The clock on my monitor glowed with a sterile, uncaring blue: 9:57 AM.
"—and I'm telling you, it makes no sense! My rate went up, and for what? I haven't had so much as a parking ticket in three darn years!" The voice on the other end of the line was a familiar sound of indignation and exasperation, confusion and shock– all delivered towards the poor customer service worker that was… I.
"I certainly understand your frustration, Mr. Henderson, and I'd be happy to—"
A shadow fell over my cubicle. "Sophia."
Their hands moving in a circular, wheel-like motion. Hurried.
"Let's wrap it up~!"
I didn't even have to look up to know who was rushing me. The voice, slick with a false sense of urgency that only middle management could perfect, belonged to Mikal, my acting supervisor for the week.
"You've got a backlog of 3 calls queued. We need to keep our metrics in the green."
My fingers tightened on my mouse.
'Uh-huh…'
Of course, I could not allow my internalized voice to become… external. I fell in line, my face remaining a mask of placid professionalism. I angled my head slightly, offering him a polite, practiced smile that didn't come anywhere near my eyes. "Just resolving the issue now, Mikal. I'll be clear in a moment."
He tapped his watch once. A 3D hologram appeared, showing off my current run-time in the concurrent call. 8:55. The seconds proceeded, counting up.
"That moment better end in less than a minute, Sophia. You know how I run my show," he ends with, clicking a button on the side of his hi-tech watch, the holo disappearing, before turning away.
'Prick.'
He lingered for a second too long, his presence annoying– heavy. Finally, the sweet noise of his over-priced dress shoes squeaked away on the linoleum flooring. I put the customer on a brief hold and my eyes scanned the room. My vision only encountered monotony– dull, matte-grey drywall, a hundred identical cubicles stretching out under the minute buzz of fluorescent lights. The air was stale, thick with the scent of lukewarm coffee and the collective, quiet desperation of people who spent eight hours a day speaking to strangers. It was a corporate harmony of one-sided conversations, feigned empathy and scripted solutions. A dreary, soul-sucking job.
I looked at my own reflection in the dark screen of the monitor. A pale, tired woman stared back. The polite smile was still there, my only shield against the utter lifelessness I felt inside.
'Endure.'
I clenched my eyes shut, locking that feeling back inside. I forced a polite smile once more, hoping it could remain until the end of the day.
I clicked the customer back on the line.
"Thank you for your patience, Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice projecting a smooth, calming balm. "I've just pulled up your account."
'Another one. Always another one.'
The man on the line grumbled, launching back into his complaint about car insurance premiums, his tone suggesting a grand corporate conspiracy aimed directly at his wallet. I let him vent, my mind drifting. I navigated my old friend– the customer database– with practiced ease, my fingers flying across the keyboard on autopilot.
'Okay. Right. Blah blah blah. Read the fine print.'
"—it's just plain robbery!" he finished, his voice cracking with frustration.
"I see here that the rate adjustment was due to a standard annual reassessment for your vehicle's model," I recited from the script burnt into my memory. "However, it also looks like you've been a loyal customer for over five years with a perfect driving record."
Internally, I was flatlining. Numb. Each customer treated as just another box to check, service to perform. Same dick, different condom.
But I kept with it.
"Given your excellent history with us," I continued, cajoling, "I believe I can get a one-time 'Loyalty Credit' applied to your account, which should offset the majority of this year's increase. How does that sound?"
There was a pause. The anger on the other end of the line deflated, replaced by a surprised, mollified tone. "Oh. Well… yeah, that would be… that would be great, actually."
"Excellent. Please hold one moment while I process that for you."
I clicked the hold button and leaned back, the squeak of my chair lost in the murmur of office-speak. Around me, the hive hummed. The mellow and sweet voice of the woman in the next cubicle cooed at an angry client. Across the aisle, a man was laughing exaggeratedly at something his own caller had said. The endless arguments, the groveling, the barely-concealed contempt—it was a suffocating wave of noise threatening to pull me under. I worked to keep my head above it, to keep from drowning in this place, in this despised existence. I finalized the credit, spoke the required closing pleasantries to a now-delighted Mr. Henderson, and ended the call.
For a single, blessed second, my cubicle was silent.
Then, a beep in my ear. The next call. I took a breath, the practiced smile locking back into place as I answered.
