Chapter 2 : A normal day in Victor's life

Quota 0/130 - Only 2 Days Left

6:30 PM

"And now there's a traffic jam, just perfect," Victor thought as he saw the endless line of cars ahead of him. His GPS assured him he'd make it on time, yet he couldn't shake off his anxiety. Any minor accident or unforeseen delay and he'd be late for his first shift. And, of course, he couldn't even blame the company for being late on his job due to the confidentiality agreement those sharks had made him sign.

"Damn this company," he muttered for the umpteenth time, as if it were the source of all his problem. Perhaps in response to his constant complaints, the traffic ahead started to clear.

He would've loved to hit the gas and slalomed through the traffic to avoid any other standstill on the ring road, but his car wouldn't allow it. With 500,000 kilometers on the odometer and not a single check-up in the last 100,000 kilometers, it was a miracle that it was still running. But let's not tempt fate.

Victor slowly but surely maneuvered himself out of the cursed ring road and into the city. Lille.

A French city in the extreme north, close to the Channel and England, where it always rains, where it's always cold, and where unemployment seems to lurk around every corner.

A city where, apart from Victor, everyone constantly complained...

"Damn this city!" Victor exclaimed, stopping at the tenth red light in less than 10 minutes. Every light had turned red just as he was approaching, as if they were mocking him.

Speaking of mocking, a black Mercedes pulled up on the bike lane next to his battered sedan and revved its engine. Normally, Victor would ignore such taunts, thinking, "Nice sound, but you're lucky that I'm not in the mood to race."

But not today.

Today, he wanted to show those flashy German sedans not to underestimate French engineering. So, he responded to the challenge with a roar of his engine, admittedly less impressive than the Mercedes if he was being honest.

The light was still red, but it was one of those temporary traffic lights at construction sites with a countdown.

5...

The engines roared.

4...

Pigeons seemed to be the only witnesses to the impending showdown.

3...

Victor rolled up his window to improve aerodynamics.

2...

He eyed his opponent: a young guy in his twenties, probably bought the car with his work bonuses.

1...

On the passenger seat was a girl, probably his sister judging by the look of disgust on her face. She was quite cute, with her blonde pigtails swinging from side to side, her pristine white shirt, and her eyes—blue, green, or brown, Victor couldn't quite tell from the distance as he pressed his face against the passenger window to get a better look.

He snapped out of his trance only to see the Mercedes stutter.

The guy had stalled.

Victor suddenly remembered he was in the middle of a race.

"Damn this woman," he grumbled as he shifted gears. Races like this usually spanned from one light to the next over a distance of about 400 meters. But, of course, Lille had to have traffic lights everywhere, so their race would only cover about a hundred meters. The short distance favored Victor since the Mercedes had stalled, but he wasn't about to thank the city for it.

He was about to win when a loud thud came from under his hood, and a warning light flickered above his speedometer.

He couldn't accelerate at all.

He looked back in disdain at the Mercedes catching up.

"Damn this company," he muttered through his clenched teeth. As the sound of the German sedan grew louder, Victor approached the finish line at a snail's pace.

And as La Fontaine wrote, "There's no point in running; you must leave without stalling and have enough momentum to cross the finish line." Thanking Monsieur de la Fontaine for the proverb, Victor crossed the finish line with less than a meter's lead over the Mercedes.

But even though he had won the race, Victor faced a small problem: he was stuck in the middle of the road with less than 10 minutes to make it to his shift. He glanced at the driver of the Mercedes on the bike lane asking for a rematch, then at the line of cars behind him, before he left his car and started running. He sincerely wished all the drivers good luck in his heart and prayed to God that the company would reimburse his repair costs.

He sprinted towards his workplace a few hundred meters away, running as fast as his body would allow, ignoring the honks ringing in his ears.

He arrived 2 minutes early, panting as if he had run a marathon, not a mere hundred meters. He now looked more like a zombie than a human, but it didn't matter.

He had arrived just in time to wear a waiter's shirt and stand up for three hours. Perhaps this shift was more physically demanding than his morning or early afternoon jobs, but at least it was less boring and paid better. Packaging figurines early in the morning while still being sleepy had the supernatural power to put Victor to sleep faster than counting sheep, and cashiering in the afternoon made him roll his eyes every time an elderly lady showed up at his register. So, given the choice, he preferred standing for hours, salivating over the dishes that passed by rather than being bored.

