The morning began like any other. The alarm clock rang at six. Rory, from her usual position on the adjacent pillow, grunted something unintelligible and covered her face with a corner of the sheet. Tamamo was already awake, sitting on the edge of the nightstand, her fox ears perked up, her tail neatly coiled around her legs.
"Good morning," she said in a low voice, so as not to wake the grumpy goddess.
"Good morning," I replied, rubbing my eyes.
The morning routine was the same as always. Instant coffee for me, a few drops in a saucer for Rory, green tea for Tamamo. Yesterday's bread, toasted. A quick check of my novel's stats—three new visits, no comments—and then it was time to pack the backpack.
Rory, still half-asleep, crawled to the edge of the bed and dropped into my hand with the confidence of someone who has made that journey hundreds of times.
"I hate Thursdays," she murmured as she settled into the front pocket of the backpack.
"It's Friday," said Tamamo from the table.
"I hate Fridays too. And Mondays. And every day that starts with a vowel."
"That's every day," observed Tamamo.
"Exactly."
The bus was more crowded than usual. I had to stand, the backpack pressed against my chest, feeling the small weight of Rory moving occasionally, trying to annoy me, and Tamamo trying to calm her down like she was a child.
At work, another day of the same slow hell.
The computers hummed. Coworkers typed away. Romeo and Juliet were in their usual corner, sharing headphones and watching something on a phone. Lilith, two rows away, watched them with an expression I couldn't read.
I sat down in my cubicle and turned on the test console. It was still malfunctioning, but I'd gotten used to its quirks. The fan made a noise like a helicopter about to take off, but at least it turned on. Two hours later, Full lock-in mode was activated.
With the keyboard being pressed quickly, I type as fast as I can. I have to finish this report; there are at least four more waiting in line, and I also have to review two others from newer coworkers who probably wrote everything wrong and need to be corrected before sending. A pretty busy day; I can't keep up with everything. The others who've been here a while are in the same state, stressed out by the backlog; however, you can see Romeo and Juliet again in their daily gossip session. Lilith has also appeared. All of them together look like the plot of a romantic comedy harem anime. They could be three other people writing reports, six pairs of hands hitting keyboards like the rest. They're not the only ones; the lab tech went out "to get coffee," She's been gone for two hours now, and she's the only one with the access keys we need to test the new development kits.
The boss comes out of his office. It's not lunchtime yet; it's strange to see him at this hour. He has a folder in his arms. It was an unusual sight. Normally, he stayed in his glass cubicle, reviewing charts and calling his "friends" to chat. But today he was walking down the central aisle, a clipboard in his hand, his expression tenser than usual.
"Ramírez, Smith, Pier, and you, César. Meeting room. Now."
My name. In his mouth. That was never a good sign.
I exchanged glances with the other three. Ramírez, a quiet guy who worked the night shift and I barely knew. Smith, an older woman who always brought homemade lunches and shared them with anyone who was hungry. Pier, a young newcomer who still hadn't learned to hate the job.
And me.
The meeting room was cold. The air conditioning hummed at a volume that made it hard to hear your own thoughts. A large screen on the wall displayed the company logo. On a video call, a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun watched us from what looked like a corporate office in another country where skyscrapers existed and the night was full of neon.
The boss positioned himself in front of us. His expression was grim; he was clearly angry; his way of speaking said nothing less than pure rage, whatever it was; it was clear that in his mind, what was happening was our fault.
"Mrs. Nakamura," he said, pointing at the screen,
"She is the Director of Human Resources. I will translate."
The woman on the screen began to speak in a language I didn't fully understand; I didn't know what it was, probably Asian, judging by how fast she spoke the words, but not Japanese, I think… Her voice was monotone, professional, without inflection. The boss translated in choppy phrases, occasionally stumbling over technical terms.
"The company has experienced... a decrease in performance... over the last fiscal quarters."
Pause. More words in English. The boss nodded.
"Production has dropped by... eighteen percent. The stock value has fallen significantly. The board of directors has decided to implement... restructuring measures, several cuts to improve numbers ahead of the next fiscal quarter."
Restructuring measures. The euphemism floated in the air like cigarette smoke.
"Staff cuts are being made in different areas. You have been selected for... contract termination. Effective immediately."
Effective immediately.
The words took a moment to register. I heard them, I processed them, but I didn't feel them. It was as if they were happening to someone else, to a character in one of my novels, to someone who wasn't me.
