Gary Miller lived his life inside a grid.
To the casual observer, Gary was a thirty-four-year-old Junior Associate Vice Director of Actuarial Risk at Sterling, Sterling & Stone, a man of average height, average build, and a complexion that could best be described as "fluorescent office beige." He wore grey suits that were slightly too large in the shoulders and drove a sedan with a five-star safety rating and zero horsepower.
But inside Gary's head, the world was a cascading waterfall of data. It was a matrix of probability, consequence, and variable mitigation. He did not see a sidewalk; he saw a slip-and-fall trajectory calculated against the friction coefficient of the pavement (0.6 dry, 0.2 wet). He did not see a sandwich shop; he saw a Venn diagram of Salmonella risk versus caloric intake necessity.
He called it "The Spreadsheet."
The Spreadsheet was not a metaphor. It was a living, breathing hallucination that superimposed itself over his reality. Green cells meant safety. Red cells meant danger. Yellow cells meant "variable unknown," which, to Gary, was worse than danger. Danger could be mitigated. Unknowns were the stuff of nightmares.
Today, December 22nd, the Spreadsheet was screaming.
It wasn't the market volatility. It wasn't the rumored layoffs in the Q4 forecast. It was something far more terrifying.
Event: The Annual Sterling, Sterling & Stone Holiday Gala.
Location: The Penthouse Suite.
Attendance: Mandatory.
Risk Level: Catastrophic.
Gary sat in his cubicle, which was located in the deepest recess of the accounting department, a zone known colloquially as "The Silencer." The air here was still and smelled faintly of ozone and despair. Gary was staring at his computer monitor, but he wasn't looking at the quarterly projections. He was looking at the company-wide email invitation that felt less like a party summon and more like a subpoena.
He adjusted his glasses. He tapped his finger on the desk in a rhythm of 4/4 time.
Option A: Fake an illness.
Probability of Success: 12%. The HR department required a doctor's note for absences on "Mandatory Culture Days," and Gary's doctor was currently in the Bahamas.
Consequence: Flagged as "Not a Team Player." First step toward termination.
Option B: Attend, hide in the bathroom, leave early.
Probability of Success: 45%.
Consequence: High risk of encountering a senior partner at the urinal. Social interaction in a restroom setting carried a "Cringe Factor" of 9.8/10.
Option C: The "Tactical Ghost" Maneuver.
Strategy: Arrive late. Secure a beverage (prop). Complete two laps of the perimeter. Make eye contact with exactly one (1) person of managerial status. Fade into the background. Exit.
Probability of Success: 88%.
Risk: Moderate.
Gary exhaled. Option C it was.
He stood up. The office was largely empty; most of the junior staff had already migrated upstairs to the penthouse, eager for the free shrimp and the chance to rub elbows with the executives who usually pretended they didn't exist. Gary was employing the "Late Arrival Offset." By arriving forty-five minutes after the start time, he reduced his exposure to the variable environment by approximately 22%.
He reached for his coat.
It was a monstrosity of a garment. Gary called it the Leviathan. It was an Arctic-grade parka, purchased during a moment of panic when he read an article about the increasing frequency of "Polar Vortex" weather patterns. It was designed for scientists in Antarctica. It had fourteen pockets, a lined hood that could accommodate a space helmet, and enough down insulation to survive a nuclear winter.
Gary put it on. The zipper made a sound like a chainsaw starting up. He immediately began to sweat, but he didn't take it off. The Leviathan was his armor. In a world of variables, the coat was a constant.
He picked up his access badge. He checked his reflection in the darkened monitor. A pale, terrified man looked back.
"Variable mitigation," Gary whispered to his reflection. "In and out. Invisible."
He walked toward the elevators. The hallway lights flickered. As he passed the breakroom, the motion sensor failed to detect him. The lights went out, plunging him into darkness.
"Standard," Gary muttered.
He was 98% invisible. He had calculated this number after realizing that the automatic soap dispenser in the men's room worked for everyone except him. He existed in the blind spot of the universe. Usually, this was a comfort.
Tonight, it would be his downfall.
The elevator ride to the Penthouse was a vertical ascent into sensory hell.
