Upstairs, Where the Air Gets Thin

Marina

By the time I finish plating, my nerves are fried.

I went with something simple — lemon herb pasta with grilled chicken — because simple is safe, right? Simple is honest. And also, simple doesn’t require me to accidentally blow up the spaceship kitchen.

The voice from the speaker crackles back to life just as I’m wiping down the counter.

“Bring the tray upstairs. Second floor. East wing. The office.”

No please. No thank you. Just a command.

Because apparently, in this place, manners are optional.

I balance the heavy tray in my hands, trying to ignore the way my palms are sweaty. My shoes squeak on the marble again as I follow the long, silent hallways, feeling like I’ve wandered into a fancy hotel where I absolutely don’t belong.

The stairs curve up, wide and dramatic, and by the time I reach the landing, I’m breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.

Office. East wing. Right.

My heart thuds as I count doors — one, two, three — and then stop at a pair of tall, dark wood doors cracked just slightly open.

I knock, because even I know you don’t just barge into some rich guy’s office.

“Enter,” a voice calls.

Deeper. Smooth. A little rough at the edges.

I push the door open with my elbow and step inside, tray clutched like a shield.

And that’s when I see them.

Two men.

One sitting behind the massive desk, dressed in a black suit that fits him too well — like it was sewn directly onto his body. He’s wearing dark shades, even though the room is dim, and his face is carved sharp, almost too perfect. Stoic. Unreadable.

The other is standing beside him, tall and broad, flipping through a stack of papers like he’s half-bored, half-annoyed. His suit is just as sharp, but his energy feels different — sharper, colder. His gaze flicks up when I enter, and God, it’s like getting hit with a laser.

My feet freeze.

My mouth goes dry.

“Put it on the desk,” the man behind the shades says quietly. His voice… it’s not cold exactly. But it hums with something heavy. Authority.

I shuffle forward, setting the tray down carefully like it might explode if I move too fast.

Why is this room so quiet? Why do I feel like I just walked into the middle of something important?

“Miss Russo,” the standing man says suddenly, and I flinch at the sound. He holds out a sleek black folder with one hand, the other still flipping through those papers. “Before you continue, there are documents you need to sign. Standard employment forms. Confidentiality agreements.”

I blink at him. “Oh… now?”

His mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close enough to make my skin crawl. “Now.”

I glance between the two men.

The one sitting is still. Too still. His head is angled slightly toward me, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sits there behind those dark shades like he’s studying me without moving.

And it hits me, all at once, how weird this is.

Who makes a chef bring food to an office? Who makes them sign papers in front of two men in suits who look like they could kill someone without wrinkling their sleeves?

But my mouth moves before my brain can stop it.

“Sure,” I mumble, reaching for the pen. “Happy to sign my soul away.”

The standing man’s brow arches just slightly. “Humor. That’s rare.”

I freeze, pen hovering over the page.

And for a split second, I swear the man behind the desk — the one in the shades — smiles. Barely there. But it’s enough to make something twist in my chest.

I sign anyway, because what else am I going to do?

Walk out? With twelve bucks in my account? Yeah, no.

“Good,” the standing man murmurs, snapping the folder closed. “You’ll be given further instructions tomorrow. For now… you’re dismissed.”

Dismissed. Like I’m some school kid.

I glance at the tray one last time — the steam curling up from the plate, the lemon scent filling the too-quiet office — and then turn on shaky legs to leave.

As I reach the door, I hear it.

A soft voice, low but clear: “Thank you, Miss Russo.”

It’s the man behind the desk.

The one in the shades.

My heart gives a weird little lurch, but I don’t look back. I just nod and slip out, closing the door behind me as fast as I can without actually running.

And the whole way back down the hall, I can’t shake the feeling that I just walked into something way bigger — and way more dangerous — than I signed up for.

The car’s waiting for me when I shuffle back downstairs — same driver, same dark glasses, same energy that says, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.

He doesn’t say a word as I climb in.

The door clicks shut with a heavy thud, and just like that, we’re gliding back through the gates, leaving that monster of a mansion behind like it’s some kind of weird dream I accidentally stepped into.

I spend the whole ride back staring out the window, chewing my thumbnail until it’s basically gone.

Because — okay.

That was weird, right? Like, objectively weird?

Two men in suits.

Shades indoors.

A literal contract I signed without reading because I’m apparently the poster child for bad decisions.

I groan, flopping my head against the headrest.

“Marina Russo, you idiot,” I mutter. “You said you wanted a normal job. Not some sketchy underworld catering gig.”

By the time we pull up to my building — paint peeling, windows stuck, definitely not mansion material — I’m ready to collapse face-first into my couch and pretend today never happened.

“Miss Russo,” the driver says, just as blankly as before, as he unlocks the door.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the ride, Jeeves,” I mumble, grabbing my bag and practically tripping over my own feet as I hurry inside.

The door to my apartment sticks as always, and I have to give it a good shove with my hip before it pops open with a squeal.

Home sweet home.

Tiny, cluttered, slightly moldy — but mine.

I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and flop onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“What am I even doing with my life?” I whine to the ceiling. “Who signs up to work for people who look like they’ve buried bodies in the backyard?”

My phone buzzes on the coffee table.

I glance at it, half-expecting spam. But no — it’s a notification from my bank app.

I blink. Sit up a little straighter.

And then my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

$10,000.00 — deposited to your account.

I stare at the screen.

Stare some more.

Refresh the app because surely I’m hallucinating.

Nope. Still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

“What the actual—”

Before I can even finish the sentence, another buzz comes through.

Text message.

Unknown number.

Your employment begins tomorrow. 8:00 AM. Do not be late.

No hello. No signature. No explanation.

Just that.

And suddenly, my apartment feels smaller. Hotter. Like the walls just inched closer.

I swallow hard, clutching my phone like it might bite me.

$10,000.

And an order, not a request.

“Oh, Marina,” I whisper to myself, flopping back against the couch cushions. “You are so screwed.”