And he never said no to more money.

He climbed the stairs and entered the hotel through the front door. While the building's exterior was quite modern, the interior exuded classicism. There were luxurious leather armchairs, exquisite black and white engravings on the ceiling, a gleaming marble floor, and the soft sound of piano music floating in the air.

After greeting the receptionist, he headed to the hotel's restaurant. His father had secured this job for him several months ago, and Victor made it a point to always be on time. Because he probably wouldn't find a waiter job this well-paid anywhere else in the city, and it was likely the last connection he had to his father. Of course, there were also all the debts to repay.

Victor arrived at the hotel's restaurant. At some tables, the regulars, always well-dressed, whom Victor saw daily reading their newspapers before starting their meals, were already seated. And at the bar, the restaurant manager was waiting for him, sternly checking the time on her watch. She must have been in her thirties, and Victor had to admit, she looked stunning in her suit. But, as with all beautiful things, it's only upon closer inspection that the flaws become apparent: this woman should have been the embodiment of perfectionism. She only looked up when Victor approached. Her eyes might have shown indifference, but her voice was ice-cold: "You have 1 minute to get ready, Victor." Then she ignored him to check her watch again.

'Why are the most beautiful women always the craziest?' Victor muttered as he hurried off to get ready. After slipping into a shirt and tidying up his hair, he got to work. Evenings were always very quiet, with clients either being extremely talkative or as silent as the grave. This evening was no exception.

After finishing his shift, Victor left the hotel. The night had already fallen, and his car had vanished, likely towed away by a tow truck. Luckily, his apartment was just a short walk away, but Victor decided to take a slight detour.

10:00 PM

'Hopefully, I'll be back before 11 PM,' he thought as he set off. He was heading towards the company building. The alleys were deserted due to the cold, and Victor began to shiver under his coat. Fortunately, he had already arrived in front of the building.

Nothing about its facade suggested that it hid a nefarious company behind its door, a company that had refused to reimburse Victor for his gas. And they would pay one day. But probably not today if Victor was being honest.

Victor stepped through the door to find himself in front of the reception desk. On a chalkboard, the company's four rules were scribbled:

- Close the entrance doors after you.

- Found items may only be sold to the company.

- The existence of the company must remain a secret.

- Meet your Quota.

There was no mention of what might happen if someone broke any of these rules. Of course, Victor was already so in debt that he didn't care about facing one or two lawsuits.

He shifted his gaze from the rules to the person sitting behind the desk. It was a young woman whom Victor greeted with the codename she had given him the day before:

"Good evening, Experimentation.

- Good evening, Victor, how was your day?" she asked.

- My car gave me trouble again," he replied, trying to sound as heart-rending as possible.

But the receptionist wasn't fooled. She swiftly changed the subject to the reason for his visit. "Are you here to sell?"

Her entire demeanor changed the moment she asked.

'No need to be bipolar,' Victor thought.

Why else would he have come here, in the cold and late at night, if not to sell what he had found today?

Perhaps she thought... he had come for her?

He nervously observed the receptionist, trying to decipher her body language.

Authority.

Uprightness.

And... irritation?

Well, maybe Victor shouldn't have stared at her so intently without saying a word.

He finally emptied the contents of his bag. He had thought she would be surprised or even annoyed to see him pull out various pieces of dinnerware, but she showed no emotion. Experimentation stood up to take Victor's findings to a machine in the corner of the room. It was a sort of printer with a digital screen, except instead of placing white sheets, there was room for statues over two meters long. This machine would decide if his day's efforts were in vain.

The vase went inside the machine, and a number began to appear on the screen.

'Please let it be 130...' he muttered, holding his breath.

The machine started to display the unit's digit.

0.

Then the tens digit.

And then, nothing else.

The vase was worth 30.

All his searching, all his efforts, for 30.

Only for the whip that he had grabbed hastily from the kitchen to be valued at 40.

If this wasn't a joke, Victor didn't know what was.

He had filled half his quota, yet he left the building with a heavy heart, not even responding to the receptionist's goodbye.

He checked the time on his phone.

10:15 PM

Maybe tomorrow would be better. He crossed the road in the rain to head home and was hit by a truck.