Chapter 1 #2
I take a shower, which uses up the last of my hot water. I stand under the weak, lukewarm spray and try to convince myself this is fine. People work night shifts all the time. Nurses. Security guards. Gas station attendants. This is just a job. A weird job, sure, but a job.
I get dressed in the closest thing I have to professional attire: black leggings, a clean black tunic, and a pair of flats that are holding together with sheer willpower and a prayer. I look like I'm about to teach a yoga class or commit a burglary. Either way, it'll have to do.
I grab my massage therapy license from the drawer where I keep all my important documents—which is to say, a drawer full of overdue bills and a single folder labeled DO NOT LOSE in Sharpie.
My driver's license is in my wallet, which contains exactly twelve dollars in cash and a grocery store rewards card I haven't used in months because I can't afford to shop anywhere that isn't the dollar store.
At 10:45 PM, I'm standing in my kitchen, staring at my keys.
This is the moment. This is where I decide if I'm the kind of person who goes to a mysterious midnight interview at a clinic I've never heard of, in a part of the city I've never been to, for a job that sounds like it was written by someone who watches too many conspiracy theory videos.
I think about my landlord's text. Seven days.
I think about my bank account. $340.12.
I think about my hands, still aching, still swollen, and how I'm going to have to do this all over again tomorrow unless something changes.
I grab my keys.
The drive takes thirty minutes.
Obsidian Place is in the industrial district, which is exactly as ominous as it sounds.
The buildings are all concrete and steel, with narrow streets and flickering streetlights that make everything look like a noir film.
I pass a few warehouses, a shipping depot, and what looks like an abandoned factory before I find the address.
1447 Obsidian Place is a sleek, modern building that looks wildly out of place among the industrial decay.
It's all black glass and sharp angles, with subtle lighting that makes it glow against the dark street like some kind of architectural beacon.
There's a discreet sign near the entrance: Apex Wellness – Private Clientele Only.
Private clientele. That's code for something. I'm just not sure what yet.
I pull into the private garage, which is accessed through a keypad-protected gate that opens automatically when I pull up.
The garage is empty except for a few high-end cars—a Tesla, a blacked-out Range Rover, something low and sleek that might be a Porsche or possibly a spaceship.
I park my fifteen-year-old Honda Civic next to the Range Rover and feel like I've just shown up to a black-tie event in sweatpants.
The elevator is at the back of the garage.
It's the kind of elevator that requires a keycard, but when I press the button, it opens immediately.
The interior is all polished chrome and soft lighting, with a faint scent of something herbal—eucalyptus, maybe, or sage. There's a single button labeled 12B.
I press it.
The elevator rises smoothly, silently. My reflection stares back at me from the chrome walls—pale, tired, wearing two sweatshirts because I can't afford to fix my radiator. I look like someone who's about to make a series of very poor life choices.
The doors open.
The hallway is pristine. Polished black stone floors that look like they cost more per square foot than my entire apartment, recessed lighting that casts everything in a warm, expensive glow, and a faint scent of something herbal and vaguely medicinal.
There's a reception desk at the end of the hall, staffed by a woman who looks like she stepped out of a luxury spa catalog.
She's wearing all white, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, and she's typing on a tablet with the kind of calm efficiency that makes me feel even more out of place.
She looks up as I approach, her expression professionally pleasant.
"Ms. Beck?"
"That's me."
She smiles. It's polite, professional, and completely unreadable.
"Welcome to Apex Wellness. Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."
I sit in one of the chairs near the desk.
They're the kind of chairs that cost more than my rent—low, modern, upholstered in soft gray fabric that probably requires professional cleaning.
There's a glass coffee table with a stack of magazines that all have titles like Luxury Living and Elite Wellness Quarterly.
I don't touch them. I'm pretty sure my hands are still sticky from the ramen.
The woman at the desk goes back to her tablet. The hallway is silent except for the faint hum of the building's ventilation system and the occasional soft beep from her screen.
I check my phone. 11:28 PM.
I'm two minutes early to an interview I'm ninety percent sure is going to end with me being murdered.
At exactly 11:30, a door opens at the far end of the hallway.
A man steps out. He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tailored black suit that probably costs more than my car.
His expression is neutral, bordering on severe, the kind of face that suggests he's never smiled in his life and has no plans to start now.
His hair is dark, neatly trimmed, and his eyes are sharp in a way that makes me think he's cataloging every detail about me in the three seconds it takes him to walk down the hall.
"Ms. Beck," he says. His voice is deep, clipped, professional. "Please follow me."
I stand. My legs feel like jelly, but I follow him down the hallway, past several closed doors with discreet nameplates, until we reach a conference room at the end.
The room is exactly what I expected: sleek, modern, minimalist. There's a long black table, several chairs that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and a wall of windows that overlooks the industrial district below. The city lights glitter in the distance, cold and indifferent.
The man gestures to a chair. "Please, sit."
I sit.
He sits across from me, folding his hands on the table. There's a tablet in front of him, and he taps it once, pulling up what I assume is my resume.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," he says. "I am Mr. Voss, the intake coordinator for Apex Wellness. I will be conducting your preliminary interview."