The boss went from one to another, leaving a letter in front of each of us. Slowly, I could feel how suddenly I now weighed twice as much as I had a couple of minutes ago.
When he got to me, he extended his hand with the document. I took it. My fingers brushed the paper. Formal and impersonal text. The same document with different names printed at the top.
It was then that I saw my hands.
They were trembling.
It was a visible, uncontrollable tremor, as if my hands belonged to someone else and I was just watching them. The paper vibrated between my fingers. I could see the lines of text dancing, the words of the dismissal letter moving as if they were alive.
The boss opened the door, and two guards entered the room. Big guys, with stony expressions and crossed arms, unfriendly faces looking for a fight.
"Security personnel will escort you out to prevent you from causing problems for the others who kept their jobs."
"You have five minutes to collect your belongings; you cannot enter the testing lab; your access has already been revoked."
"Please return any company property to this table. We have an inventory of everything; you can't take anything," said the angry man, as if we were criminals and he was the judge dispensing divine justice.
I walked in silence, the dismissal letter crumpled in my fist, my legs operating on autopilot. I went straight to my locker.
The locker. I had to empty the locker.
I walked to the employee entrance, where the lockers were. The security guard at the door—the same one who always checked my backpack when I left—looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. Pity? Indifference? It didn't matter.
I opened the locker.
Inside, Tamamo and Rory were playing cards.
They had improvised a little mat out of a paper napkin. The cards—a miniature deck that Rory had gotten from some mysterious place—were laid out between them. Tamamo held three cards in her tiny hand. Rory, frowning, studied hers.
"I'm telling you, you cheated," said Rory.
"A fox goddess never cheats," Tamamo replied serenely.
"I'm simply better than you."
"That's exactly what someone who cheats would say."
I watched them for a moment. Two pocket-sized goddesses, playing cards in a work locker, oblivious to what had just happened.
Something broke inside me.
They were so happy playing together, smiling, their own pretty, quiet fantasy, a window to a realm that had always been out of my reach my entire life. And I would be the one to shatter those dreams they had, I would be the source of their discomfort, of their misfortune, I would be dragging them into my misery simply because they had had the misfortune of knowing me. All I wanted was for that moment to be eternal, with them happy, with me simply admiring from afar, wishing, as I always did.
"Rory. Tamamo."
My voice sounded strange. Hollow. As if it were coming from very far away.
"Finally!" Rory exclaimed, throwing her arms up.
"Do you know how boring it is in here? We finished the movie three hours ago. I was about to start gnawing on the lock just for something to—"
She stopped.
Rory looked up from her cards. Her expression changed instantly. She put the cards down on the napkin and stood up. Her red eyes fixed on my face, and whatever she saw there made her expression change instantly. The playful annoyance vanished, now on combat alert.
"César?"
Tamamo was already on her feet, her golden eyes narrowing with concern.
"César? What happened?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The words wouldn't come. How do you explain "I lost my job" to two goddesses who depend on you for everything? How do you say "I failed" when failing means more than just disappointment?
"I got fired."
The words hung in the air. Tamamo brought a hand to her mouth. Rory stood still, her red eyes fixed on mine.
"What?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Staff cuts. Effective immediately." My own voice sounded distant to me, as if I were narrating something that had happened to someone else.
"I have to... empty the locker. We have to leave."
"I'm so sorry."
"Later," Rory said, her voice quiet but firm.
"First, let's get out of here."
Rory didn't ask any more questions. She didn't make sarcastic comments. She didn't joke. She just nodded and began gathering the cards with quick, precise movements. Tamamo was already folding the napkin. Her fox ears were completely flat against her head, a sign of distress I knew well.
"Let's go," said Rory, putting the deck away in some hidden compartment of her dress.
"Get your things. We'll hide in the backpack."
"Security is escorting everyone out," I managed.
"They'll check my bag at the exit."
"Then we hide properly," Rory said.
"Bottom of the bag. Under everything. We'll stay completely still. They won't find us."
"They might."
"César." Her voice cut through my panic like a blade.
"We've done this before. We'll do it again. Trust me."
I did. God help me, I did.
I nodded. I threw my belongings into the backpack without any order. The mug. The cables. The charger. Things that had been part of my life for over a year and were now just objects taking up space. I packed them into the bottom of my backpack, under my notebook, under the charger, under everything. They curled together in the darkness, two tiny bodies pressed close, and I felt a surge of something that might have been gratitude or might have been despair. I closed the locker for the last time.
At the exit, the security guard glanced at my bag. "Any company equipment?"
