You blocked Alejandro Lujan before the taxi even reached your apartment.

The moment your thumb pressed the button, the screen went quiet. No typing bubble. No incoming call. No dramatic explanation from the CEO who had spent the last two years telling you that you were “the only person holding the artist division together.” Just silence, bright and clean.

For the first time in months, your phone felt light in your hand.

You leaned your head against the taxi window and watched Manhattan slide past in late-afternoon gold. The glass towers, the yellow cabs, the impatient pedestrians, the steaming food carts on the corners—everything looked exactly the same. That almost offended you.

Your entire life had just changed, and New York had the nerve to keep moving.

Your salary had been $12,500 a month.

HR had reduced it to $730.

Seven hundred and thirty dollars.

That was not a salary. That was a joke with paperwork.

Lucia Vaughn, Head of Human Resources at Lujan Entertainment Group, had sat across from you in her cold little office on the forty-second floor and told you that your performance “did not meet company standards.” She had said it with smooth lipstick, perfect hair, and the dead-eyed calm of someone delivering cruelty she had already practiced in the mirror.

You had not argued.

You had not cried.

You had not begged to see the full report.

You had simply quit.

Now, as the taxi turned toward your apartment in Queens, you realized something strange.

You did not feel ruined.

You felt tired.

Not sad. Not scared. Just bone-deep tired in the way a person becomes tired after holding up a collapsing building while everyone else complains about the dust.

When you reached your apartment, you paid the driver, climbed three flights of stairs, kicked off your heels at the door, and dropped your work bag on the floor like it had insulted your ancestors.

Your apartment was small.

One bedroom. One crooked bookshelf. One thrift-store couch. One kitchen table where you had eaten too many dinners while answering emergency emails about spoiled influencers, angry sponsors, missing contracts, brand meltdowns, failed album rollouts, and artists threatening to “go independent” at midnight.

You walked straight to your bedroom.

You did not shower.

You did not make tea.

You did not check your email.

You pulled the curtains shut, turned your phone face down, and fell asleep still wearing your blouse.

You slept for fourteen hours.

No dreams.

No panic.

No guilt.

Just sleep so heavy it felt like your body had been waiting years to collect a debt.

When you woke the next morning, sunlight was slicing across your floor.

For a few seconds, you did not remember.

Then you did.

HR.

Performance standards.

$730.

Renunciation.

Block.

You sat up slowly.

Your phone was still face down on the nightstand. It buzzed once. Then again. Then again, like an insect trapped under glass.

You picked it up.

The screen was chaos.

180 missed calls.

260 text messages.

42 emails flagged urgent.

17 voice mails.

Most were from unknown numbers.

Some from colleagues.

Some from Lucia.

But most were from Alejandro Lujan, the CEO you had blocked, now using every assistant, executive phone, conference line, and emergency contact number in the company to reach you.

part2