Sterling, Sterling & Stone occupied the top ten floors of a monolithic skyscraper in the financial district. The Penthouse—Mr. Sterling's private domain and occasional party venue—was on the 50th floor. As the elevator rose, Gary felt the pressure change in his ears. He swallowed hard to pop them.
Ding.
The doors slid open.
The Spreadsheet flashed red. SENSORY OVERLOAD.
The noise hit him first—a wall of sound composed of clinking glass, braying laughter, and a jazz band playing a frantic, up-tempo version of "Jingle Bells" that sounded like the reindeer were having a seizure. Then came the smell: expensive perfume, stale canapés, and the underlying, metallic scent of ambition.
Gary stepped out of the elevator and immediately sidestepped to the left, putting his back against the wall. He needed to calibrate.
The theme was "Winter Wonderland," which meant the interior decorators had apparently decided to simulate a blizzard inside a billionaires' bunker. Fake snow drifted from the high vaulted ceilings. The pillars were wrapped in silver foil. The waitstaff were dressed as elves, though their grim expressions suggested they were elves who had been conscripted into a penal battalion.
Gary scanned the room.
Threat Assessment:
* Sector 1 (The Dance Floor): High density of intoxicated junior analysts. Avoid. High risk of forced dancing or spilled drinks.
* Sector 2 (The Buffet): Moderate density. Safe zone, but creates the "eating alone" stigma.
* Sector 3 (The Bar): High traffic, but necessary for the acquisition of the Prop (drink).
* Sector 4 (The VIP Area): The roped-off section where the Partners and Mr. Sterling congregated. The "Death Zone." Do not approach.
Gary pulled the Leviathan's collar up. He began his transit toward the bar.
He moved with the grace of a Roomba navigating a minefield. He dodged a swinging handbag. He ducked under a tray of champagne flutes. He apologized to a potted plant he bumped into.
"Sorry," Gary said. "Excuse me. Pardon."
No one heard him. No one saw him. A woman in a sequined dress looked directly at him and then walked through the space he was occupying, forcing Gary to flatten himself against a pillar.
He reached the bar. It was crowded. Men in five-thousand-dollar suits were shouting orders for scotch and martinis. Gary waited. He waited for three minutes. He waited for five. The bartender, a man with a handlebar mustache that looked sharp enough to pop a balloon, served everyone around Gary.
Gary cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"
The bartender looked over Gary's head at a tall man behind him. "What can I get you, sir?"
"Scotch," the tall man boomed, leaning over Gary.
Gary shrank. This was the 98% factor at work. He wasn't just ignored; he was physically discounted by the optical nerves of others.
"Um," Gary said, louder this time. "I would like a club soda, please."
The bartender finally glanced down. He looked at Gary with a mixture of confusion and pity, as if he couldn't understand how someone wearing an Arctic parka indoors had materialized in front of him.
"We're out of soda," the bartender grunted. He reached for a ladle and dipped it into a massive crystal bowl sitting on the counter. The liquid inside was a vibrant, radioactive crimson. "House Punch. Take it or leave it."
He shoved a glass into Gary's hand.
Gary looked at the liquid. It was viscous. It smelled of fruit punch and lighter fluid.
Analysis:
* Unknown Alcohol Content.
* Sugar Content: Diabetes-inducing.
* Risk: High.
"Thank you," Gary whispered.
He retreated from the bar, clutching the red sludge. He needed to find a corner. He needed to stand still for twenty minutes, sip this poison, and then leave.
He found a spot near a towering ice sculpture of a dollar sign. He stood there, holding his drink like a shield.
"Gary! The G-Man! The Spreadsheet Warrior!"
Gary flinched. The voice was loud, electronic, and terrifyingly cheerful.
He turned. Standing there was Kevin from IT.
Kevin was the antithesis of Gary. Where Gary was beige and silent, Kevin was neon and loud. He was wearing a sweater that was currently assaulting Gary's retinas—it featured a knitted Santa Claus doing a keg stand, and it was illuminated by actual blinking LED lights interwoven into the fabric. A battery pack hummed faintly at Kevin's hip.
"Hello, Kevin," Gary said. "Your sweater is... a fire hazard."
"Safety third, Gary! Safety third!" Kevin roared, slapping Gary on the back. The force of the slap nearly knocked Gary into the ice sculpture. "Merry Christmas! Or, you know, Happy Fiscal Year End!"
