Monotony Be Gone

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺-𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥.

𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥.

-----

On the final day of normality, Asher hadn't the faintest clue of the changes to come.

In retrospect, he really couldn't have known; the day began just the same as any other. In fact, his days were beginning to meld together into a long, blended stretch of monotony.

On this early morning in Knoxville, Tennessee—Asher Cullen awoke the same way as usual, meandering away from his recliner after falling asleep in front of the TV the previous night, unfinished whiskey still sitting idly on the table beside him, his television now playing a dull morning talk show rather than the enticing lineup of TV shows from the night prior.

The routine remained the same, yawning and wandering toward the back hall of his apartment, flicking the light switch and beginning the day by gazing into the mirror.

He stood before his reflection, slender and average height, a narrow face with shining hazel eyes, his hairs sandy and stringy with a sharp hairline, which craned over his pensive brows in a V. Like always, he paused to examine the exhaustion amidst his gaze, a stare no longer fiery gold like it was many years ago—and then, he ran a hand down his face, combed his hair back, and began to shed his dark suit, peeling off the outfit before stepping into the shower.

Once clean, he wandered about—collecting cleaner articles of clothing from the overflowing dresser drawers in his bedroom, redressing in a clean-cut navy suit, checking the time, and snatching up his keys from the hooks beside the door.

As usual, Asher slipped into the hallway of his apartment complex, closing his door as gently as possible and giving a wary glance to the door just across from his. He turned, preparing to head for the stairs—then heard the adjacent door fly open, freezing mid-step and sealing his eyes shut, his heart jolting as he swallowed a disdainful groan.

"Asher!" the horrid old voice screeched.

Asher, standing stock still and holding the metal balcony of the stairway, briefly sealed his eyes shut and inhaled heavily, then slowly turned to face his unbearable neighbor.

The old wrinkled face of Mrs. Farber was homed in on him, heavy with irritation, her ancient visage etched with a deep frown and her eyes narrowed angrily behind her large egg-shaped glasses. She inched a step closer, rounding on him and inhaling, preparing to lecture him about whatever minor issue had her riled this time.

"What have I told you about blaring that goddamn music?!" Mrs. Farber hissed.

Asher stared at her, his eyes and expression utterly deadpan.

"That's not me," he told her tonelessly. "I don't have people over."

"Don't lie to me, boy," Mrs. Farber snapped. "It's shaking my damn walls at night!"

"It's them." Asher motioned farther down the hall, gesturing to the apartment at the far corner. "College kids. They're the ones throwing parties. I have to drink to sleep through it."

"Riiight," Mrs. Farber replied caustically, nodding and giving him a snide smirk. "I'm sure that's why you drink. Every alcoholic has a 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 list of excuses."

Asher's teeth grinded, his jaw making a twitch, though he said nothing, merely staring into her and mulling in his own irritable thoughts.

Quite honestly, he was utterly tired of it—of every part of his routine—especially this, taking flak from everyone for no reason whatsoever.

His mouth drifted slightly open, and he almost retaliated, almost spoke his thoughts and almost asked her why she was so pitifully desperate to seek such pointless interaction—but, just as always, he took a deep breath and managed to keep every angry retort inside.

"Bye, Mrs. Farber."

He spun on his heel and marched down the stairs, ignoring the toxic comments Mrs. Farber grumbled behind him as he made his leave.

His apartment complex stood high atop a hill, surrounded by trees and overlooking the nearby scenery of the city—downtown Knoxville, the buildings shining in the morning sun and the Sunsphere glistening a brilliant gold in the distance.

Asher paid the view no mind, as usual, strolling out to the parking lot and climbing into the driver seat of his tan-colored Oldsmobile. Backing up and rolling out of the parking lot was as easy as always, though the morning traffic soon slowed him to a near stop once he drew near the bridge, the same annoying occurrence that transpired every morning.

He sat still for a while, listening to the soft chatter on the radio and tapping the steering wheel, glaring out the windshield and imagining what he'd do to all the agonizingly slow drivers if given the chance…

The DJs on the radio rambled on about viruses and vaccines for a while before switching to more local news, Asher often forgetting to listen, his mind wandering.

