There are cities, and then there are cities that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat—alive, electric, tireless. The sun, though hidden behind a thin veil of urban haze, cast a golden glow over the sprawling silhouette of Lennox City. A place where dreams came to live fast and die faster. From the sky, the city glittered like a field of stars mistakenly sown into concrete. Streets knotted into one another with the grace of chaos, traffic like ants chasing their own shadows. The sidewalks bore stories in hurried heels and solemn loafers, and from the market vendors hollering at every corner to the suits huddled around café tables murmuring strategies and schemes, everything buzzed.
Neon lights blinked into life even before the dusk could make its full entrance. From the scent of freshly brewed coffee leaking from corner cafés to the smoke curling from hot dog stands, the city had its own perfume. Somewhere, a jazz band rehearsed on a rooftop while construction workers danced their drills on another. The noise was symphonic, the madness organized, and amid the madness stood the crown jewel of this modern kingdom—Leroy Television Network, or simply, LTN.
It towered above the lesser mortals of concrete and glass like a sentinel. Forty-five stories of sleek silver and jet-black panels, curved ever so slightly to kiss the skyline. The logo, bold and metallic, spun slowly atop its antenna—a rotating reminder that fame and failure both lived within its walls. Cameras, cables, and careers were made and destroyed in the span of its floors.
High up, nestled near the very top, was a room of glass and marble—the conference room of the Development Department. It was sleek, minimalistic, and humming with quiet tension.
At the head of a long, polished obsidian table stood Mrs. Dawson, the woman who'd long stopped trying to impress anyone and now lived simply to intimidate. Clad in a dark navy pantsuit, sharp as a razor's edge, her poise was nothing short of military precision. Hair pulled back into a severe bun, not a strand daring to wander. Diamond studs glinted from her ears, not decorative but declarative. She had the bearing of a general and the eyes of a hawk—one that had seen many wars and still had fight left in her.
"Our last two series did not hit the benchmarks," she was saying, her voice low but cutting. "Which means our next move needs to be both bold and flawless. I want original pitches by Friday, no exceptions. If you're not inspired, fake it."
The door creaked open at that exact moment.
A figure bent low, creeping in as if he could warp himself into the room's air. Jake. Disheveled in a beige hoodie under a once-black blazer, his jeans looked like they'd been through both a rock concert and a laundry strike. His hair had the wild look of a man who hadn't seen a comb in days, and his eyes—once bright with spark and mischief—now hung heavy with shadows.
He shuffled sideways, hoping invisibility through awkwardness. But the room's stillness caught up to him like a wave.
He looked up.
Everyone was staring.
He straightened. Cough. Another cough. Clear throat.
"I—uh, sorry—traffic was—"
"Mr. Jake," Mrs. Dawson didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "I won't be entertaining your recycled excuses this morning. However, the Head of HR would very much like a word."
Jake blinked. "HR?"
"That's what I said."
"I… Did something happen?"
"Not to my knowledge," she said crisply. "But I'm sure you'll find out soon enough."
A beat. Then he turned, confused and a little bit hollow. He dropped his backpack by his cubicle, where his monitor still displayed a half-finished script from three days ago. A character was mid-sentence. So was Jake, in life.
He headed to the HR floor, the sterile silence of the elevator doing little to calm his buzzing nerves. The corridor smelled of air freshener and judgment.
Kyle's office was an architectural brag—wood panel walls, a Persian rug, ceiling lights recessed like little suns, and a shelf boasting awards and perfectly aligned books that may have never been read. A large fig plant basked by the floor-to-ceiling window like it was on a beach holiday.
Kyle, Head of HR and corporate clean freak, didn't glance up as Jake walked in. The man was neat to the point of suspicion—slick gray hair, a pinstripe suit ironed with righteous fury, and fingernails that looked manicured by angels.
Jake cleared his throat. "Uh, morning."
Kyle didn't look up.
"Should I… sit?"
No reply.
Minutes ticked by, each one chewing on Jake's nerves.
Then, Kyle finally set his documents down and looked up, adjusting his glasses like a judge about to pronounce sentence.
"When you joined LTN five years ago," he began, voice cool and paced, "you were fire. Everything you touched turned to viewership gold. Script after script—hits. But the last two years?"
Jake didn't respond.
"You've missed deadlines. Turned in incomplete pitches. Your last show got pulled after two episodes. Either you've lost your edge, or you're unhappy here."
Kyle leaned back, expression unreadable.
"After internal review and management discussion, we've decided… it's time to let you go."
Silence. It stretched so far you could hang curtains on it.
"You… what?" Jake chuckled, dry and hollow. "You're kidding, right?"
Kyle's face didn't budge.
Jake blinked. A million words tried to crowd his throat. None came out. He just… stood.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice muttered, This was coming. He hadn't really shown up in years, just haunted his cubicle like an underpaid ghost. Maybe they had kept him around out of sentiment, or hope. Both had run out.
He turned, walked out slowly. Collected his bag. Slumped at his desk.
"What's wrong?" asked Martina, the designer in the next cubicle.
