THE MAN WITH GREY EYES

Ethan's pov 

I pulled on the whitest shirt I owned, the one that still clung to the notion that it was brand new. It felt stiff in the collar, the cotton starched just right so I knew I was going to do something important. With it, I hung out the sharpest suit and pants I had. The black suit was a bit worn at the elbows, the most delicate sheen betraying it had seen more than one "big day." All my suits were hand-me-downs, presents from Connor in spirit if not in fit. He would remind me to "dress like a man who's headed somewhere, even if you're still standing in one place." But this one, I had worn to the graduation party just last year. I recalled the champagne spills I had worked so hard to clean, the backslaps by profs who barely knew my name, and Connor's thunderous laughter on the corner of the leased hall.

I put on the pants, tugged the shirt over my shoulders, and stood in front of the mirror. My hair, normally dirty blond but probably going to look like a haystack if not worked on, had been straightened and styled into a shiny all-black dye I'd recently adopted. I'd rationalized it as maturity, but really it was a leap towards starting over. Maybe if I seemed like a man of some other sort, aside from the kid who followed behind his brother, I'd be treated another way.

And from the little wooden box I kept in the back of my drawer, I pulled out the one thing that had made me feel like success was something I could wear. A watch. Not just any watch. A TAG Heuer Carrera Calibre 16, stainless steel watch case, sapphire crystal face, automatic chronograph movement that ticked as smoothly as the rhythm of a heartbeat. 

On my twentieth birthday my father gave it to me. The black alligator strap still glowed slightly, the silver casing polished to draw the eye. I might have pawned it with no trouble for a quick thousand dollars, maybe more, and God only knows there were times I considered it. But it was a gift, and I was the type who wore his gifts like weights, no matter how heavy they grew.

I clipped it to my wrist, liking the feel of it sliding against my skin. Today, I had an idea. I was a man with an agenda. I was going to walk into Warner Industries like a success story. I was going to glide through the lobby with the confidence of someone who belonged there, smile at the receptionist like she’d been waiting her whole day just to see me, make eye contact with people who needed eye contact, drop a compliment about a woman’s dress even if it was hideous, and flash my pearly whites like they were worth their own paycheck. 

The downtown subway ride jolted my nerves, but the taller the skyscrapers grew, the higher my backbone. Warner Industries loomed like a scene from a painting of tomorrow. From street level, it ascended in a gliding pillar of steel and glass, the mirrored surface duplicating the hue of the sky and the whizz of cabs below. The doors swung open with the soft whoosh of wealth. I passed through and felt instantly dwarfed.

Most of the companies I’d walked into over the last few months had shared the same predictable look: beige walls, worn carpet, a splash of color here and there to prove they were “hip.” This place was different. Color didn’t exist here. It was glass, black, gray, and white. Minimalist, sharp, cold. It was the kind of space that swallowed joy whole and spit out efficiency. The kind of spot where even laughter would be crushed. Was this where I was to drown for the remainder of my existence? Maybe so. But then I'd read on the internet, naturally, the rumors regarding Warner Industries' salary scales, and let me tell you, I was more than willing to drain every last ounce of color from my very soul if it meant that I could finally, finally put the end to counting coins for takeout.

The receptionist with pointed cheekbones and a headset around her ear didn't even smile at me when I identified myself. Her response was brusque as she told me to report to the thirty-second floor, Interviewing Hall B.

I was intimidated the instant I entered. It wasn't a single interviewer. There were three. Two men in black coats and one woman with pulled-back hair in a no-nonsense bun. My stomach dropped. Men were tougher to impress, in my experience. Women may at least nod in approval, but men would scowl at you as if you were an equation they weren't sure added up.

Still, I came in armed with my practiced smile. Shining whites, easy charm, confident stride. I sat when told to, spreading my legs in a way I hoped made me look more put together than I actually was. The introductory questions were pleasant—standard questions about what degree I had, what projects I'd worked on, the languages I spoke. I recited them off with confidence, even cracked a bit of a joke at how Python and I had a "love-hate relationship." The woman chuckled, though the men remained stone-faced.

Then the one that hit me in the stomach. The woman leaned in, her voice crisp. "Mr. Banks, your resume shows zero real experience outside of college. No internships. No prior work in the tech field. Do you really think you qualify for this job?"

My smile faltered for half a second before I regained it. "I realize you think I lack experience, but I do possess something greater. Potential. Think of me as clay that you can mold into whatever form you wish. I can adapt, I can learn, and I can dedicate myself to Warner Industries in a manner that a person stuck in habits cannot.". I'm not under the constraints of other people's rules. I could be your very own machine, built to order.

One of the men made a note on his pad. The woman tilted her head, as though balancing. For a moment, I believed I'd made it. But then was the worst thing I could have heard.

"We'll get back to you, Mr. Banks."

That was it. Courteous dismissal. I knew what it was. I had heard it before, too many times. The promise of a call that never came. The bait of a carrot of hope held out against the certain silence.

I shook their hands, said thank you for their time, and left my smile stuck on like it hadn't shattered. But inside, I was desecrating. Another door closed on me. Another day wasted. My seventh rejection in six weeks.

By the time I returned to the lobby, my shoulders had slumped. Might as well get a coffee for my pathetic self. Needed the caffeine, just to grit through the pep talk afterwards about perseverance and grit.

I pushed past the glass doors of the coffee shop tucked in the lobby corner and ordered a medium black. When the barista handed it to me, I took it as if it was going to be my salvation. I swiveled around, preoccupied, and then suddenly it happened.

I crashed into someone so forcefully the cup burst from my hand, hot coffee spraying across the marble floor. Anger was my first reaction—just great, as if today hadn't been destroyed enough already. But looking up, ready to apologize or snap depending on the expression I was greeted with, the world seemed to tilt.

Gray eyes. The same gray eyes that never seemed to change, no matter the light. Eyes I’d memorized once upon a time, eyes that had haunted me for years.

Aaron Warner.