He felt this way every day—dwelling on the drudgery and apparent pointlessness of the daily grind—but today, for whatever reason, the feeling seemed to gnaw at him more.

After all—it'd been a long while since he'd had any family, and he didn't have much in the way of friends nowadays.

His job at Knoxville Credit Loan was a dull one at best, and his boss was just as intolerable as his neighbors. For years now, it'd been the same—the same dreary mornings followed by the same somber workdays, all of it filled with only people who barked at him and insulted him, the only highlights of the day being the late afternoons, when he'd be free to grab some food, loiter in the diner, and select a liquor of choice to indulge in while he watched his late-night TV programs. The day would end as he drifted off to sleep in front of the TV, and he'd awaken there after sunrise—rinse and repeat.

The only brief changes in routine were the more worldly ones—the economy slowly crumbling, the shelves at the stores often being empty, the prices of nearly everything reaching record-breaking heights, and the news stations getting generally more fear-based.

Beyond that, there'd been no real changes to his life—none good, or even bad.

His life might as well have been a trap, a bleak and gray simulation designed to mentally torture a man in the slowest manner possible.

Things seemed so very pointless, so incredibly void and empty; people weren't kind, the job had no ranks to climb or fruitful positive goals attached, and the friends he had ten years ago had all long since moved on, as well as his ex from his shortly-lived marriage. He couldn't think of a single thing to strive for, a single thing to keep him going—because, no matter how many times he mulled over it all, he couldn't see any real outcome for him at all.

The people around him certainly weren't worth giving a damn about—and quite honestly, he couldn't think why he was any better than they were.

That being the case—he simply couldn't know what purpose there was.

And this—this dwelling, terrible cycle of grim and bleak reflection—was all that ever followed him, day in, and day out, through every mindlessly repetitive and useless task of the routine.

Just when the traffic began to crawl again, Asher's phone started to ring from his suit's inner pocket, snapping him out of his thoughts as the chorus of a rock song played muffled against his chest. He swiftly pulled it out and answered the call.

"Yeah?"

"Ash," a familiar raspy voice spoke from the phone, low and throaty. "What're you doing tonight? You know yet…?"

Asher sighed at the windshield. "Same thing I always do, El."

"Okay—okay, listen," his friend, Elliot, uttered exasperatedly. "I have to g—wait. Wait, have you heard from Lester?"

Asher paused, blinking and making a face. "Not in years. Why?"

"Okay, he… I… mmm… never mind," Elliot rambled. "I'm gonna head out to the mountains for a few days. Camping trip before summer's over. Wanna go?"

Asher slowly began to drive forward, steering with one hand and clasping the phone with the other, growing more confused as he did.

Elliot was always a hair-brained and eccentric sort, but he seemed even stranger than usual now.

"I can't just disappear to the woods," Asher told him moments later. "I have work."

"You have vacation days—use 'em," Elliot insisted. "Listen—I can't talk about it on the phone—but you need a few days off. Trust me."

Asher raised his brows, closing his eyes and briefly massaging his temple. "Are you off the wagon again…?"

"Nooo, not—completely," Elliot muttered. "Ash, it's happening. Everything I said—everything I've been saying for years—it's 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 now. I don't wanna be here when it does. And you need time off, anyway. You're wasting away over there."

"Yeah… okay," Asher exhaled, tiredly rolling his eyes. "I'll watch for the reptoids."

"It's not 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘴, it—just—aagh, stop making me talk!" Elliot yammered. "Don't you wanna leave town for a few days? Don't you wanna do something 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 for once?"

Asher continued his steady drive over the bridge, gnawing his lip and pausing again to think.

He'd known Elliot for quite a long time—as Elliot was the oldest member of their old gang back in the day—and Asher never knew what to make of his wild conspiracy theories before.

However, Elliot did have a point. The incredibly lonesome and repetitive notions of Asher's routine felt to be draining the life out of him, and he longed for a change of some kind.

Part of him felt a spark of temptation, a jolt of excitement at the idea of throwing caution to the wind, of simply running away tonight and abandoning his job tomorrow, buying camping supplies with his savings and enjoying the rest of the week away from it all. But such an action might not be worth the consequences…

Still, it wasn't as if he had a family to support, and he didn't have anyone else to worry about. The only person he had to support was himself, and if he had to carry the consequences alone, it might just be worth it.