"No."
He waved me through without looking inside. Didn't care enough to check. Didn't get paid enough to check.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I stepped out of the building and into the afternoon light.
I was outside, I was unemployed, I was nothing, I was a loser.
The bus stop was nearly empty. A few people were waiting, faces buried in phones, none of them looking at each other. Normal people. Normal lives. Going home to normal dinners and normal families.
I sat on the bench and stared at the park across the street.
Children were playing. A couple was walking a dog. An old man was feeding pigeons from a paper bag. Life was happening, indifferent and continuous, while my chest was caving in.
"Can you tell me now what happened?" Rory said from inside the backpack. Her voice was soft, with no trace of her usual sarcasm.
"If you want."
"I got fired," I said.
The words came out flat. Empty. As if saying them aloud would make them real in a way they hadn't been when I was just thinking them.
"All of you?" Rory asked.
"Everyone in the room. The company's stock dropped, so they're cutting costs."
"Bastards."
"Yeah."
A silence. A pigeon landed near my feet, looked at me with its stupid pigeon eyes, and flew away when I didn't produce food.
"It wasn't your fault," Rory said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
I didn't answer. Because the truth was, part of me didn't know. Part of me was already running through every mistake I'd ever made at that job—every report that took too long, every bug I missed, every time I left exactly at five instead of staying late like the "dedicated" employees.
But it wouldn't have mattered. I knew that, logically. The decision had been made by people in another country who didn't know my name, didn't know my work, didn't know anything except numbers on a spreadsheet. I was a line item. A cost to be reduced.
Knowing didn't make it hurt less.
"That man is an idiot," said Rory.
"Yeah."
"An incompetent. A mediocrity. A..."
"Rory," Tamamo interrupted softly.
"Not now."
Rory fell silent. The wind blew through the trees in the park. The couple had sat down on the grass. The child had caught the pigeon and was now releasing it amid laughter.
I didn't feel good.
It was a physical sensation, a weight in my chest, a knot in my stomach, a buzzing in my ears. As if the world had desynchronized and I was watching it from outside. The people in the park were real. The bus approaching was real. But me... I wasn't sure.
The bus arrived. I got on. I paid with the last coins I had in my pocket.
"Where are we going now?" asked Tamamo.
"University," I replied.
"I ...still...have class tonight."
"Class?" Rory's voice sounded incredulous.
"César, you just—"
"I have class....." I repeated.
There was no room for argument. No room for feeling. If I stopped to think about what had happened, I would fall apart. And I couldn't fall apart. Not now. Not here.
The university was a blur of lights and voices. Students rushed past me in the hallways, laughing, complaining about homework, making plans for the weekend. I walked through them like a ghost, invisible, untethered.
I was heading toward my classroom when I saw her.
Luna was coming from the opposite direction, her leather briefcase in one hand, her phone in the other. She looked tired—her usual impeccable posture slightly wilted, her blonde drills a little less perfect than usual. But when she saw me, she stopped.
"César?" She stopped in front of me.
"What are you doing here so late?"
"Oh, Luna, hi."
"Night class," I said, in a voice I hoped sounded normal.
"You... are you done already?"
"Yeah. I had an exam." She looked at me more closely, her expression changing. Her blue eyes narrowed, that analytical gaze I knew so well sweeping over my face, my posture, my trembling hands.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment." She took a step closer, lowering her voice.
"What happened? You were fine yesterday. Well, not fine, but... less like this."
"It's nothing. Just a long day."
"You're lying." She said it without accusation, just a statement of fact.
"You always do that thing with your hands when you're lying—you press your thumb against your palm. Like you're trying to ground yourself."
I looked at my hands. She was right. My thumb was pressed so hard against my palm it was leaving a mark.
"It's... complicated."
"Is... different."
"Different how?"
"César. I've seen you after three hours of sleep, and I've never seen you like this."
I had no answer. I had no energy to invent a believable lie. So I stayed silent. Luna watched me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, she didn't insist.
"Tomorrow," I finally said.
"Our session. We'll talk tomorrow."
"César—"
"Please, Luna. Not now."
"Ok then"
"Are you coming right?"
"I'll try."
"No." Her voice became firm.
"Not 'I'll try.' You're coming. At four. In the library. I'll be waiting for you."
I looked at her. Her expression was determined, but worried at the same time, as decisive as if it were her duty to save someone.
"Alright," I gave in.
"Good." She nodded, satisfied. Then, before leaving, she added: "No matter what happens... I'll be there."
