From Shrimp Boy to Slapjack: System Activated

370

Days bled into one another, each one a monotonous drone in the symphony of my life. The penthouse, once a symbol of accomplishment, now felt like a gilded tomb. The sterile perfection mocked me, a constant reminder of the sterile life I'd built for myself.

The throbbing in my jaw had subsided, leaving behind a dull ache that mirrored the ache in my heart. Maggie's tear-streaked face and Curry's furious glare haunted me, a relentless loop playing on the screen of my memory. Sleep offered no escape; instead, it brought fragmented dreams filled with apologies falling on deaf ears and a crushing sense of isolation.

My days were a blur of forced activity. Meetings I barely remembered attending, deals I barely understood negotiating. Each accomplishment, once a source of satisfaction, felt hollow now. My colleagues, once a source of camaraderie, seemed like distant figures trapped in the same sterile world I was desperately trying to escape.

In the evenings, I found myself drawn to the wi