And, truthfully, he didn't much care what happened to him anymore.

Plus—leaping into a mysterious and impulsive plan was something the old Asher would've done, the one who once ran the streets of downtown Knoxville alongside Elliot, Lester, and all their old friends—and he felt his old self slowly rising up just beneath the skin now.

He was barely into his thirties, and he had nobody else to worry about—so, if ever there was a time in his life to do something impulsive, it was now.

"I… I'll think about it," Asher finally answered.

"Good, good—you still going to the diner on the strip?" Elliot asked.

"Um… yeah. Just about every afternoon. Why?"

"Good, I'll pick you up there."

"I didn't say I'd—"

𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬.

Asher sighed and stuffed his phone away, driving off the bridge and turning right at the usual intersection. As he made the rest of the drive, he pondered on Elliot's offer, weighing every pro and con until he slowed to a stop in the alleyway behind Knoxville Credit Loan.

It was a long dingy stretch, narrow and mostly empty, save for the occasional debris or graffiti on either brick wall. It was always a risk parking here—and not entirely legal—but he much preferred it over the lots and parking garages nearby, which were always overcrowded with people and vehicles.

Asher inhaled heavily, closing his diver door, locking the car, and beginning his slow walk to the end of the alley.

Just the sight of the heavy traffic up ahead—as well as the people on the nearby sidewalks—was enough to make yet another sensation of dread brew inside.

He wanted to walk any other direction now, to wander away from his regular path and to escape the routine. He almost wanted to venture out to the street, to wait for one of the drivers breaking the speed limit, and to meander in front of their vehicle just in time to get hit…

Yet still, his feet carried him to the sidewalk, preparing to break left and head for the glass double-doors of KCL, as he did every morning.

He strolled through the lobby without stopping, careful to avoid eye contact and pointless interaction, then stepped into the elevator and rode up to the top floor.

When the metal doors slid open, he marched down the hall and passed by a few familiar faces, suited coworkers who seemed to be ignoring him just as insistently as he was them—and after passing the large collection of cubicles to his right, he stopped at the final door in the corner, unlocking his office and walking inside before swiftly closing the door behind him.

The room appeared the same as always; directly across from him sat the elegant mahogany desk, complete with his computer and various papers, to the left being file cabinets and to the right a grand glass window that gave him a brilliant view of downtown, sunlight illuminating the room and a few buildings sparkling in the reflective shine outside, though every inch of the scene before him could've been a stark dull gray for all he knew.

As he meandered across the office, he felt as if he'd never left, as if nothing in the office had ever moved and as if he'd always been trapped in this room, simply wandering through an endless time-loop of repetition and waiting exhaustedly for the day the spell would break.

Rather than beginning his work right away, Asher merely sat behind the desk, leaning on it and intertwining his fingers. He pressed his hands to his face, gazing blankly downward and feeling even more vacant than usual.

The idea of abandoning everything and fleeing to Elliot's vacation remained alluring, but the more he thought about it, the less excited he felt. He knew for certain he'd lose his job, and he wouldn't have the references to get another one. Running away from KCL for a few days of fun could very well ruin his life, landing him in the same situation he'd started in—struggling and barely scraping by, relying on food banks to eat and desperately looking for work, always sleeping outdoors or crashing at friends' houses.

No, he'd decided long ago that he'd never return to that life no matter what.

But—as he dwelled deeper on the issue—Asher's hands slowly began to lower, his gaze distant and his expression severe.

There was a loophole, a way out that he'd been contemplating for years now, though he'd never mustered the nerve to do it before.

Today, however, everything felt emptier than it ever had.

Perhaps it was finally time.

Asher barely turned his head, his eyes fixating on the nearest desk drawer, the top drawer with the keyhole.

He felt his fingers grazing over the keys, hoping to unlock the drawer and reach inside—but his office door suddenly flew open, making him freeze on the spot.

A pudgy balding man stood in the doorway across from him now, his beady eyes narrowing intently at Asher.

"I said I needed the Silus Report on my desk by today," the pudgy man—Mr. Anderson—growled irritably. "Not by the 𝘦𝘯𝘥 of today."

