water. Oatmeal. Silence.
She doesn't scream anymore. Her throat hurts. What's the point.
She explores the basement on her knees. Can't stand without hands for balance. She finds the washer. The dryer. A shelf with cleaning supplies. A hammer. She stares at the hammer for a long time. It's the one he used. There's a dark spot on the metal. She doesn't touch it.
She finds the spot where she bled. Dried brown on the gray floor.
She sits in the corner behind the dryer again. The same spot where she fell asleep the first night. Before everything.
She doesn't cry. She just sits.
---
**Day 4**
He came down at noon. Not with oatmeal. With a sandwich. Turkey. Cheese. Bread that wasn't stale.
He sat on the floor across from her. Unwrapped it. Placed it between them.
"Eat."
She didn't move.
"I'm not going to hurt you today."
She looked at his face. Believed him. Didn't know why.
She ate. Slow. Small bites. He watched.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"You could have killed me the first night. You didn't."
He tilted his head. Thinking.
"My brain doesn't work like yours," he said. "I don't feel things the way you do. But I understand patterns. Systems. Cause and effect."
He pointed at her.
"You're a variable I didn't expect."
She chewed. Swallowed.
"What does that mean?"
He stood up.
"It means I'm watching to see what you become."
He left. The lock turned. She sat in the dark. Thought about his words. Didn't sleep.
---
**Day 5**
He came down with two cups of coffee. Handed her one. Black. Hot.
She held it. Let the warmth seep into her palms.
"I had a mother," she said. Not looking at him. "She told me things leave. They get broken. They get lost. The only thing you can trust is what you live through."
He said nothing.
"She was right."
He reached for her wrist. Turned it over. Looked at the scar.
"Did you think you would die?"
"I hoped."
He traced the line with his thumb. Same as before. But slower this time.
"And now?"
She pulled her hand back. But not fast.
"Now I'm here."
He nodded. Like that made sense.
"Where do you work?" he asked.
"Factory."
"Which one?"
She told him. Northern Textiles. He blinked. Twice.
"My father used to own that building."
She looked at him. Really looked. The young face. The empty eyes.
"I know," she said.
He tilted his head. "How?"
"The name on the old sign. Northern Star. Same as your interview."
He smiled. Small. Almost real.
"You watched the interview?"
"I was in the background. Carrying a box."
He stared at her. Longer than before.
"Then we've already met," he said.
He left the coffee. Didn't lock the door. She heard him walk upstairs. Heard him pause at the top.
She didn't try to leave.
---
**Day 6**
He didn't come down.
Morning passed. Afternoon. Evening. The light stayed on. The door stayed locked.
She waited. Listened for footsteps. Heard nothing.
By midnight, she was pressed against the wall. Knees to her chest. Shaking.
Not from cold.
She didn't want to be alone.
She hated herself for it.
At 1 AM, the lock turned. His footsteps on the stairs.
He sat down across from her. Said nothing. Just sat.
"You're late," she whispered.
"I know."
She looked at his hands. Clean. Still.
"I thought you left me here."
"I thought about it."
"Why didn't you?"
He was quiet for a long time.
"Because dead things don't change."
She closed her eyes. Leaned her head back against the wall.
"Stay," she said.
He stayed.
She fell asleep. He watched.
When she woke up, he was still there. The light was still on.
He stood up. Walked upstairs. Didn't lock the door.
She didn't run.
---
The invitation sat on his dresser for six days. Cream paper. Gold edges. He looked at it
He took Adderall before walking in. 30 milligrams. Crushed and rolled in a cigarette paper. Swallowed it in the car.
By the time he reached the door, his brain was buzzing. Clean. Focused. Electric.
He became someone else.
At the bar, he ordered a vodka soda. Drank it fast. Ordered another. The alcohol smoothed the edges. The Adderall kept him sharp.
He talked to everyone. Old men in suits. Wives with diamonds. A journalist who recognized him from the interview. He shook hands. Remembered every name. Cracked jokes. Laughed at theirs.
