Parallel World, March 2018
"Zach, think about it for a second. I was the one who brought you into this company—why would I steer you wrong?"
Outside the entrance of a four-star hotel in downtown Chicago, a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, his thinning hair combed carefully to one side, looked at Zach Stevens with a tone that was both earnest and persuasive.
"Take my advice: head back inside that private room and apologize to Miss Harris. She told me herself—if I can drink to my heart's content tonight, she'll invest ten million dollars in our financial products tomorrow!"
"You're still new here. Not only would that secure you a permanent position, but you'd also rake in tens of thousands in commission! You need money, right? Just starting out in your career and already acting this tight-fisted—what's the point?"
Zach, a senior at a small Midwest university, had started job hunting immediately after returning to campus from spring break.
But in a competitive city like Chicago, degrees from second-tier colleges barely made a ripple. After weeks of frustration—bouncing between sketchy job interviews and fly-by-night firms—he landed a position at Atlas Securities almost by accident.
Among financial firms in the area, Atlas didn't have the strongest reputation, but it was still publicly traded and considered a respectable name.
The pay wasn't bad either. His intern salary was $4,500 a month, and if he made it through to full-time, his base would jump to $6,000—plus commission.
Landing a role at a major firm before even graduating made Zach the envy of his peers.
He hadn't expected to get so lucky, and he treasured the opportunity.
Since the office was nearly an hour from campus, Zach woke at 6 a.m. every day, took two different train lines across the city, and arrived at the office early. He was always the first in and the last to leave.
Yet almost a week into the internship, his manager still hadn't given him a single real assignment—just company manuals and background material to review.
Then, that afternoon, department manager Lewis Crane approached him with a friendly hand on the shoulder, asking if Zach could join him for a dinner meeting with a high-profile client that evening.
Zach had already accepted that client dinners were a part of working in sales, and he'd mentally prepared for it.
In fact, he was even a little excited. After all, being invited to dine with a major investor only a few days into his internship—didn't that mean the manager saw potential in him?
But once he arrived, it quickly became clear this was no ordinary dinner.
It was something else entirely.
The drinks had just been poured, the appetizers hadn't even hit the table, when Miss Harris reached over and placed a hand on Zach's thigh…
If she'd been a younger woman—charming, confident, maybe even attractive—Zach might have gritted his teeth and endured it.
After all, making money wasn't something to be ashamed of.
But Miss Harris looked to be in her mid-forties and weighed at least 300 pounds. Her face, rigid and unnaturally smooth from what had to be multiple rounds of cosmetic surgery, looked like it had been carved from wax. The very thought of her touch made Zach feel sick to his stomach.
He stood up and left the private room without a word.
And that led to this moment—standing outside the hotel, with Lewis Crane gazing at him like he was doing Zach some great favor.
Zach's chest tightened. His throat felt dry. The words came out clear, but heavy.
"I do need the money. But I want to earn it through hard work. My own work."
"Clean money, huh?" Crane scoffed, the friendly tone fading ever so slightly.
Zach didn't flinch. Not this time.
Lewis Crane let out a short laugh, as if Zach had just told the funniest joke he'd heard all week. There was a trace of mockery on his face as he said:
"Zach, do you really think a fresh graduate from a no-name college landed a job at Atlas Securities because of your résumé?"
Huh?
Zach looked at him, startled, but Lewis went on:
"Zach, you need to understand what kind of person you are. If you want to succeed, you've got to learn to use what you've got. Take a look at the guys out there delivering food or driving Uber all night. They work just as hard—maybe harder. But do they make real money?"
"You may not have an impressive degree, but you've got the looks. A lot of people would kill to have that. Why not use it? Once you're successful, no one's going to ask how you got there. They'll just see the sharp suits, the nice car, the flash."
And in that moment, Zach understood. He'd thought he got the job at Atlas because he was lucky, maybe even special. But now it was clear—Lewis had seen his appearance as an asset from the very beginning. He was never hired for his potential in finance, but as a tool to charm female clients and win contracts through manipulation.
In this image-driven, money-obsessed culture, there were plenty of people like Lewis Crane. For a fat commission check, they'd trade away their morals, dignity, whatever it took.
Zach wasn't going to judge those people. But trying to drag him down with them? That was revolting.
Still hearing Lewis trying to spin his pitch, Zach cut him off.
"If the company doesn't think my associate's degree is worth anything, then I'm resigning."
"Resigning?"
Lewis blinked, stunned. He had fully expected his speech to wear Zach down, not push him away.
Zach might not have gone to an Ivy League school, but his looks were on par with a Hollywood actor's. Just yesterday, Miss Harris had visited the office to discuss a contract. The moment she saw Zach, her interest was obvious. That's why Lewis had orchestrated this whole dinner—he thought he could deliver her a little bonus with the deal.
Now she was still waiting in that private room, and if Zach bailed, Lewis would be left holding the bag.
Realizing sweet talk wouldn't work, his expression hardened.
"Zach, think this through. Given your background, it won't be easy to find another job that pays this well."
"Not only that, but you just insulted one of our major clients. If word gets out that you were fired over it, good luck getting back into finance."
"That's not your concern anymore," Zach said flatly.
Watching Lewis's face tighten with frustration, Zach smirked and added:
"Why don't you go back and keep Miss Harris company yourself? Don't forget to smile and play nice. Maybe if you do a good job, she'll still sign the deal."
With that, Zach turned and walked away, not sparing another glance. Lewis was left standing alone outside the hotel, the sharp night air brushing his face as his expression soured.
It was still cold in Chicago in March. A breeze swept in from Lake Michigan, damp and biting, and Zach shivered despite himself.
He wandered along the edge of Millennium Park, the city lights glinting off the high-rises around him, the hum of late-night traffic a constant presence. People passed by in suits, heels, laughter echoing from bar patios. The whole scene felt like a different world—one he didn't quite belong to.
Zach stared ahead, his thoughts tangled, a strange sense of helplessness tightening in his chest.
He remembered a quote he'd read once, a long time ago:
Some people are born in Rome. Others spend their lives serving it.