Asher sat entirely still for a moment, his face blank. He then glimpsed down, seeing the very same report sitting just beside his computer's keyboard.

"I thought I still had today to finish it," Asher uttered.

"No, no—you 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 better by now," Mr. Anderson snapped, shaking his head and making his chubby cheeks wobble about. "I swear to God, Asher—right when I think you got your head on straight, you 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 fuck something up."

Asher remained still and quiet, teeth beginning to clench, heart making an angry jolt, and his fingers were beginning to hurt now, as his fingernails were digging painfully into the surface of his desk.

"Get it done," Mr. Anderson ordered, jabbing a sausage-like finger at him. "It better be done by noon, or there'll be 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 to pay. God fucking 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 you…"

At that, his overweight boss spun around and slammed the door shut, leaving Asher to stew in his anger alone, his office maddeningly silent like always, no sounds aside from the 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬-𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬-𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 of the clock on the far wall.

It sounded like a damn bomb was counting down, ticking away every moment of life wasted inside this cell of an office…

What he wouldn't give for a bomb to really be here—blasting it all away at once, ripping him and his routine both apart in violent splendor.

He could've longed for such a thing.

Anything to take it all away…

Asher wasn't sure how long he mulled in the silence, every negative feeling seeming disturbingly persistent today, as he simply couldn't remove the blatant pointlessness of his life from his mind.

So much to do, so many interactions, and so much work to be done—yet still, every day, it never changed a thing, never brought him closer to success, never resulted in opportunities, and never brought about any friends girlfriends, or anything aside from whatever liquor he decided to purchase in the afternoons. It wasn't as if the Silus Report was going to help any person or cause, and it certainly wouldn't save any lives. It wasn't as if that report would actually do any good in the world, and it wasn't as if he was simply enduring this constant flak and monotony for the sake of a wife or a kid he had to support.

All of this was for no one.

All the work he did, and all the shit he took—every ounce of it was, as far as he could ever perceive, wholly and entirely pointless.

Asher's hand began to move of its own accord, sliding over to the side and unlocking the desk's top drawer.

His fingers crawled inside, slipping underneath a stack of papers and coiling tightly around the blunt object beneath them—something cold, dense, and metal.

He leaned farther back in his cozy leather rolling chair, raising his silver 9-millimeter and gazing deeply into the gun, almost trancelike.

Then, he easefully raised it, holding it to his own head and gazing down the darkened barrel.

For several minutes, he kept a tight hold of it, gently grazing the trigger and wondering what it would feel like, if he'd be aware—if he'd feel the chunks of skull and brain collapsing atop his neck, or if the gunshot would bring nothing more than a quick cut to black.

For years now, he owned the gun—and he always kept it close, closer than he probably should, but it wasn't for any malicious reason.

Despite his frequent vivid fantasies of breaking Mr. Anderson's shins, Asher never once intended to turn the gun onto his coworkers, never planned to go bat-shit insane and shoot up Knoxville Credit Loan.

No, the gun had a much simpler purpose.

It was a way out, nothing more or less.

And for years now, he waited, waited for change, waited for purpose to arrive. He continued to work hard, to keep an eye out for opportunities and to seek companionship wherever he could, but it was becoming difficult to ignore just how fruitless his endeavors had been.

Things were far different from the old days, after all.

Asher, Lester, and Elliot were no longer leading a young gang of delinquents on the streets of downtown Knoxville; Elliot no longer relied on Asher, and he hadn't heard from Lester in years.

All the blind passion and purpose of Asher's youth was gone without a trace—and he could scarcely imagine such feelings of purpose making a return now.

Time began to pass beyond his notice or care.

Eventually, Asher found himself standing from his chair, wandering across the office and locking the door.

Then, he slowly faced the large window, strolling easefully toward it and observing the city from above—the same sight as always, shiny buildings and cars passing by down below, pedestrians on the sidewalks, and routines playing out in the same way they always had.

Asher's eyes remained deadened as he gazed down at the world, forgetting entirely about the Silus Report and the deadline.

His hands hung by his sides, clasping the pistol and inhaling a deep, bracing breath.

For minutes that seemed to stretch on for years, he merely stood there, rooted to the spot and glaring at the monotony of the world outside, hating it, wishing it away—but here it remained, just as it had for years, for eternity, stagnant and worthless as ever.

