Pera D

The office breathed in fluorescent sighs, its cubicles arranged like tombstones. Each morning, keyboards awoke with the same sterile clatter, devouring hours in exchange for data—numbers that bled across spreadsheets, mocking the living. Trading in his sanity for monetary gain, Kínitos' "World's Greatest Employee" mug watched as he fed the machine, his soul dissolving into decimals, just to spew out endless piles of paperwork like a chain smoker.

Heading back to his cubicle, he sat down. Taking a deep breath in, he then let out a sigh as he looked at the pile of paperwork that seemed to flood his desk.

"Damn, dude, you look barely alive right now," said a man. Leaning back in his chair, Kínitos looked over to his right and saw a young man with a long, drooping afro.

"My head hurts, and I feel like throwing up my guts," replied Kínitos.

The man quickly jumped back down to his cubicle. As Kínitos heard him rustling around, a ding came from his computer. He saw a message: "Turn the monthly reports in by the end of the day." Kínitos dropped his head onto his keyboard.

"Here you go," said the man. Kínitos looked up to his right and saw the man handing him a bottle of pills.

"What the fuck is that, Bob?" asked Kínitos in confusion, grabbing the bottle. He saw not a single label or name in sight.

"It's some happy pills, you feel me?" whispered Bob with a smirk.

"Oh my God, no, I'm not doing that," replied Kínitos.

"No, no, it's not Molly this time," Bob mumbled under his breath.

"Then what is it?" asked a puzzled Kínitos.

"It's natural herbs to help you stay awake," said Bob.

"Thank you, I guess," responded Kínitos. He took one and handed the bottle back to Bob. Looking back at his screen, he began to tap away. His hands moved with grace and finesse. The only comfort he could take was making his documents the best they could be. Each tap of the keyboard distracted him from the microwaved lunches that wept steam in the break room, seeping into the cubicles. The air was thick with the scent of plastic and ennui.

By 3:30, Kínitos' tie felt like a noose. He'd loosen it, only to find his collar damp with the clammy dread of a life half-lived. The walls, eggshell white and studded with motivational posters (*"Teamwork Makes the Dream Work!"*), seemed to inch closer each day, until the office became a diorama of his own shrinking ambition. All the dreams he dreamt of living were now spent behind a computer.

The worst were the meetings—those vacuums of time where jargon swirled like fog. "Synergy." "Bandwidth." "Circle back." Words stripped of meaning, recited like incantations to a god long deaf. He would watch mouths move, voices merging into a drone, and imagine his bones rusting, joints stiffening, until he'd become one of the office chairs: wheels spinning, going nowhere.

By 5:00, the exodus began. Bodies shuffled toward elevators, postures slumped as if the weight of the day had settled into their marrow. Outside, the sky was still blue, reckless and vast, a taunt. He would stand on the pavement, blinking in the sunlight like a prisoner pardoned, only to feel the ghost of his desk chair still clinging to him—a phantom imprint, a cage he carried home.

In the rare moments he would go out with his friends, he would leave early, sneaking into the night as a shadow does in the darkness. Well, with the few friends he did have. Now he found himself alone at 6:30 at night in a bar. He hunched at the bar like a relic, elbows anchoring him to the sticky wood. The air reeked of hops and desperation, laughter sawing through the haze as a frat boy shouted *"Shots!"* into the void. His whiskey sat untouched, ice melting like the hours left in his shift. Around him, bodies pulsed—sweat-slick, grinning, howling into each other's ears—a zoo of noise.

Kínitos felt a slight tap on his shoulder. Looking over, he saw a man who was like a paradox carved from ice and storm—5'10" of marble grace, his skin pale as moonlight pooled on snow, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. Scars slithered across his face like silver cursive, a map of violence softened by green eyes that glowed, unnervingly vivid, like emeralds lit from within.

