From Apex Wellness Clinic.
Subject: Interview Scheduled – After-Hours Specialist Position
My stomach drops.
I open it.
Dear Ms. Beck,
Thank you for your application. We are pleased to invite you for an in-person interview to discuss the After-Hours Specialist position. Please arrive at the address below at 11:30 PM tonight. Bring your license and a form of identification. Parking is available in the private garage.
Address: 1447 Obsidian Place, Suite 12B
We look forward to meeting you.
– Apex Wellness Intake Coordinator
I read it twice.
Tonight. 11:30 PM.
It's currently 6:47 PM.
I have less than five hours to decide if I'm actually going to do this.
I spend the next three hours in a state of low-grade panic.
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 labeledDO NOT LOSEin 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 labeled12B.
I press it.