And, after God knows how long—just when Asher thought he might muster the nerve to stare down the barrel for the final time—a sudden ringing shattered his thoughts in an instant.

His phone was blaring a rock song again, ringing loudly from within his jacket.

Asher glimpsed down, sighing and strolling back to his desk. He sank into his seat and placed the gun down before pulling out his phone and answering the call.

"El—just wait until I see you later," Asher griped without forethought. "I'm at work right now. I can't be on my damn phone all day."

"Then you better save my number, homie."

Asher paused, suddenly bewildered.

The voice speaking from the phone wasn't Elliot's—it was far deeper and thicker, and also, vaguely familiar.

He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, examining it and seeing that Elliot's contact name and thumbnail weren't on the screen. Instead, it simply displayed a number he didn't recognize.

"Yeah—El gave me your number," the deep voice spoke again. "He called me talkin' some crazy shit. What's up with you?"

Asher slowly straightened up, leaning on his desk and feeling a touch of disbelief. "Les?"

"Yeah, man—who'd you think it was?" Lester's voice cackled in response. "I know it's been a while, but damn…"

Asher sat in surprise, pausing before speaking on. "I didn't know he had your number…"

"I was in the city a couple weeks ago and ran into him," Lester replied. "He didn't tell you?"

"No… he and I don't see each other much anymore."

"Oh, well… yeah. That makes sense."

"He's been acting weirder than usual, too."

"Sounds 'bout right. So what's up? How you been?"

Asher hesitated, leaning back and gently gliding his fingers down the cold barrel of his gun.

"I've been… the same," he mumbled. "You?"

Lester let out a booming laugh, a signature trademark of his. The sound of it made Asher crack a smirk, recalling the past and releasing a breathless chuckle.

Lester was a muscular beast of a man—a black man over six feet tall, and he certainly had the voice to match. Back in the day, he was the muscle of the group, and Asher figured he probably hadn't changed much now. He sounded just as he had ten-or-so years ago.

"Nah… I know you ain't the 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦, homie," Lester snickered. "El told me you and Tammy ain't together anymore, and I know you couldn't be workin' in an 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 acting the way you used to."

Asher thought back to his old hotheaded self, sighing and shaking his head. "I'm not really like that anymore…"

"P'shit. I know better than that. It's still in there, man—it's just asleep."

"What're you doing now? Last I heard, you were up in the mountains."

"I'm out in the Smokies, homie. Been livin' with a bunch of the good ol' boys out here. My pops left me the house and the cabin, and I got a decent job workin' the land. It pays pretty damn good. I'm gonna keep at it, as long as nobody puts me on a damn cotton field."

Asher laughed. "That's fucked up."

"Yeah—no shit," Lester chuckled. "That's why I ain't 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯' it."

"I'm sorry about your dad, Les. When did he go…?"

"'Bout two years ago. He was old as hell, though… and he went real peaceful."

"Damn. Wish I could've seen him again…"

"Yeah… he was like your pops, too."

Both of them fell silent, pondering on the past and hesitating.

Back in the day, Asher found himself homeless during his later teen years, after his own father's death—and, since his mother hadn't been around for the majority of his life, he ended up struggling on the streets for a good long while. He was always grateful to be part of their crappy little street gang back then; Elliot and Lester always gave him a place to crash whenever they could, and Lester's father always treated Asher like an estranged son. It was a strange sort of family, a bizarre little community from a time far gone—but hearing Lester's voice now seemed to give the memories a sense of importance again.

"Man… that was back when we were all struggling," Asher remarked, tapping his pistol absentmindedly. "Trying to pick each other up and keep our own damn heads above water at the same time."

"Yeah," Lester agreed. "My pops finally made it. Least he got to enjoy a little bit of retirement out here for a while…"

"Yeah… yeah, that's true."

They paused again, Asher's gaze wandering over to the shining glass window, his stare returning to its solemn and distant state.

Eventually, he faced forward again, lifting his pistol and tightening his grasp around it.

"Les," he murmured. "I have a weird question."

"M'kay," Lester said. "Shoot."

Asher let out a deep cloud of breath, his finger smoothly gliding across the trigger again.