11:30 AM. I was in the employee breakroom, a dilapidated space fittingly in theme with the rest of this building's environment. I was folded over a cheap, laminate table, the surface cool against my forehead. A half-eaten, pre-packaged salad I'd brought for lunch sat forgotten beside my elbow.
'Gawd… What is my life?'
I was being overly dramatic… or was I? My head was scrambled. The list of calls I had yet to take had somehow grown, seemingly multiplying every hour. The queue was a relentless, scrolling list of names and problems that I was supposed to care about, or solve, or soothe… shit along those lines. I felt like a human shock absorber, taking all the jolts and frustrations of strangers until I was worn down to nothing.
My head was buried in my arms, a futile attempt to block out the world. But I could still hear them. The cackle and hiss of gossip from the corner of the room. It was Carol and Brenda, two of the call center's lifers, women who had been there since the carpet was new. Their voices were low, conspiratorial whispers punctuated by sharp, joyless laughter. I wasn't interested in the subject—someone's failed diet, or a manager's questionable weekend choices; ya know, the usual—and I wasn't much of a gossiper. The whole practice felt slimy, a cheap way to feel better about your own miserable lot.
It made my stomach churn, the petty viciousness of it all.
And yet, as I listened, a different, more disgusting feeling began to curdle beneath my annoyance. It was jealousy. Envy. A hot, ugly pang of it that made me press my face harder into the table. It wasn't that I wanted to join in their mean-spirited chatter. Gawd, no. But they were a 'we.' They had their corner, their shared coffee, their toxic little bond birthed from mutual boredom and resentment. They had someone to whisper to.
Me?
I had no one.
Here, in this building where I spent forty hours a week, I was… a fucking. Loner. I arrived, I plugged in, I spoke to the npc's on the phone, and I left. The older women viewed me with suspicion, the few other young people were transient, already looking for their next stepping stone. I was just… here. Damn near a ghost, acknowledged when someone needed something, or when I wasn't fulfilling expectations.
The irony was disgustingly bitter– I was feeling something lodging in my throat, trying to choke me… even though I was already choking up.
The lifer pair were still engaging in something ugly, something destructive to another person's reputation. But in their shared negativity, they had found a connection. And I, who originally just wanted to be left alone, suddenly felt the crushing weight of that wish being granted. I missed the very idea of having someone to complain to, someone who would understand the unique misery of this place without needing a full explanation. Someone who wasn't a stranger on the other end of a phone line.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd shared a genuine moment, even a negative one, with another person in this room. Actually… I know that's never happened. My jealousy wasn't derived from their gossip; it was for the simple, damning fact that it couldn't be me, talking with a friend about– I don't eff-ing know. Anything.
'Please.'
The jealousy felt burning, igniting a flash of self-disgust so hot it made me want to move; to run from this damned place.
I shot up from my chair, the plastic legs scraping harshly against the floor. The abrupt motion drew a quick, irritated glance from Carol and Brenda, the sources of my envy, but I didn't care. I was a ghost to them anyway.
"I need to get out of here," I muttered to the empty chair, my voice a low, rough audible meant for only me to hear. I snatched my wallet and keys from the table, leaving the sad-looking salad to its fate. "Coffee. I need coffee."
The coffee shop was cacophonous. The sharp clatter of ceramic mugs, the violent hiss of the espresso machine, the layered chatter of a dozen overlapping conversations—it was a world away from the droning, soul-leaching hum of the call center. I stood in a line that snaked almost to the door, perusing my everyday social media posts and happenings of the world to distract me from the crushing expectation of having to go back to work.
While I didn't miss the eerie, steady murmur of my workplace, this type of environment wasn't much of an improvement. The frantic energy of the mid-noon rush grated my nerves. I still wasn't much of a morning person, not even after years of forcing myself into this forsaken routine. But at least this chaos was honest. It wasn't the feigned concern of customer service; it was the simple, frantic need for caffeine. A need I shared. It was the only way I'd feel remotely human for the rest of my shift.
Finally, the line lurched forward. I was next. Or, I should have been. The person at the front wasn't moving, their voice growing louder by the second. An annoyed sigh escaped my lips as I glanced up from my phone, my thumb hovering over a picture of someone's happy b-day post.
My ears immediately locked onto the conflict. A woman, probably in her late fifties and draped in an outfit that was trying too hard to look expensive, was leaning over the counter, her voice oozing with condescension. Pinned by her glare was a young girl, a teenager in a flour-dusted apron who looked no older than seventeen. She had the wide, terrified look of a deer caught in headlights.
