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Chase stumbled into his penthouse, every inch of him drained from the week’s relentless demands. He couldn’t believe it—his evening plans had been scrapped because the fucking higher-ups had dumped two more sales proposals on his desk, due by the end of the day. As if that wasn’t enough, they’d scheduled a performance review at 8 pm. He could feel the beginnings of a headache as the words of his supervisor echoed in his mind.
"Underperforming, difficult, lacking in quality—" The words pounded harshly in Chase’s skull. 'So, this is how they see me', he thought bitterly. Just a CEO’s son, unworthy and expendable.
“—Your father’s position can’t save you forever.” That stung. Chase’s frustration flared.
A low growl rumbled in his throat. How dare they. How dare he. The blond knew in the back of his mind, though—it wasn’t Norman; it was the shareholders. They hated him. Hated his family. Hated his father. The ruthless bastard who drained every last ounce of financial worth out of them in the same way he drained his employees. All to his own benefit. Overtime was common and expected, and work-life balance was almost nonexistent, but turnover was low due to the fear of something far more permanent happening. It was the cost of building a company in this cutthroat business. At least, that’s what Chase had always been told.
And now the young man had to pay the price for his father's sins.
He clenched his jaw, feeling the mix of anger and resignation simmering beneath his skin. He had the name, the legacy, the penthouse with a view that screamed privilege, but none of that shielded him from their disdain. They could hate him all they wanted; he was still the CEO’s son. Untouchable, in a way that infuriated them—and yet here he was—exhausted and cornered, used just like any other cog in the machine.
There was nothing he could do about it. Fucking hell. He needed a drink.
Heading over to his alcohol cabinet, he scanned his choices, his eyes finally resting on a top-shelf whiskey. His hand reached out, trembling from exhaustion, but he steadied it with a firm grip on the neck of the bottle.
The blond pulled it out and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and glancing at the fridge. He froze, just staring at the appliance as his mind swam. "Neat", he mumbled to himself; he needed the whiskey neat, right now.
Pouring a generous amount Chase walked out of the kitchen, his drink and the bottle in hand. He retreated to the living room, turning on the radio before sinking into his armchair. The heavy sigh that escaped him did nothing to ease the tumultuous thoughts churning in his head.
The "payments" for his father's sins, it had all started innocuously enough—extra tasks here and there, an extra hour at work, then two. However, it didn't take long to escalate. Suddenly, he was stuck in the office until the sun went down three or four days a week. Then came the constant berating from his superiors for issues he had no part in, followed by punishments for those same things.
One of those punishments was his enrollment in the “interviewing process.” That’s when the blond realized what the higher-ups really thought of him.
After some time his hazel eyes flicked to the clock. Only 30 minutes had passed, and he was already on his third drink. The whiskey burned on its way down, but it did little to dull the sting of their contempt. Sure, they hated him—despised him even—but they couldn’t break him. Not completely. They didn’t know him, didn’t see the part of him that carried this burden with a twisted sense of pride. They might hate Chase for being the CEO’s son, but it wasn’t his fault they couldn’t touch him. Fuck them.
But the resignation lingered, like an unwelcome guest who had made itself comfortable in his mind. No amount of liquor could chase that away. A fourth drink wouldn’t help on its own. He needed something to pair it with.
A cigarette. He needed a cigarette.
With a deft hand Chase quickly pulled one from the pack, flicking it up to his lips. He reached into his pocket, searching for his lighter.
Fuck, fuuuuck. The newbie still had it.
Chase sighed, dragging himself up from his seat. He could feel the alcohol taking its toll, loosening his body, making him more pliant and relaxed, but his mind was still a chaotic storm of mixed emotions.
Attempting to make those chaotic feelings seep out from his mind the blond walked back into his kitchen, approaching his high-tech, top-of-the-line gas stove. With a flick of the knob, the stove clicked to life, flames dancing up eagerly. Chase leaned in, taking a few inhales until the cigarette caught.
The flame was strong, the heat harsh against his face. But at this point, he’d faced so many fires—literal and metaphorical—that it barely registered...
The first interviewee—he thinks his name was Robert—had thrown his lighter to the ground the moment he saw Chase pulling out a cigarette. They both hadn’t realized how flammable the carpet was until it was too late.
The second—he was pretty sure it was Colin—had grabbed the lighter straight out of his hand, but his slippery fingers couldn’t hold on for long. The floor had gone up in flames in an instant.
By the fifth one, Chase had stopped caring about their names, opting to supply one of his own.
So many “newbies,” so many timelines, and in all of them, Chase was bound to die in some sort of fiery inferno. By default, fire just didn’t scare him anymore.
With their current “newbie”, they’d wrestled a bit, Chase playing his part. Honestly, he’d thought a man so much shorter—so much tinier—that he wouldn’t have the strength to disarm him.
Boy, was he wrong.
Another death, another punishment, and Chase was back to square one, yet again.
Yet, he could appreciate that about their newbie. The guy had some serious fight in him. His neck remembered that fact all too well.
Chase walked out to his balcony, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling up into the night air.
Chase’s thoughts flickered to their newest team member. Simon—that was his name. He had to remind himself of it because, against all odds, the little guy had made it through. It was rare for Norman to let anyone join the team without some sort of… “reconfiguration.” Every time that process happened, Chase felt a pang of internal dread. He’d seen many come and go, each one twisted and reshaped until they were barely recognizable. Those who survived the 9th floor without losing their minds were already few and far between. The blond had spent enough time with them to see the changes up close—he never bothered to remember their names, not out of cruelty, but because it was easier to forget.
