The parking garage was silent except for the low, constant hum of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The chill in the air bit at Jonas Lee's bare wrists as he adjusted the knot of his tie with one hand, the other gripping the cracked, chipped handle of his battered leather briefcase. He kept his gaze low, eyes tracing the cracked concrete floor—more out of habit than fear. At this hour, no one was watching.
He reached Level C, third row from the end, and there it was: his black sedan, parked under a weak halo of yellow light. The dented bumper sagged under the weight of years, the cracked right mirror held together by peeling strips of packing tape. His home.
Jonas slipped into the backseat with the practiced efficiency of a man who had made this cramped space a refuge. The seat's fabric was threadbare from restless nights. His clothes, folded with the mechanical neatness of someone desperately clinging to routine, rested in the footwell. He sat upright, fingers trailing along the fraying edge of his blazer sleeve. Still presentable. Barely.
A sudden chime came from his burner phone, startling in the silence. Rideshare request accepted.
Five minutes later, a clean, late-model sedan pulled up just outside the garage entrance. No flashy decals or branding—just professional anonymity. Jonas stepped from the shadows and opened the door.
The driver gave a polite nod, his eyes sharp beneath the dim interior light. Jonas returned the gesture wordlessly and slid inside, placing his briefcase carefully on his lap.
"Where to?" The driver's voice was calm, alert, like a sentinel who misses nothing.
"Downtown. Corner of Fifth and Main," Jonas said without thinking.
The driver nodded and eased the car forward.
They drove through the near-empty streets in silence, the city's pulse slowing as bars closed and sidewalks emptied. The scent of stale beer and burnt-out neon filtered faintly through the vents.
Jonas loosened his tie just a fraction, then tightened it again—a reflex from a life that once belonged to him. When he had an office on the thirty-third floor, a secretary who knew his coffee order by heart, and meetings that filled his calendar. That man felt like a ghost, distant and unreachable, like a suit he had outgrown but still wore because he didn't know what else to do.
Streetlights flickered like broken film reels across the windshield. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, discreet but unmissable.
"Late night," the driver said, voice soft, an invitation wrapped in observation.
Jonas hesitated. His voice came hoarse, unused. "Something like that."
The driver said nothing more.
They passed a shuttered gas station. Jonas caught his reflection in the glass—a gaunt face, graying stubble, a cheap suit struggling to pass for tailored.
The silence thickened, but this time it held something fragile and human. Jonas could feel the driver weighing him, as professional drivers do—deciding if the man in the backseat was going home or just pretending.
"First ride of the night?" Jonas asked, deflecting.
"Third. But the first who looks like they'd rather be anywhere else."
Jonas smiled faintly. "You get a lot of those?"
"More than you'd guess."
The words hung between them, a fragile bridge of shared understanding.
Jonas shifted, feeling the weight of the briefcase on his lap. Inside, no laptop or contracts—only a few tattered résumés, three fading business cards from a firm that no longer existed, and a single pair of backup socks.
He didn't have a real destination tonight. Fifth and Main was a bluff—a small ritual of dignity. He'd step out, pretend to enter a building, watch the car leave, then double back to the garage. An absurd performance to keep the edges of his reality from fraying.
As they neared the intersection, Jonas leaned forward. "Actually, could you drop me a block before? Near the bodega."
The driver didn't flinch. Just nodded. "Of course."
They pulled up beside the shuttered storefront. Jonas hesitated in the doorway.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "For the quiet."
The driver met his eyes in the mirror. No pity—only recognition.
"Stay warm out there."
Jonas nodded, stepped into the cold night, and the car pulled away.
He waited until it disappeared around the corner before moving. The city buzzed faintly—the distant wail of sirens, a dog barking somewhere blocks away. The illusion of normalcy held until he slipped back into the garage's cold embrace.
The stairwell echoed beneath his feet, concrete swallowing sound as he climbed. The faint smell of gasoline and damp lingered, a ghost of better days.
On the third step, he noticed the candy wrapper—still there from yesterday. No one bothered to clean it.
Level C. Third row. His car waited patiently, like a loyal dog.
Jonas slid into the backseat, locked the door, and folded the tie with care. He placed it on the front seat, a relic of a life that no longer fit.
He lay back, eyes tracing the faint outline of the ceiling light through the tinted window.
The morning interview had been brutal. The recruiter's smile was too wide, questions polite but sharp: So what have you been doing since the firm folded? How long have you been between addresses?
He answered steady, head held high, but the eyes across the desk had already decided.
He hadn't bothered to check his email since.
Jonas pulled his jacket tighter, staring into the dim ceiling.
Tomorrow he'd shower at the gym, try another café for Wi-Fi, rework the résumé again.
He exhaled slowly.
Around him, the garage hummed softly—a machine cradling memories and failures alike.
Somewhere far away, the world he'd lost kept spinning. But he wasn't part of it anymore.