On the gleaming stainless-steel counter between them was the source of the commotion: a small, dark puddle forming, still dripping out a toppled coffee cup. A few errant brown droplets had splattered onto a cheap-looking faux-leather purse that sat beside it. It was the kind of purse you'd find in a clearance bin, yet the woman spoke as if it were a priceless artifact.
"This is completely unacceptable," the woman hissed, tapping a perfectly manicured nail right next to the stain. "Do you have any idea how unprofessional this is? I expect a certain level of competence when I pay seven DOLLARS for a latte."
The young barista was visibly trembling. "Ma'am, I-I am so, so sorry. It was an accident. I can get you a new one, and we can try to clean that for you right away—"
"Uh– CLEAN IT?" the woman scoffed, her voice rising in volume. "This is ruined! I want to speak to your manager. Now. Clearly, you are not equipped to handle this."
The girl flinched hard, face reddening fast; her eyes already glossy. I watched, a familiar, ugly feeling coiling in my gut. I'd heard this tone a thousand times on the phone. It was the sound of someone with a little bit of power deciding to crush someone with none, all for their fleeting satisfaction. And the sight of this poor girl, so clearly out of her depth and on the verge of tears, made something in my chest tighten with a fury that was all too familiar.
Because, in the trembling barista, I saw a ghost of myself – not just the me of the past, the one who was pushed and pulled and berated by my parents until I felt directionless– but the me Now. A young, volatile woman trapped under the thumb of a job I hated, a life I hadn't chosen. The coffee shop was just a different stage; the angry customer just a different kind of supervisor, but the script was the same: a young woman being made to feel all kinds of small, incompetent, and worthless. A puppet being twiddled between the thumbs of someone who thought themselves more important, simply because they could. And because of what? A few drops of fucking coffee on a cheap purse.
The injustice of it, the sheer, petty cruelty, grinded my gears. And for the first time since I'd clocked in, my mind wasn't on the call queue, the stale air of the office, or my own quiet misery.
For the first time all day, I remembered the conversation from the night before.
I remembered the swirling, crimson eyes in conjunction with the surprisingly calm voice of a man calling himself Godspeed. I remembered his challenge, the quiet, dismissive way he'd said, "I know you're not being serious," when I'd sarcastically asked him to make me stronger. His words echoed in my memory, sharp and clear.
"You don't think I could go through with some basic training in a video game?"
"I don't believe in you."
He had seen my apathy, my exhaustion, and mistaken it for a lack of will. But this—this feeling bubbling in my chest now: hot and fierce, flaring up like never before—there was no way you could call this apathy.
My body moved in auto-pilot, stepping forward and tapping the woman on the shoulder.
"Ma'am," I said. My voice was steady, calmed, but laced with an edge of hardened steel I had been forced to forge in the fires of customer service. "What's the hold up?"
The woman spun around, her face a mask of outrage as if I had just slapped her. "Excuse me? Are you BLIND? Can you not see the obvious? This sheer incompetence I have to deal with from these… pathetic employees of this 'basic' coffee shop."
I couldn't let myself flinch. Instead, I let my eyes travel slowly from the woman's expensive-looking shoes up to her meticulously coiffed hair, and then back down again. It was a deliberately dismissive, deeply judgy appraisal. That look, more than any words, sent an obvious message.
"What are you looking at?" the woman snapped, her voice rising. "What is all this judgmental energy I'm getting from you?"
"Ma'am, listen," I began, my tone flat and devoid of any retail-friendly warmth. "That," I gesture vaguely at her oh-so dirtied purse, "Is a simple coffee stain. You can probably get this out with an hour of work, a five-dollar bottle of stain remover, and a washing machine, if even that. And yes, you CAN toss that bag in the washer. I've seen that exact bag in a dozen discount stores; it's not exactly high-class." My voice began to rise, the restraint I had maintained all day finally cracking apart. "You can toss your bag, you can toss your outfit, you can even toss your shoes in there. And while you're at it," I leaned in slightly, "you can toss yourself in and wash that foul mouth of yours."
The woman's jaw dropped, her face turning a blotchy, furious red. She was ready to let it rip. But before she could launch into her next tirade, a loud, exasperated voice cut through the air from behind me.
