The elevator rises smoothly, silently. My reflection stares back at me from the chrome walls—pale, tired, wearing two sweatshirts because I can't afford to fix my radiator. I look like someone who's about to make a series of very poor life choices.
The doors open.
The hallway is pristine. Polished black stone floors that look like they cost more per square foot than my entire apartment, recessed lighting that casts everything in a warm, expensive glow, and a faint scent of something herbal and vaguely medicinal. There's a reception desk at the end of the hall, staffed by a woman who looks like she stepped out of a luxury spa catalog. She's wearing all white, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, and she's typing on a tablet with the kind of calm efficiency that makes me feel even more out of place.
She looks up as I approach, her expression professionally pleasant.
"Ms. Beck?"
"That's me."
She smiles. It's polite, professional, and completely unreadable.
"Welcome to Apex Wellness. Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."
I sit in one of the chairs near the desk. They're the kind of chairs that cost more than my rent—low, modern, upholstered in soft gray fabric that probably requires professional cleaning. There's a glass coffee table with a stack of magazines that all have titles likeLuxury LivingandElite Wellness Quarterly. Idon't touch them. I'm pretty sure my hands are still sticky from the ramen.
The woman at the desk goes back to her tablet. The hallway is silent except for the faint hum of the building's ventilation system and the occasional soft beep from her screen.
I check my phone. 11:28 PM.
I'm two minutes early to an interview I'm ninety percent sure is going to end with me being murdered.
At exactly 11:30, a door opens at the far end of the hallway.
A man steps out. He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tailored black suit that probably costs more than my car. His expression is neutral, bordering on severe, the kind of face that suggests he's never smiled in his life and has no plans to start now. His hair is dark, neatly trimmed, and his eyes are sharp in a way that makes me think he's cataloging every detail about me in the three seconds it takes him to walk down the hall.
"Ms. Beck," he says. His voice is deep, clipped, professional. "Please follow me."
I stand. My legs feel like jelly, but I follow him down the hallway, past several closed doors with discreet nameplates, until we reach a conference room at the end.
The room is exactly what I expected: sleek, modern, minimalist. There's a long black table, several chairs that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and a wall of windows that overlooks the industrial district below. The city lights glitter in the distance, cold and indifferent.
The man gestures to a chair. "Please, sit."
I sit.
He sits across from me, folding his hands on the table. There's a tablet in front of him, and he taps it once, pulling up what I assume is my resume.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," he says. "I am Mr. Voss, the intake coordinator for Apex Wellness. I will be conducting your preliminary interview."
"Preliminary?" I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Yes. If you pass this stage, you will be scheduled for a practical assessment with one of our clients."
"Right. Okay."
He taps the tablet again, his movements precise and deliberate. "You have three years of experience in deep-tissue massage therapy. You are certified in trigger point therapy and sports massage. You have worked in both luxury spa environments and walk-in clinics."
"That's correct."
"And you are comfortable working with high-profile clientele?"
"Yes."
"Clientele who require extreme discretion?"
I hesitate. "Define 'extreme.'"