Kevin was the only person at Sterling, Sterling & Stone who knew Gary's name. This was mostly because Gary was the only person in the company who properly filled out Ticket Request Form 44-B before asking for a password reset. To Kevin, this made Gary a saint.
"How's the party treating you?" Kevin shouted over the jazz band. "Have you seen the Big Man yet?"
"Mr. Sterling?" Gary adjusted his glasses. "No. I am maintaining a strict distance from the Executive Wing. My calculations suggest that being noticed by Mr. Sterling increases the risk of unemployment by 400%."
Kevin laughed. He leaned in, his breath smelling of pepperoni rolls and gin. "You might be right, man. The word from the server room is that Sterling is cracking up."
Gary stiffened. "Cracking up? Define."
"Paranoia," Kevin whispered, his eyes wide. "Full-blown tin-foil hat stuff. He had us sweep his office for bugs three times last week. He thinks the cleaners are spies for the competition. He fired his assistant yesterday because she bought the wrong brand of sparkling water. He said it was 'an act of sabotage.'"
Gary looked at his red punch. "That sounds... unstable."
"He's losing it," Kevin agreed. "He's got some weird obsession with curses now. Says the company is 'spiritually compromised.' I think he just needs a vacation. Or a sedative. Anyway!" Kevin clinked his beer bottle against Gary's punch glass. "Drink up, Gary! Numb the pain! The probability of a hangover is high, but the probability of caring is zero!"
Kevin winked, his LEDs flashing in a seizure-inducing pattern, and vanished into the crowd.
Gary was alone again.
Sterling is cracking up.
The information sat uneasily in Gary's stomach. If the CEO was unstable, the variables increased exponentially. Layoffs. Restructuring. Random firing squads.
Gary looked at the red punch.
Risk Mitigation Strategy: Reduce anxiety levels immediately.
He took a sip.
It was sweet. Cloyingly sweet. It tasted like cherry syrup masking the distinct burn of extremely cheap rum.
He took another sip.
The Spreadsheet flickered.
Gary wasn't a drinker. His metabolism was calibrated for green tea and filtered water. The alcohol hit his bloodstream with the efficiency of a high-speed train.
Ten minutes passed.
Gary had finished the glass.
Status Report:
* Vision: Slightly blurred at the edges.
* Anxiety: Decreasing. The red cells on the Spreadsheet were turning a soft, soothing pink.
* Confidence: Uncharacteristically present.
"I need a refill," Gary said to the ice sculpture.
He went back to the bar. The bartender ignored him again, but this time, Gary didn't care. He waited. He hummed along to the jazz. When the bartender finally looked at him, Gary pointed to the punch bowl.
"Hit me," Gary said.
He drank the second glass faster than the first.
By 8:30 PM, the Leviathan felt less like a coat and more like a warm hug. Gary was sweating, but he felt invincible. The "Late Arrival Offset" was over. He should leave. The plan said leave.
But the Spreadsheet was gone.
In its place was a warm, fuzzy haze. The sharp lines of the grid had dissolved. The variables didn't matter anymore.
"I should... explore," Gary thought. "Network. I am a team player."
He wandered away from the party noise. He found himself drifting toward the large oak doors at the far end of the hall. The sign said EXECUTIVE SUITE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
"I am personnel," Gary reasoned, swaying slightly. "And I am authorized... by the spirit of Christmas."
He pushed the doors open.
The Executive Wing was a different world. The noise of the party cut out instantly, replaced by the hushed, reverent silence of serious wealth. The carpet here was thicker. The air smelled of mahogany and old leather.
Gary walked down the hallway. He trailed his hand along the wall, feeling the texture of the silk wallpaper.
"Nice," he muttered. "Very fiscal."
He reached the end of the hall. The double doors to Mr. Sterling's private office were slightly ajar.
Gary stopped. He knew he shouldn't go in. This was the Forbidden Zone. This was the heart of the volcano.
But the punch was steering the ship now.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The office was a cavern. It was dimly lit by the glow of the city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. A fire crackled in a massive stone hearth. The furniture was dark, imposing, and terrified Gary just by looking at it.
And there, in the center of the room, was the desk.
It was the size of a billiard table.