She left before I could respond. She got into the car. The door closed. The engine started. And I was alone again.
Class was a blur. I sat in my usual seat at the back, notebook open, pen in hand, and I wrote nothing. The professor's voice washed over me like white noise, words without meaning, concepts I should have been absorbing but couldn't focus on.
Halfway through, a messenger appeared at the door. Spoke quietly to the professor. Handed over a note.
The professor looked up. "César? The dean wants to see you in his office."
Every head in the classroom turned toward me. I could feel their eyes, curious and judgmental, wondering what I'd done wrong. I gathered my things and walked out, my face burning.
The dean's office was on the third floor, at the end of a hallway lined with faculty portraits. I'd never been here before. Students like me didn't get summoned to the dean's office unless something was wrong. The dean was a thin man with glasses and an expression of permanent disappointment. He gestured for me to sit, and I did.
"Your grades," he began, opening a folder on his desk.
"They've dropped significantly over the past two semesters. Your GPA is now below the threshold required for your scholarship."
"I know," I said.
"I've been working extra hours at my job. Overtime. Sometimes double shifts, and looking for additional income. I haven't had as much time to study."
"That's not an excuse."
"I'm not offering it as an excuse. I'm explaining the circumstances."
The dean removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth from his desk drawer. The gesture was slow, deliberate, as if he were performing a ritual.
"This is a public institution of high performance and prestige," he said.
"What we sell to the world is image, is prestige, is reputation"
"And our reputation depends on the quality of our graduates. We cannot allow a student to tarnish the perfect profile we present to the outside world."
"Tarnish?"
"Your scholarship is revoked, effective immediately. Additionally, after reviewing your file, the academic committee has decided to expel you from the university."
The words hit me like physical blows.
"Expelled?"
"Your performance has been consistently below our standards. We see no indication that this will improve."
"I lost my job today," I said, and my voice sounded strange to my own ears. Distant. Hollow.
"I can't pay for tuition without the scholarship. But if you give me time—"
"Time is not a resource we can offer." The dean closed the folder.
"The decision is final. You may appeal, but I should warn you that appeals are rarely successful."
I sat there, in that chair, in that office, and I felt the last pillar of my life crumble.
"Please," I said.
"This is all I have left......."
The dean looked at me. For a moment—just a moment—I thought I saw something human in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by the same professional indifference I'd seen in the boss's face, in the HR woman's face, in every face that had ever decided my worth based on numbers and metrics.
"You'll receive the official documentation by email," he said.
"Please collect your belongings from your locker before leaving campus. Security will escort you if necessary."
I stood up. My legs were trembling, but they held.
"Thank you for your time," I said, because that's what you say when you've been broken and you don't know what else to do.
The bus ride home was the longest of my life.
I sat in the back, pressed against the window, watching the city slide past in streaks of light and shadow. The sun had set. The streetlamps were on. People were going home, going to work, going to dinner, going to their lives.
And I was going nowhere.
Fired. Expelled. In one day. One single day, and everything I'd spent years building—mediocre as it was—was gone.
In a matter of hours, I had lost my livelihood and my education. The only two things that kept me tied to the real world. The only two things that made me feel—delusively, perhaps—like a functioning adult, a normal person, someone who could stand on their own.
What was I supposed to do now?
Now I have nothing, I'm just a loser......that's why these things happen to me.
The question circled in my mind like a vulture. What job could I get without a degree? What degree could I finish without money? How would I pay rent? How would I buy food? How would I keep the lights on?
Rory and Tamamo depended on me. They ate food I bought. They used electricity I paid for. They lived in an apartment I rented. Without income, without savings, without any safety net at all—
How long until I couldn't support them?
How long until I had to choose between feeding them and feeding myself?
How long until I had to go back to my parents?
The thought hit me like a punch to the stomach.
My parents. Their house. Their rules. Their disappointment. Their "we told you so," and "we knew you'd fail," and "this is what happens when you waste your time on stupid things."
I couldn't go back. I couldn't. But what choice would I have?
The apartment came into view. My building. My door. My new locks—the ones I'd installed to keep my sister out, not realizing that the real threat wasn't intrusion but collapse.
I opened the door. Closed it behind me. Stood in the darkness of the hallway, not turning on the light.
"I'm home," I said to no one.
And then I slid down against the door and sat on the floor, my head in my hands, my whole body shaking with a grief I couldn't name and couldn't stop.
Rory came out of the backpack and jumped onto the table. Her red eyes studied me with an intensity that made me feel exposed.
