Chapter Text
The frantic click and clacking of a mechanical keyboard was the only thing filling the dimly lit studio, a sharp sound that reverberated off the bare walls. Outside, the muffled roar of Zuzu City, the sirens, the tires on wet pavement, the distant shout of the metro, barely registered to the apartment’s resident. Arlo was a world away, trapped in the glow of dual monitors.
The desk was a graveyard of corporate demands. Stacks of printed posters, discarded color swatches, and thick brand-guideline binders created a claustrophobic fortress around Arlo.
They stared at the screen, their eyes heavy and glassed over. The whites of their eyes were a roadmap of broken red veins, reflecting the harsh, artificial blue light of the Joja-standard interface. Beneath the desk, Arlo’s thumb dug into the side of their index finger, picking at the raw, ragged skin/ It was a nervous habit that had left their hands as exhausted and bruised as their brain.
A notification pinged. The sound felt like a needle to the eardrum.
“Make it pop!”
The message on their phone was from Joseph, the Head Director of Marketing. It was 2:14 AM. Joseph was likely in a silk robe in a penthouse, but Arlo was just, staring at a tech campaign that felt as hollow as their stomach.
“Pop,” Arlo whispered, their voice raspy from hours of silence and too much caffeine. The word tasted like shit. They adjusted the saturation on a Joja-Phone graphic, the yellow tips of their messy wolf-cut falling into their eyes.
The words sat there on the desktop screen, a three-word death sentence to Arlo’s hope of sleep. Joseph didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t want a specific hex code or a shift in composition. He wanted a feeling Arlo didn't have the energy to manufacture.
Arlo’s hand moved back to the mouse, their fingers stiff. They adjusted the vibrance. Then the contrast. Then they spent forty minutes obsessing over a shado w on a Joja-Earbud that no one would ever look at for more than a second.
If I make it perfect, he won't call me tomorrow morning, Arlo told themselves, their internal "yapper" kicking into high gear. If I just solve this now, I’m a good person. I’m reliable. I’m the Senior Designer Arlo Bennett, not a failure.
They dragged a slider. The blue light flared.
5.20 AM
Arlo stumbled into the small, galley-style kitchen. They didn't turn on the overhead light. The flickering yellow bulb above the stove was enough to make their head throb.
In the dim glow, Arlo looked down at their hands. Their brown skin looked almost grey in the shadows, their knuckles prominent and bony. Their thumbs were a mess, the skin around the nails was raw and weeping where they had spent the last three hours picking it into oblivion.
They reached for the cupboard, their arm feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.
There was no "real" food. No leftovers. No energy to even imagine a stove being hot. Arlo’s hand closed around a cardboard box of generic cornflakes.
They didn't reach for a bowl. They didn't look for milk.
Arlo sat down on the cold wood vinyl floor they thrifted ages ago with Sasha, their back against the fridge, and pulled the box into their lap.
Arlo reached into the box with trembling, ashy fingers and shoved a handful of dry cereal into their mouth. The loud, jarring crunch echoed in the quiet kitchen, the only thing grounding them to a reality they desperately wanted to escape.
Looking around the apartment, all they could see were yellow orange gloom painting the barren pale walls a sickening sulfur, with no personality, other than just being a curdling afterthought.
The edge of the vinyl was actually peeling near the baseboard, a jagged little scar of grey, industrial concrete peeking through from underneath. It was a literal look at the foundation of their life, cold and unyielding. Arlo remembered the day they’d laid it down; they remembered Sasha’s laugh as they struggled with the adhesive, promising that this studio would be an "artist’s sanctuary."
Back then, they had celebrated on this very floor with a cheap bottle of wine and dreams that didn't involve corporate hex codes. However, the vinyl was just a thin, artificial skin stretched over a tomb.
Arlo took another handful of cereal, but the effort of chewing felt monumental. Their jaw ached. The sulfurous light above the stove flickered once, twice, casting long, sickly shadows that seemed to pulse against the barren walls.
They weren't an artist. They weren't a Senior Designer. They were just a biological extension of the Joja mainframe, sitting on a thrifted floor in a room that was slowly erasing them.
The hum of the refrigerator vibrated through Arlo's spine, a mechanical heartbeat that was steadier than their own. Their eyes, burnt raw by the blue light of the monitors, finally began to pull shut. The "Make it pop!" notification was still etched into their retinas, a ghost of a command glowing in the dark of their eyelids.
The box of cornflakes tilted slightly in their lap as their muscles went slack. Arlo didn't move to catch it. They didn't have the strength to crawl to the bed, nor the will to turn off the jaundiced light in the kitchen.
The sound of the city outside faded into a low, indistinct roar, and Arlo let go, slipping into a heavy, dreamless exhaustion.