Gary walked toward it. He felt like an intruder in a giant's castle. He placed his empty punch glass on the edge of the desk—directly on top of a quarterly report—and leaned forward.
Something was sitting on the center of the desk.
Gary squinted. He took off his glasses, wiped them on the sleeve of the Leviathan, and put them back on.
He stared.
It was a statue. A ceramic dog. A pug, to be specific.
It was, without a doubt, the single ugliest object Gary had ever seen in his entire life.
It stood about two feet high. It was painted a sickly, glistening beige that looked like wet dough. Its mouth was frozen in a rictus of terror, revealing jagged, uneven teeth. But the eyes...
The eyes were the worst part. They were made of glass, bulging out of the ceramic skull. They were bloodshot. Not just red-rimmed, but painted with intricate, winding capillaries of bright crimson. The pupils were dilated and misaligned. One looked at Gary; the other looked at the ceiling, as if pleading for divine intervention.
It was grotesque. It was tacky. It was a crime against aesthetics.
And Gary loved it immediately.
He swayed, gripping the edge of the desk. He felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion. It wasn't disgust. It was recognition.
"Hey there, buddy," Gary whispered.
The pug stared back, terrified and silent.
"You look... you look like I feel," Gary said.
The alcohol-fueled empathy circuits in his brain were firing rapidly. He looked at the pug and saw himself. He saw a creature that was frozen in a state of perpetual panic. He saw a creature that was ugly, awkward, and completely out of place in this sleek, expensive office.
"He keeps you here?" Gary asked the statue. "In the dark? While everyone parties?"
The pug didn't answer, but its bloodshot eyes seemed to scream YES.
Gary looked around the office. It was cold. It was sterile. It was a place of judgment and spreadsheets.
"It's not right," Gary muttered. He felt a tear prick the corner of his eye. "You're sad. You're the Saddest Sergeant."
He reached out and touched the cold ceramic head.
"You need a friend," Gary said. "You need... you need to go home."
Risk Assessment:
* Action: Stealing the CEO's property.
* Risk: Infinite.
* Logic: Error. Logic not found. Empathy Override engaged.
Gary looked at his coat. The Leviathan.
"I have the cargo space," he whispered.
He looked at the door. No one was coming. The party was a distant hum.
Gary made a decision. It was the first impulsive decision he had made since 1998 when he tried to jump off a swing mid-arc and broke his collarbone.
He unzipped the Leviathan.
"Come here," he grunted.
He grabbed the pug. It was heavy—solid ceramic, easily twenty-five pounds. Gary heaved it up. He hugged it against his chest. The cold ceramic pressed against his shirt. The bulging glass eyes dug into his ribs.
He zipped the coat up.
It was a tight squeeze. Gary now looked like he was in the third trimester of a very confused pregnancy. The statue created a massive, hard lump in his midsection. He could barely zip the coat up to his neck.
He patted the lump.
"Shh," he whispered. "We're busting you out."
He turned to leave.
Suddenly, the door to the office pushed open further.
Gary froze. He stopped breathing.
A shadow fell across the carpet.
"Who's in here?"
The voice was unmistakable. It was deep, gravelly, and sounded like tectonic plates grinding together.
Sterling.
Gary's heart hammered against the ceramic pug. The pug's ear dug into his sternum.
Gary didn't think. He didn't calculate. He acted on pure animal instinct.
He dove.
He threw himself behind a large leather armchair in the corner of the room, landing with a muffled thump. He curled into a ball, clutching his ceramic belly.
Mr. Arthur Sterling walked into the room.
From his vantage point on the floor, Gary could only see shoes. Expensive, patent leather shoes.
Sterling walked to the desk. He stopped.
Silence.
The silence stretched for ten seconds. It was agonizing.
Then, a sound.
Sterling gasped. It wasn't a gasp of anger. It was a gasp of... horror?
"Gone," Sterling whispered.
Gary trembled.
"It's gone," Sterling said again, his voice rising. "The beast... it's gone."
Gary heard the sound of glass clinking. Sterling was pouring a drink. His hands must have been shaking; the bottle rattled against the tumbler.
"Is it a sign?" Sterling muttered to himself. "Has the curse lifted? Or is it... hiding?"