"What else happened?" she asked.
"How do you know that...?"
"Your face. I know it. It's worse than before."
I dropped into the chair. I rested my elbows on the table. I rubbed my face with my hands.
"The university. They expelled me. My grades dropped because of the extra work. I lost the scholarship. And with that..."
"They kicked you out," Rory finished.
"Yes."
The silence that followed was different from the previous ones. It wasn't the silence of understanding or comfort. It was the silence of the abyss. Of the void. Of nothingness.
Because now there was nothing.
Without a job, I couldn't pay the rent. Without rent, I couldn't stay here. Without the university, I couldn't aspire to a better job. It was a vicious cycle, a bottomless pit, a free fall that seemed to have no end.
And the worst part was that I couldn't blame anyone. Well, I could: the incompetent boss, the cruel dean, the system that crushed those who couldn't keep up. But deep down, in that dark place where my worst thoughts lived, I could only blame myself.
I wasn't good enough.
I didn't work hard enough.
I didn't study enough.
I'm the loser everyone says I am.
"César."
Rory's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She was standing in front of me, on the table, her arms crossed and her expression serious.
"You're thinking stupid things. I can see it on your face."
"It's not..."
"Yes, it is. I know you." She stepped forward.
"What are you thinking? Say it in words, whatever comes out."
I looked at her. She looked at me. Tamamo, at her side, waited in silence.
"I have to go back."
The words escaped my lips before I could stop them.
Rory turned her head sharply.
"What?"
"With my parents. I have to go back. I can't..." My voice broke.
"I can't maintain this. I don't have a job. I don't have a scholarship. I have nothing."
"César." Tamamo's voice was soft but firm.
"Look at me."
I did. Her golden eyes were fixed on mine, and in them there was no pity. Just determination.
"You're not going back to that house."
"Tamamo, I don't have a choice. I can't pay—"
"No," Rory interrupted. She stood up on the pillow, hands on her hips.
"You listen to me now. You're not going back. You're not going to beg them for help. Not after everything they did to you. Not after what your sister did."
"Then what do you suggest I do? I have no income. I have nothing."
Rory was silent for a moment. Then, with that tone she used when she was about to propose something I wouldn't like, she said:
"You still have your job with Luna."
"That's not a job. It's... it's a few hours a week. It's not enough to live on."
"Then make it enough." Rory crossed her arms.
"Ask her for more money. You can offer her more classes now that you have free time. More sessions. More material. You can turn it into something that at least resembles a salary."
"I'm not going to take advantage of Luna like that."
"It's not taking advantage. It's survival." Her voice hardened.
"César, you're not in a position to be proud. You need money. She has money. And she values what you do. It's a fair exchange."
"It's not fair. It's... it's..."
"It's what?" Rory raised an eyebrow.
"It's what you need to survive. Would you rather go back to your parents? Would you rather lose everything you've built here? This apartment. This space. This life with us?"
"I..."
"Think about it. Think about what you'd be losing." Her voice dropped, became softer.
"Think about what we'd be losing."
I looked at her. At her twelve centimeters of gothic lolita goddess, standing on my pillow with her hands on her hips, looking at me with those red eyes that had seen a thousand years of war and death and had chosen, for some reason I still didn't understand, to stay here with me.
Tamamo approached slowly. Her tiny hand rested on my arm.
"You're not alone," she said.
"You don't have to carry this alone. Whatever you decide, we're here. But please... don't go back to that house. Don't go back to the people who hurt you."
The silence stretched between us.
"We'll figure it out," Rory said finally, and her voice had regained some of its usual energy.
"Day by day. Like we always have. But the first step is accepting that you can ask for help. Even if it's from an heiress with ridiculous drill hair."
"We have savings," Tamamo added.
"Some. Enough for a few weeks."
"And I can hunt rats," Rory said, and I couldn't tell if she was joking.
"There are plenty in the alley behind the building. They're not very tasty, but they have protein."
I looked at them. At these two impossible beings who had appeared in my life out of nowhere and refused to leave.
"Alright," I said finally.
"I'll talk to Luna tomorrow. I'll explain... something. Not the whole truth, but..."
"Something," repeated Rory, nodding.
"Something is enough," said Tamamo.
"Good." Rory nodded.
"And while you're thinking, eat something. You haven't eaten since breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway."
I didn't move. My body felt heavy, like someone had filled my bones with lead. I stared at the spinning lights, watching them blur and smear, and tried to remember what hope felt like.