"Preliminary?" I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Yes. If you pass this stage, you will be scheduled for a practical assessment with one of our clients."
"Right. Okay."
He taps the tablet again, his movements precise and deliberate. "You have three years of experience in deep-tissue massage therapy. You are certified in trigger point therapy and sports massage. You have worked in both luxury spa environments and walk-in clinics."
"That's correct."
"And you are comfortable working with high-profile clientele?"
"Yes."
"Clientele who require extreme discretion?"
I hesitate. "Define 'extreme.'"
He doesn't smile, but there's a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or approval.
"Our clients value their privacy," he says, his tone measured and deliberate.
"Many of them are public figures, executives, or individuals with unique circumstances that require confidentiality.
You will be required to sign a non-disclosure agreement before beginning work.
Violation of that agreement will result in immediate termination and legal action. "
"Got it. No Instagram posts."
This time, he definitely almost smiles.
"Precisely."
He taps the tablet again. "The position is three nights per week, midnight to 3 AM.
You will be assigned to a single client on a rotating schedule.
The work is physically demanding. Our clients often present with chronic pain, severe muscle tension, and—" He pauses, choosing his words with the kind of care that suggests he's had this conversation before. "—non-standard anatomical structures."
I blink. "Non-standard anatomical structures."
"Correct."
"Like... what? Extra ribs? Scoliosis? Extreme muscle hypertrophy from bodybuilding?"
"Something like that," he says, his expression giving away nothing.
"Apex Wellness specializes in serving a clientele whose physical needs fall outside the scope of conventional wellness facilities.
We cater to individuals whose anatomical presentations require specialized knowledge, discretion, and a high degree of professional adaptability. "
The way he says it makes my bullshit detector start screaming again, but there's also something in his tone that suggests he's being deliberately vague for a reason. Like he's testing to see if I'm going to push for details or just accept the job description at face value.
I decide to push. Just a little.
"When you say 'non-standard anatomical structures,' are we talking about medical conditions? Genetic variations? Or something else?"
Mr. Voss regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"We serve a diverse clientele," he says finally.
"Some of our clients have unique physiological characteristics that require specialized care.
You will receive detailed briefings on each client's specific needs before your first session.
What I need to know is whether you are comfortable working with clients whose physical presentations may differ significantly from what you encountered in conventional spa environments. "
"I've worked with clients who have severe scoliosis, fibromyalgia, chronic pain conditions, and post-surgical scar tissue," I say. "I'm used to adapting my techniques to individual needs."
"Excellent," he says. "That adaptability will serve you well here."
He slides a piece of paper across the table.
"This is the compensation structure. Five hundred dollars per session, paid immediately after each shift.
Five thousand dollars signing bonus upon completion of your first week.
Health insurance is provided after thirty days.
There are also performance bonuses for client retention. "
I look at the paper. The numbers are real. They're right there, printed in clean black ink.
$500 per session.
$5,000 signing bonus.
I could cry. I don't, because I'm sitting across from a man who looks like he's never experienced a human emotion, but I could.
"If you are interested," Mr. Voss says, "we can schedule your practical assessment for tomorrow night. Same time. You will meet your assigned client and demonstrate your skills. If the client approves, you will begin regular shifts immediately."
"Tomorrow night," I repeat.
"Yes."
I should ask more questions. I should ask about the non-disclosure agreement, about the "non-standard anatomical structures," about why this clinic operates exclusively at midnight and serves clients who apparently can't go to a normal spa.
I should ask about a dozen red flags that are currently waving in my brain like a parade.
Instead, I say, "I'm in."
Mr. Voss nods. He stands, extending a hand across the table.
"Welcome to Apex Wellness, Ms. Beck."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, professional, and ice-cold.
I don't remember the drive home.
I'm pretty sure I obeyed all traffic laws. I'm pretty sure I didn't run any red lights or accidentally merge into oncoming traffic. But my brain is somewhere else entirely, looping through the same thought over and over:
I just got a job that pays $1,500 per week.
I just got a $5,000 signing bonus.
I'm not going to be evicted.
When I get back to my apartment, it's past midnight. The building is silent. The hallway smells like old carpet and someone's burnt dinner. I unlock my door, step inside, and stand in the middle of my dingy kitchen, staring at the chipped table and the stack of overdue bills.
My phone buzzes.
It's an email from Apex Wellness.
Subject: Practical Assessment Scheduled – Tomorrow, 11:30 PM
Dear Ms. Beck,
Your practical assessment has been scheduled for tomorrow night at 11:30 PM. Please arrive at the same location. You will be meeting with your assigned client. Dress professionally. Bring your license and identification.
We look forward to working with you.
– Apex Wellness Intake Coordinator
I set my phone down.
I pour myself a glass of water from the tap because I still can't afford anything else.
I sit at my kitchen table and stare at the email.
Tomorrow night, I'm going to meet my "assigned client." Someone with "non-standard anatomical structures" who needs deep-tissue work at midnight and is willing to pay $500 per session for it.
This is either the best decision I've ever made, or the worst.
Probably both.
I drink my water. It tastes like tap water and poor life choices.
But for the first time in months, I'm not thinking about eviction notices.
I'm thinking about $5,000.