The Security Guard’s Story

I work as a security guard at a luxury residential complex.

My daily routine is simple but demands attention to detail. I register visitors, patrol the grounds, help residents park or move items, and handle occasional emergencies.

One morning, a man suddenly showed up at the security booth.

He wore an expensive suit and a luxury watch—clearly one of the wealthy residents.

He placed a paper bag full of cash on the table and said:

“Could you do me a favor in the underground parking garage? Afterward, this money is yours.”

My eyes widened at the bag of money.

Residents sometimes tipped, but I’d never seen such a large sum.

I didn’t agree right away. Instead, I asked cautiously:

“What exactly do you need me to do?”

He didn’t answer directly. He just typed a number into my phone.

“When you get to the garage, I’ll call you with instructions. Don’t worry—it’s nothing illegal.”

His tone was calm, as if assigning a trivial task.

Though suspicious, I couldn’t resist the huge payout. Besides, as a security guard, helping a resident in the garage was part of my job.

I found his luxury black SUV at the provided spot.

The door was unlocked.

I pulled it open—and froze.

A woman was sitting in the back seat.

She wore a professional outfit, her hair messy, face flushed, breathing heavily, and she looked extremely distressed.

She seemed disoriented, muttering weakly:

“Help me… I don’t feel well…”

My first reaction was fear.

Everyone in this complex was wealthy and influential. If something happened to this woman, I could not take the responsibility.

I immediately stepped back and pulled out my phone to call emergency services.

Just then, the man called.

Calmly, he said:

“Don’t call an ambulance. She’s just having a chronic flare-up. Roll down the windows and give her the medicine from beside the back seat.”

I frowned. “She looks seriously unwell. We should get her to a doctor.”

His voice hardened.

“My wife has a fragile condition. This happens often. Do as I say. If we take her to the hospital, it will become a big scandal.”

The word “wife” only made me more uneasy.

But the woman was clearly suffering and weakly reached out for help.

I had no choice but to follow his instructions.

I rolled down the windows, found the pill bottle and water, helped her take the medicine, and adjusted her position to help her breathe.

After a few minutes, she seemed to calm down.

At that moment, someone knocked on the car window outside.

“Excuse me, is this car blocking the way? We can’t get out.”

I quickly got out and explained that the resident’s family member was unwell and we needed a few minutes.

The driver understood and didn’t press further.

I looked back at the woman. Something still felt very wrong.

She didn’t look like she was suffering a typical medical episode. She seemed impaired, as if her mind had been affected.

But I had no proof, so I stayed quiet.

About ten minutes later, she became more alert. She leaned back and whispered:

“Thank you.”

She stared at me blankly, as if she had no idea how she’d gotten there.

I was about to ask if she needed a doctor when the man called again:

“Alright, you can leave now. The money is at the security booth.”

When I returned, the man was gone.

The bag of cash was still on the table—even more than he’d promised.

But holding the money, I felt no joy.

I had a terrible feeling that something was deeply wrong.

I thought it was just a strange favor.

But that night, the man showed up again.