"Excuse me!" a man boomed. "I want my coffee! What the hell are you holding up the line for?"
The united glare of both me and the older woman was enough to make him take a step back, but the spell was broken. The confrontation fizzled. With a final, venomous look at me and a huff of disgust, the woman snatched her purse off the counter.
"This is ridiculous. I'm reporting all of you," she spat, before storming out, the little bell on the door chiming mockingly behind her.
As she left, I subtly raised my hand as if to scratch my eyebrow, specifically extending my middle finger for that good scratch.
I turned my attention back to the counter. The young barista was still trembling, her face pale with cold sweat pouring furiously down her face, as she fumbled with a cleaning rag.
"Hey," I said, my voice softening. I slid my phone across the counter, showing the mobile order I'd placed ten minutes ago. "My order. Sophia Martin."
The employee jumped, her eyes wide. "Oh! Y-yes, right away, I'm so sorry for the—"
"Listen," I said, cutting through the stammering. I held up a hand, and for a moment, the girl froze. "Take a moment. Clean up. I'll wait."
"OK! I don't got time for this," the big man from before grunted loudly, stepping forward to loom over my shoulder. I didn't speak; I just fixed him with a sharp glare from below, pressed a finger to my lips, and then drew it slowly across my throat. He recoiled, blinking in confusion and looking at me like I had grown a second head, but his mouth snapped shut. Satisfied the threat had landed, I turned back to the counter.
The girl stared at me, a look of profound, surprised gratitude washing over her features. She nodded, her movements quick and jerky, and immediately got to work wiping down the counter, her hands still shaking slightly. I watched her, the adrenaline of the confrontation slowly draining away, leaving a strange, quiet sense of satisfaction in its wake.
As the young barista worked, her hands gaining steadiness with each wipe of the cloth, I leaned against the counter, scrolling idly through my phone. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a low, simmering hum of satisfaction.
Way to go me, I thought, a sly grin I couldn't suppress touching my lips. Sticking it to the man. And, in this case, that butt-ugly woman.
The thought was petty, but it felt good. A small, sharp victory in a day that was hellbent on keeping me down. I glanced at the top corner of my phone. The digital display glowed in the top left corner: 11:55 AM.
The cheeky grin on my face immediately broke. Five minutes. I had five minutes until my lunch break was officially over. The math was simple and damning: the coffee shop was a ten-minute power-walk from my office building.
Just then, the barista slid a steaming cup onto the counter. "Here you go, S-Sophia," she said, her voice still a little shaky, but her eyes full of gratitude. "Midnight blend, p-plus a shot of espresso."
Before the girl could get another consonant out, I grabbed the cup. "Thanks," I said, the word a clipped afterthought as I spun on my heel and bolted for the door, the hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Later that afternoon, the clock finally released me. I trudged out of the office building, looking like the same mess I always did after a shift—hair slightly askew, the remnant of my customer-service smile replaced by the scornful pout my face was practically born with. But internally… I didn't feel like a complete mess. The usual post-work haze of exhaustion had been burned away and replaced by a feeling… I thought I had forgotten. One that I had left behind in college.
The anger from the coffee shop hadn't faded. Instead, It had settled deep in me, no longer a scattered, helpless frustration at the world. It was focused. Centralized. A weapon. An anger that felt, bizarrely, almost positive. It was the anger of someone who had been pushed too far, who had spent too much of her life swallowing insults and taking shit, and it was finally giving me the fuel to push back.
I stepped into the glass-walled elevator, the doors hissing shut behind me. As the box began its descent, my eyes caught on a shimmering holographic billboard strewn over the building across the street. It depicted a sprawling, impossible landscape of floating islands and crystalline trees, a knight in glowing armor standing defiantly on a cliff's edge.
It was an ad for Virtuosa Valoria.
Across the bottom, the game's promotional slogan scrolled in elegant, ethereal script, the same words that had echoed in my mind with such bitter irony just the day before.
V.V. — Earn. Your. Existence.
I stared at it, the image of the defiant knight blurring with the memory of a scared girl behind a coffee counter.
My anger coiled tighter, becoming something else. A decision.
I couldn't believe I was thinking it. Couldn't believe that after everything, this was where my newfound resolve was leading me. But as the elevator doors opened, I knew it was the truth.
This damned video game might be my first real step to actually doing something for myself.