His hair fell in a straight, platinum cascade, too perfect for anything but genetics or gods, framing a face that belonged on a Renaissance altar if not for the smirk tugging at his lips. The scars didn't mar him; they sharpened his beauty into something feral, a warning wrapped in silk. Every glance his way lingered, torn between awe and unease—a masterpiece you feared might cut you if you touched it.

It took no more than a second for Kínitos to recognize the man who stood in front of him.

"Monti, you gorgeous asshole, how are you?" asked Kínitos, jumping off his seat in excitement.

"I'm good, man. How about you?" Monti asked back as he sat down beside him.

"What have you been up to?" questioned Kínitos, looking away as he began to try to wave towards the bartender, trying to get her attention and failing in vain.

"I mean, just work and family—that balance," replied Monti. "And how about you?"

"Great, just staying alive, you know," said Kínitos.

Monti chuckled, his green eyes glinting with amusement. "Staying alive is dead. You should try living a little."

Kínitos smirked, finding the irony of his statement. Finally catching the bartender's eye. "Two whiskeys, neat," he ordered. Turning back to Monti, he said, "Living is expensive. I'm just trying to make it to the weekend without losing my mind."

Monti leaned back, his smirk widening. "Weekends are overrated. You need to live in the moment, my friend. Like tonight. Let's make tonight unforgettable."

Kínitos raised an eyebrow. "Unforgettable, huh? What you thinking?"

Monti's grin was mischievous. "Drinks, laughter, maybe a little trouble. The usual."

Kínitos laughed, the sound a rare break from his usual monotone. "Trouble? With you, it's always trouble."

The drinks arrived, and they clinked glasses. "To trouble," Monti said, his voice low and teasing.

"To trouble," Kínitos echoed, taking a sip. The whiskey burned its way down, warming him from the inside out.

As the night wore on, the bar grew louder, the crowd more boisterous. Kínitos and Monti moved from whiskey to beer, their conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. They talked about everything and nothing—work, life, dreams that seemed too far out of reach. Monti's laughter was infectious, and for the first time in weeks, Kínitos felt alive.

By midnight, they were both pleasantly drunk, their steps unsteady as they stumbled out of the bar. The cool night air was a shock to their systems, but it felt good, refreshing.

"Let's take a shortcut," Monti suggested, pointing towards a dimly lit alleyway.

Kínitos hesitated. "Are you sure? That looks... sketchy."

Monti waved off his concern. "It's fine. I've walked through here a million times. Besides, it's faster."

Reluctantly, Kínitos followed. The alley was narrow, the walls closing in on either side. The only light came from a flickering streetlamp at the far end. They were halfway through when a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path.

Kínitos froze. The man was tall, his face obscured by a hood. In his hand, he held a scalpel, the blade catching the faint light.

Monti, however, didn't seem fazed. He stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "We don't want any trouble."

The man didn't respond, just took another step closer. Kínitos' heart pounded in his chest, his earlier buzz replaced by a cold, sobering fear.

Monti's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it with a practiced ease. The scalpel clattered to the ground, and Monti shoved the man back against the wall. "I said, we don't want any trouble."

The man stumbled, then turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness.

Kínitos stared at Monti, his mouth hanging open. "What the hell was that?"

Monti shrugged, picking up the scalpel and tossing it into a nearby dumpster. "Just a little trouble. Nothing to worry about." As he winks hi ding his nervousness.

Kínitos shook his head, a laugh bubbling up despite the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. "You're insane, you know that?"

Monti grinned, slinging an arm around Kínitos' shoulders. "Maybe. But you love me for it."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, the night air still cool but no longer menacing. By the time they reached Kínitos' apartment, the fear had faded, replaced by a sense of camaraderie.

"Thanks for tonight," Kínitos said as they stood at his door. "I needed that."

Monti clapped him on the back. "Anytime, dude. Just remember, life's too short to spend it all behind a desk."

Kínitos nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

As Monti walked away, Kínitos unlocked his door and stepped inside. For the first time in a long time, he felt a spark of something—hope, maybe, or just the promise of a life beyond the cubicle. And for now, that was enough.

*Knock Knock* two big bangs come from the door