Simon was different though. For once, he had made it through the gauntlet without becoming another puppet of their supervisor's design. The ravenette endured the tests and kept his identity intact, something Chase had once thought was impossible. Maybe it was the nature of the blond's own punishment—cruel and driven by envy—that had given the newbie this chance at a high price; still, in the end the interview wasn't just about survival. Everyone seemed to have a genuine respect for him. Simon was resourceful, smart, and had a no-nonsense attitude that the larger man couldn’t help but appreciate. Despite being overworked and perpetually tired, he excelled at his job with an understated charm.
If there was anyone Chase would have vouched for Norman to keep unchanged, it would have been Simon. But it seemed the achromatic man was already on board, considering the newbie had avoided the dreaded “reprogramming.” That realization sparked a small sense of accomplishment in Chase. Perhaps, just maybe, with the ravenette's success and Norman’s approval, he could start shedding his reputation as the “CEO’s son.” Maybe people would stop associating him so tightly with his father, see him for who he really was—a person trying to carve out his own path.
Of course, he knew better. Nothing would change overnight. His father’s iron grip would always be a shadow over him.
Chase’s hand trembled as he fumbled with his cigarette, the stress of the day catching up with him. With a resigned sigh, he stubbed out his second fix in the ashtray and retreated into his quarters. There was only one way to find release, to drown out the relentless pressure and frustration.
Opening a drawer, the blond faced his true vice—a white powder, glistening under the light. He’d become accustomed to this ritual before every interview, a bump to keep him focused, to stave off the exhaustion and despair, to keep him nonchalant. Tonight, he needed it more than ever. Without hesitation, he leaned in and took the line. As the drug coursed through his system, his heart raced and his senses sharpened.
Yes, yes, this was what he needed. His pupils dilated, and a rush of energy surged through him, pushing away the doubts and frustrations. That pure, white, crystalline confidence baby! The night ahead suddenly seemed manageable, if only for a moment.
This would be his easy way to get through the night, to forget about—
There was a knock on the door. There was a knock on the door. Fuck. Chase froze, the last of the drug's initial rush mingling with a sudden jolt of surprise. His heart skipped a beat at the feeling. Looking back the blond stared at the shadow moving in the doorway, realizing they weren’t going to just leave.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing mind, and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, he found himself face-to-face with Simon and, of course, Norman.
“Hey Chase.” Simon greeted with a polite smile that seemed so out of place right now. “We finished work and thought we'd see if you were awake while we were heading home. If you're free, we thought it’d be a good chance to unwind together, since you and I missed out on drinks tonight.”
Chase rapidly gathered his thoughts as he remembered that he’d been disappointed about not hanging out with his coworker. The fact that their supervisor was here too didn’t exactly ease the tension though. Norman’s own smile, as calm as ever, made the blond's nerves prickle. “We hope we’re not intruding. Mind if we come in~?” The man's tone was as smooth as always.
Chase tried to push down the effects of the cocaine with every ounce of willpower he had. “Y-Yeah…” He managed to say, forcing his voice to sound steady. “We can… hang out.”
The ravenette's appreciative look didn’t reveal any clue that something was amiss. Norman’s grin widened. “Excellent. Why don’t we watch something?” Chase could only nod, perhaps a little too vigorously, feeling the buzz tingling through him and the regret creeping in alongside it.
The shorter male elected himself to turn on the TV, leaving Chase and Norman in the entryway.
The two men stood in uneasy silence. Chase finally broke it. “Why are you here?”
The greyscale man chuckled, his ever-present smile firmly in place. “To check on you, of course. You seemed a bit distraught after our last review.”
The blond shot back quickly, the cocaine sharpening his edge. “Why would you care? You never do.”
Norman’s face took on an equally colder edge, but his tone remained the same. “Now, now, you don’t know that. I’m very attentive to my employees’ lives.”
Chase couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, for productivity’s sake.”
The bite back only caused Norman's face split to further, dark eyes now fully ice-cold. He leaned in, his voice dropping dangerously low. “And tell me, Chase, how is being high off your ass and dripping blood on your floor helping my productivity?”
Chase’s hand flew to his nose, and he pulled it away to reveal a bloody smear. Before he could react, His supervisor was holding out a crisp, white handkerchief. The blond stared at it, momentarily speechless and motionless.
Norman’s expression was stern, but there was a surprisingly comforting fairness in his demand. “Clean yourself up. You look disgusting.”
Chase took the handkerchief—admittedly conceding—and nodded, as he cleaned himself up with practiced ease right before Simon returned. The shorter male looked at both of them, his face lit up with a pleasant excitement. “Foxy Brown is on.”
The supervisor's gaze returned to Chase, and the latter fell into autopilot; he spoke in a slightly rushed tone, “Let’s go see it then. I don’t think I’ve ever watched it myself~” The blond said, his usual confidence shining, he walked off quickly, still under the haze of the white powder.
Watching him retreat, Simon and Norman exchanged glances. Norman’s grin didn’t waver as he broke the silence first. “You still game for the rest of the night, Simon? It seems as though we'll have to keep him company.”
The newbie's own smile was tired, matching the exhaustion that clung to him after the long hours. Unlike the blond, he wasn’t running on anything more than sheer willpower. “With a coffee or two, I’ll manage.”
The supervisor's look softened, but only a tad, a rare hint of genuine appreciation sneaking into his tone. “That’s all I could ask for. You do our company proud~”