Chapter 2

Jackson stood up, straightening his discount suit jacket. It was time to visit IT and sort this out. As he walked towards the tech support desk, a thought struck him. Maybe his manager, Mr. Thompson, would know what was going on.

He knocked on Mr. Thompson's door, trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

He entered, finding Mr. Thompson engrossed in his phone. The manager looked up, his face as expressive as a block of wood.

"Ah, Jackson. What can I do for you?"

"Sir, I'm having trouble logging into my account. It says my username doesn't exist."

Mr. Thompson's eyebrows rose slightly, the most emotion Jackson had ever seen on his face. "Haven't you checked your email?"

"My email?" He echoed, feeling like he'd walked into the middle of a conversation he didn't know he was having.

"Yes, your email. You were fired yesterday."

The words hit Jackson like a sledgehammer to the gut. "Fired? But... why? How?"

"Due to no work improvement. It's all in the email."

He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He opened his email app, and there it was, sitting innocently in his inbox: "Termination of Employment."

He looked up from his phone, mouth opening to ask for an explanation, but Mr. Thompson was already waving him off.

"Look, Jackson, I've got an important call. You'll receive your pending salary by the end of the week. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He was ushered out of the office before he could form a coherent sentence. He stood in the hallway, feeling like he'd just been hit by a particularly surreal bus.

"Well, that's a waste of time," he muttered, deciding that arguing with Thompson would be about as productive as trying to teach a rock to swim.

He trudged back to his desk, ready to collect his things and slink out with whatever dignity he had left. But as he approached, he saw someone sitting in his chair.

It was Stacy from accounting, the woman Jackson had always disdainfully labeled "the manager's pet." And for good reason, he thought, given how she draped herself over his chair, no doubt fresh from another tryst with their boss. It was a wonder she got any work done, the hours she must have spent on her back, legs spread for the boss.

"Oh, hi Jackson!" she chirped, her voice sweeter than a sugar-coated lollipop. "Mr. Thompson said I could use your desk now. Isn't that great?"

He stared at her, wondering if he'd somehow stepped into an alternate universe where nothing made sense. "Yeah, fantastic," he managed to croak out.

As he gathered his meager belongings - a "World's Okayest Employee" mug Veronica had given him as a joke (oh, the irony) and a half-dead succulent - he wondered if this was karma for the dress incident this morning.

Jackson stepped out of the office building, his mind reeling from the sudden events. He was no longer an employee - just another casualty in the corporate war, discarded like an empty coffee cup. Walking down the bustling sidewalk, he wondered how his life had become such a mess.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, the weight of his termination dragging him down like an anchor. The world around him seemed to move quickly, leaving him struggling to keep up. He envied the brisk-paced pedestrians, their lives seemingly more put together than his own.

With a heavy sigh, he turned the corner and headed towards his apartment. At least there, he could find solace in Veronica's embrace, even if their morning spat lingered in the air. He steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation as he approached the familiar building.

But as he reached for the door, something caught his eye. A pair of unfamiliar shoes sat outside, partially hidden by the welcome mat. Jackson froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

"What the...?" he murmured, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Slowly, he unlocked the door and pushed it open, the familiar creak sending a chill down his spine.

The apartment was eerily quiet except for the faint, rhythmic creaks from the bedroom. His stomach twisted into knots as he heard the unmistakable sounds of passion.

"Mmm, yes, baby, right there! Fuck me so hard!" Veronica's voice, high and breathy, echoed through the hallway.

His breath hitched. His feet felt like lead as he moved toward the bedroom. The moans grew louder, filled with abandon. Another voice joined—a man's, deep and rough.

"Take it all, you dirty little slut. You like that, don't you?"

Veronica's laughter was sultry, intoxicating. "Oh God, yes! Give me that cock. Fuck!"

Jackson reached the doorway, each step a painful thud of realization. He peeked inside. The scene before him was like a car crash he couldn't look away from.

Veronica lay sprawled on the bed, back arched, legs splayed wide. Her breasts bounced with each furious thrust. The stranger's expensive suit lay discarded on the floor.

"Oh fuck, yes! Fill me up with that thick cock," Veronica moaned, gripping the stranger's back, nails digging into his skin.

The rhythmic creaking of the bed abruptly stopped as Veronica's eyes locked onto his. Her expression morphed from ecstasy to shock in an instant.

"Jackson!" she gasped, pushing the stranger off her. "I... I can explain!"

But Jackson didn't wait for an explanation. He didn't shout or rage. He simply turned and walked out of the bedroom, his footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent apartment.

Veronica's frantic voice followed him down the hallway. "Jackson, wait! It's not what it looks like!"

He almost laughed at the cliché. Not what it looks like? What else could it possibly be?

He ignored Veronica's pleas and left the apartment, the door's soft click sounding more final than a slam.