"What keeps you going out there?" he wondered.

Lester was silent for a few seconds. "Whatchu mean…?"

Asher adjusted his grip on the gun, holding it firmly and glaring into it. "I mean you… you're working every day. You're making it. You're doing fine. But is that… is that enough?"

Lester paused again. "I don't know whatchu mean, man."

Asher sealed his eyes shut, hanging his head and releasing another sigh.

When he raised his head again, he stared intensely across the room, his grasp now viselike around the gun as he held the phone more fixedly to his ear.

"Just tell me something," Asher exhaled. "I just need an answer…"

"I don't really know what you're asking me…"

"I'm just asking… do you… do you have a 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 in life?"

The two of them fell silent again, Asher resting on his desk and gazing vacantly across the room, waiting for any kind of response.

"I don't really know, man," Lester finally answered. "I never thought about it like that. I mean… to me, the purpose of life is life. Simple as that."

Asher fell still for a moment—then slowly sat upright, narrowing his eyes at the door across from him as if it had challenged him somehow.

His mind absorbed Lester's vague statement, but instantly, the statement became clear.

Yes—relishing in life's pains and pleasures, striving forward toward one's goals, all of that was the very thing that gave it purpose, gave it meaning, perspective, and drive.

But Asher had no pains or pleasures, no excitement or relationships, no trials to endure, no goals to seek, no people to look after, and no victories to celebrate—he simply had nothing, nothing going on, no people to go home to, and nothing to look forward to.

He glanced down at the gun, setting it on the desk and biting his lip.

Asher lifted it, stood, and wandered back to the window, staring down at the world and wishing the murky gray would flourish with color the way it had ten years ago.

"Yeah," he replied. "I hear you."

"I never thought I'd hear 𝘺𝘰𝘶 ask me some shit like that," Lester stated.

Asher's brows raised, gazing vacantly into Knoxville.

"Man, you were hotheaded as hell. Whenever somebody pushed you past your limit, you just got cold as ice and fucked up their whole world. I never figured you—of 𝘢𝘭𝘭 people—would be askin' me what the purpose of life is. You're the most passionate motherfucker I know."

Asher gazed outside, his pensive brows hardening as his visage grew intense. "I was."

"Nah… you still are," Lester insisted. "Like I said, homie… it's just sleepin' right now."

He still felt lost, dazed and submerged in a gray, dreamlike state, just as he had for years now—but something deep inside, perhaps the very thing Lester spoke of, seemed to be, just barely, sparking back to life.

A fire, perhaps—a tiny flicker of passion nestled deeply in his core, a longing to finally act how he wanted, to simply do as he pleased and to leave all the drudgery behind.

It felt as if—buried deeper than the heart of the earth—that the passion Lester spoke of was finally attempting to awaken.

"Thank you… Les, thank you," Asher muttered.

"Uh… okay," Lester responded. "What for…?"

"Listen—I'm gonna head out now," Asher told him, flipping up his suit jacket and tucking the gun into the back of his pants, safely hidden from sight. "I'll call you back later."

"Um… all right. You good, man?"

"Yeah. I am now. Seeya later."

After hanging up and pocketing his phone, Asher stared ominously at the city down below.

And it was strange, not that Lester's obscure words managed to lift his mood—but that the odd, worrying sight outside seemed to be doing much the same.

The people on the street down below appeared to be far gone from their usual routines now.

College kids suddenly ran wild, a few police cars raced down the street, and there even seemed to be some form of riot control out there, chaos erupting up and down the street far below.

Somehow—all at once—the world was shattering before his very eyes, a slow-growing excitement rising up from somewhere unknown, feeling as if a gray, dull film had been lifted from his gaze after ten long years, finally allowing the world to flourish into color in full.

The faint little lines along his face—manufacturing a visage he couldn't remember frowning into existence—craned into a smooth, crooked imprint at the corner of his mouth, a sly, devilish smirk he hadn't worn in a decade as he watched his world outside begin to crumble.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴.

He took the Silus Report and threw it at the window—the folder smacking hard into the glass and sending papers flying amok.

Then—Asher Cullen spun on his heel, still wearing his icy half-smile and strolling out of the office without a single care in the world.