Sterling paced the room. He walked right past the armchair where Gary was hiding. Gary could smell the man's cologne—sandalwood and fear.
"I won't be fooled," Sterling hissed. "It's a trick. It's always a trick."
Sterling slammed his glass down on the desk.
"SECURITY!" he roared.
Gary squeezed his eyes shut. This is it. I'm dead. I'm going to prison. I'll be the guy who went to jail for a ceramic dog.
"I want a sweep!" Sterling yelled into his phone. "Someone was in here! The asset is missing! Lock the elevators! Check the cameras!"
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Gary lay there for a full minute, listening to the pounding of his own heart.
Lock the elevators.
He was trapped.
Gary scrambled to his feet. The weight of the pug threw his center of gravity off, and he nearly tipped over. He had to widen his stance to stay upright.
"Okay," Gary panted. "Okay. Variables changed. Elevators are Red Zone. We need an alternative route."
His eyes darted around the room.
The window? No.
The vent? Too small.
The door? Too risky.
Wait. The service exit.
Every floor had a catering service corridor that bypassed the main elevators. It led to the freight elevator and the fire stairs.
Gary waddled to the door. He peeked out. The hallway was empty. Sterling had gone towards the party to scream at people.
Gary bolted.
He ran—a shuffling, top-heavy run that resembled a penguin fleeing a seal—down the hallway. He ignored the main elevators. He found the door marked STAFF ONLY.
He burst through it.
Concrete walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of garbage bags.
He found the stairwell door. He shoved it open.
"Going down," Gary wheezed. "Fifty floors. We can do this."
The descent was a blur of misery.
By floor 40, the alcohol buzz was beginning to fade, replaced by the early warning signs of physical exhaustion.
By floor 30, the pug had shifted inside the coat. Its snout was now bruising Gary's left nipple.
By floor 20, Gary's legs were shaking so violently he had to grip the railing with both hands.
"Just a little further, Sergeant," Gary gasped, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Freedom is close."
He passed a couple of smokers hiding in the stairwell on the 15th floor. They looked at the sweating, red-faced man in the gigantic coat, clutching his stomach.
"Don't eat the shrimp," Gary warned them breathlessly as he stumbled past.
He hit the ground floor.
He pushed the fire door open and spilled out into the back alley behind the skyscraper.
The cold air hit him like a physical blow. It was snowing. Big, wet flakes that stuck to his glasses.
Gary fell against a dumpster, gasping for air. He checked his surroundings. No security. No police. Just the hum of the city and the smell of wet asphalt.
He had done it.
He began the walk home.
It was ten blocks to his apartment. The walk usually took fifteen minutes. Tonight, with twenty-five pounds of stolen ceramic pressed against his diaphragm, it took forty.
He trudged through the slush. He ignored the strange looks from passersby who wondered why a man was hugging himself so tightly. He kept his head down.
Finally, he reached his building. The "Garden View Apartments" (which viewed a brick wall and a dumpster).
He climbed the three flights of stairs to Unit 3B. His keys rattled in his shaking hands. He unlocked the door.
He stumbled inside.
Gary didn't turn on the lights. He couldn't. He didn't have the energy.
He walked to the center of his living room and unzipped the Leviathan.
The statue tumbled out.
It hit the cheap rug with a dull, heavy thud.
Gary collapsed onto his sofa. He didn't take off his coat. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.
The room spun gently. The after-effects of the punch were settling into a dull, rhythmic headache.
"We made it," Gary whispered.
He rolled onto his side and looked down at the floor.
In the shadows, the pug sat there.
A stray beam of light from the streetlamp outside cut across the room, illuminating the statue.
The red, bloodshot eyes seemed to glow in the dark. The jagged teeth looked sharper than they had in the office. The expression of terror on the dog's face seemed less like "sadness" now and more like a warning.
Gary blinked.
"You're safe now," Gary slurred. "I saved you."
The pug stared back. It looked heavy. It looked permanent.
Gary's eyelids drooped. The adrenaline crash was absolute. He couldn't think about the consequences. He couldn't think about the Spreadsheet. He couldn't think about Sterling.
He closed his eyes.
"Goodnight, Sergeant," he mumbled.
Gary Miller fell asleep in his coat, on his sofa, unaware that he had just ruined his life.
END OF CHAPTER 1