Someone mentioned his father. "Great man," Braden said. "Tough act to follow." He smiled. They believed him.
He moved through the room like he belonged there. Like he'd been doing it his whole life. Not the flat-voiced boy from the interview. Not the lonely man in the basement.
Someone else.
On the dance floor, he let loose. Jacket off. Tie loose. A woman in gold laughed at something he said. He didn't remember what. Didn't matter. She was laughing.
His father watched from across the room. Braden caught his eye. Raised his glass. His father nodded. Slow. Confused.
Braden didn't care. He was winning
He left the gala at 11 PM. Drunk. Adderall gone. Just vodka now.
The streets were wet. Recent rain. The lights blurred through his windshield. He didn't slow down.
At the intersection of 7th and Main, the light turned red. He saw it. Knew what it meant. Didn't care.
The taxi was crossing. Slow. Legal.
Braden's car hit the passenger side. Metal on metal. A sound like a gunshot. Glass spiderwebbed. The taxi spun. Stopped against a lamppost.
Braden sat in his car. Airbag didn't deploy. His chest hurt from the seatbelt. His head was clear for the first time all night.
He got out.
The taxi driver was already out. Middle-aged. Graying hair. Blue shirt with a patch. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From anger.
"You crushed my car," he said. Voice loud. Shaky. "You crushed my fucking car, idiot."
Braden looked at the damage. Taxi door caved in. His own bumper hanging off. Headlight gone.
"I'll pay you," Braden said.
The driver stepped closer. Smelled alcohol. "You're drunk. I'm calling the cops."
"I said I'll pay you."
Braden reached into his jacket. Pulled out a thick wad of cash. Hundred-dollar bills. The driver stopped.
"How much is that?"
"Enough."
"I want the money right now. Otherwise I call the cops. I mean it."
Braden peeled off bills. Counted in front of him. Twelve hundred. Held it out.
The driver stared at the money. Then at Braden's face. Then at the money again.
"This doesn't cover the damage."
"Come to my place. I'll pay you the rest."
The driver laughed. Bitter. "You think I'm stupid? You drive me somewhere and what? No. Cash now. Full amount."
"I don't have it on me. It's at home. Follow me."
The driver looked at his taxi. The caved door. The cracked glass. He couldn't drive it like this. But he wanted the money.
"Where do you live?"
"Twenty minutes. North side."
The driver pulled out his phone. "I'm taking a picture of your plate. Your face. You try anything, cops have everything."
Braden stood still. Let him take the picture.
"Follow me," Braden said.
He got back in his car. The driver got back in his taxi. The engine coughed. The door scraped the ground. But it moved.
Braden drove home. The taxi followed.
At the House
Braden parked in the garage. The taxi pulled into the driveway. The driver got out. Looked at the house. Big. Old. Quiet.
"Nice place," he said.
"Come in," Braden said. "I'll get the money."
The driver followed him inside. Through the kitchen. Past the stairs.
"The basement," Braden said. "The safe is downstairs."
The driver stopped. "Why's the safe in the basement?"
Braden didn't answer. Opened the basement door. Flipped the light.
The stairs went down. Concrete at the bottom. The driver couldn't see past the turn.
"You first," the driver said.
Braden went down. The driver followed.
At the bottom, the driver saw the washer. The dryer. The shelf with cleaning supplies. The hammer. The corner behind the dryer.
And May. Sitting against the wall. Hands tied. Face dirty. Eyes watching.
The driver turned to run.
Braden already had the hammer.
He didn't swing at the head. Too loud. Too messy. He swung at the back of the knee. The driver went down. Cried out. Grabbed his leg.
"Shut up," Braden said.
The driver looked at May. Then at Braden. Then at the hammer.
"Please. I have a daughter. Please."
Braden tied his hands. Same rope. Same knots. Then dragged him next to May. Sat him against the wall.
The driver was crying. May watched. Said nothing.