He didn't reply.
After a while, he reached for a box under the table. Began loading his things—an old coffee mug with a chip, a stack of notebooks, a figurine of a wizard from one of his shows, a framed photo with a woman he hadn't called in years.
Eyes followed him. Whispers trailed.
He didn't look up.
In the elevator, the silence pressed again—until Jules, an HR staffer and one of the few who still called Jake a friend, walked in.
"Jake. Damn. I was just coming up to see you."
"Too late," Jake mumbled.
"Man, I told you," Jules said, voice thick with frustration. "I told you a dozen times—let it go. Whatever it was. The breakup, the show crash, whatever. You disappeared into a bottle and never came back."
Jake shrugged.
"Hell, you were the best writer in the building, and now look at you. What are you gonna do?"
Jake shook his head. "No clue."
Jules sighed. "Cool off. Take a few weeks. Then get back on the horse. Just… don't disappear, alright?"
The elevator dinged. Ground floor.
"Don't worry," Jake muttered, hoisting the box. "I'll vanish spectacularly."
He stepped out. The lobby looked different. Colder. More echo than he remembered.
Outside, the sun had slipped behind clouds. He turned once, looked up at the mighty LTN building—once a temple, now a tombstone.
He hailed a cab.
The night didn't hold wisdom. Just neon lights and cheap whiskey.
By 10 p.m., Jake was slouched in a club booth, nursing his fourth drink and trying to forget what he couldn't name. The music pounded, people laughed, life carried on.
A sensible man might've started planning.
But Jake?
He just poured another round.
And let the city swallow him whole.
The incessant ringing of Jake's phone clawed through the fog of his hangover, dragging him back to the waking world. His head throbbed like a drum in the hands of a madman, and the pale morning light seeping through the blinds felt like a personal insult. He fumbled for the phone, fingers clumsy with sleep and last night's whiskey.
"Yeah?" His voice was rough, like gravel scraped over pavement.
"Jake? Good grief, you sound like death." Clara Fenton's voice was sharp, crisp—a blade cutting through his haze. Even half-conscious, he could picture her: dark hair perfectly tousled, lips pursed in that way that meant she was either concerned or annoyed. Today, it was probably both.
"Feel like it too," he grunted, rubbing his face.
"I just heard. About the—well, you know." She hesitated, and that alone was unusual. Clara never hesitated. She was the queen of blockbusters, the woman who spun words into gold, the one who had nudged him toward the television gig in the first place. If she was tiptoeing, things were bad.
"Yeah. Got the axe." Jake sat up, wincing as the room tilted. "Guess the higher-ups finally realized I'm a fraud."
"Don't be an idiot," she snapped. "You're not a fraud. You're just… difficult."
He barked a laugh. "Difficult. Right."
"Look, I wasn't in yesterday. If I had been—"
"You'd what? Fought the execs with your pen?" He sighed. "It's fine, Clara. Really. I saw it coming."
A beat of silence. Then, softer: "What are you going to do?"
Jake opened his mouth to answer when the doorbell rang—a sharp, impatient sound.
"Hold on." He dragged himself off the couch, the world swaying beneath him like a ship in a storm. The floor was littered with empty bottles, the remnants of last night's pity party.
He peered through the peephole and groaned. The landlord. Of course.
Mr. Hargrove stood on the other side, arms crossed, face set in that tight-lipped expression that meant business. Jake pulled the door open, bracing himself.
"Jake." Hargrove's voice was all false sympathy. "Heard about your… situation."
Jake leaned against the doorframe, feigning nonchalance. "News travels fast."
"In this building? Faster than light." Hargrove cleared his throat. "Look, I'm sorry, but you know how it is. You're eight months behind. And now, with no job…"
Jake's jaw tightened. "You want me out."
"Three weeks," Hargrove said, not unkindly. "I've got a guy from the network looking for a place. Stable income, you know how it is."
Stable income. The words stung. Jake forced a nod. "Yeah. I get it."
Hargrove lingered, as if waiting for an argument. When none came, he sighed. "You're a good kid, Jake. Just… bad luck."
Bad luck. Right.
Jake shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. Clara's voice crackled from the forgotten phone on the couch.
"Jake? You still there?"
He picked it up. "Yeah."
"Who was that?"
"The reaper," he muttered. "Coming to collect."
Clara exhaled sharply. "Tell me you're not getting kicked out."
"Three weeks."
"Good grief." A pause. Then, decisive: "Pack a bag. You're staying with me."
Jake blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. I've got a guest room. And before you start with your pride bullshit—don't. Just say thanks and shut up."
He should argue. He *wanted* to argue because the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressed down on him, and suddenly, the fight was gone.
"...Thanks, Clara but I am sorry I can't stay in this city anymore."
"That's right." Her tone softened. "What are you going to do? I know you are not done yet, Jake"
He looked around the apartment—the peeling paint, the unpaid bills on the counter, the ghost of a life that was slipping through his fingers.
Not done yet. He hopes she's right.
"I will figure something out and talk to you later"