Resignation

Alex stood at the front of the tall, glass-paneled building, his reflection staring back at him from the shimmering surface. The headquarters of Elara Solutions loomed over him like a monolith, its sleek design almost mocking the chaos swirling inside his mind. He tightened his grip on the envelope in his hand—the resignation letter he'd hastily written the night before.

The lobby was bright and bustling with employees moving purposefully, their chatter blending with the faint hum of the air conditioning. Alex moved through the crowd like a ghost, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes darting around as if he expected someone to call him out.

He pressed the button for the elevator, the faint ding pulling his attention back. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and hit the button for the top floor, leaning against the mirrored wall as the doors closed. His reflection stared back at him, tired and hollow-eyed, and for a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in its expression. He blinked, and it was gone.

When he reached the top floor, the hallway was quiet, a stark contrast to the activity below. The carpet muffled his footsteps as he approached a frosted glass door with the nameplate: "Veronica Cain – Director of Operations."

Alex took a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before knocking twice.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

The office was spacious and minimalist, with large windows offering a panoramic view of the city. Veronica Cain sat behind a sleek, dark wood desk, her posture upright and composed. She was in her early forties, her sharp features softened by the warm lighting of the room. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a polished bun, and her piercing green eyes studied him over the thin frames of her glasses. She wore a tailored navy blazer over a white blouse, and the faintest hint of a smile graced her lips as she gestured for him to enter.

"Alex," she greeted, her tone professional but not unkind. "This is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

Alex swallowed, his throat dry, and approached the desk. His movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as if each step was an effort. He placed the envelope on the desk, his fingers lingering on it for a second longer than necessary before pulling back.

"I'm here to resign," he said simply, his voice low but steady.

Veronica's smile faded, replaced by a look of mild surprise. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers interlacing on the desk as she regarded him carefully. "Resign?" she repeated, her brows knitting together. "Effective when?"

"Today."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she tilted her head, studying him like she was trying to read between the lines. "Alex, this is… sudden. Is everything okay? What's going on?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the polished surface of the desk. "It's health issues," he said, his tone clipped, as if he didn't want to elaborate.

Veronica leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. Her voice softened, losing some of its formal edge. "Health issues? Alex, if there's something wrong, we can work with you. Adjust your workload, give you time—"

"No," he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. He finally met her gaze, his hazel eyes heavy with something she couldn't quite place. "I've already made up my mind."

For a moment, there was silence. Veronica's lips parted slightly, like she wanted to protest, but she stopped herself. Instead, she leaned back in her chair again, exhaling slowly through her nose.

"All right," she said finally, her tone resigned but not without concern. "I won't press. But if you ever need anything—"

"I appreciate that," Alex cut in, his voice softening. He offered a faint, almost apologetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you, Veronica. For everything."

Before she could respond, he turned and walked toward the door. His movements were smooth but deliberate, as if he was determined to leave before his resolve faltered.

Veronica watched him go, her lips pressing into a thin line. As the door clicked shut behind him, she leaned back in her chair, a frown creasing her features. Something about Alex's demeanor unsettled her. He wasn't just quitting; he was running from something.

Alex stepped into the hallway, his chest tight but his steps unwavering. The envelope was delivered, his decision made. As he walked toward the elevator, he felt a strange mix of relief and dread. He had closed one chapter, but the weight of the unknown loomed heavy on his shoulders.

When the elevator doors closed behind him, he let out a shaky breath, the polished interior reflecting a man who barely recognized himself.

Back At His Apartment

Alex sat hunched over the small, scratched dining table in his apartment, the faint hum of his laptop the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. The dim light from a single desk lamp cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes and the furrow in his brow. His hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, before he finally started typing:

"Dissociative Identity Disorder powers?"

The search results flooded the screen, and he leaned in, his hazel eyes scanning the titles of articles and forums. Most were clinical, filled with words he didn't fully understand: "Trauma-based disorder," "fragmented self," "coping mechanisms." Others seemed downright bizarre, claiming links between DID and supernatural abilities.

He frowned, his jaw tightening. "This can't be real," he muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

One forum thread caught his eye: "DID and latent abilities – is it possible?"

Clicking on it, he found a mix of responses—some dismissing the idea outright, others recounting strange stories of enhanced strength, speed, or unusual intuition when certain personalities took over. His stomach churned as he read on, his breathing shallow.

He clicked back to the search bar and typed again, faster this time:

"Can DID be cured?"

The first result was a mental health site, listing years of therapy, grounding techniques, and support groups as the main avenues for treatment. He rubbed his temples, his frustration mounting. Therapy? He didn't have years. He needed answers now.

His hand moved to his face, fingers dragging down as he exhaled shakily. "What the hell is happening to me?" he whispered.

The screen blurred as his vision welled with tears he refused to let fall. He blinked rapidly and straightened, trying to steel himself. His hands clenched into fists before he forced them flat on the table, grounding himself in the cool wood beneath his palms.

A notification pinged from the corner of the screen, startling him. His heart skipped, and he quickly clicked on it. It was an email from a generic-sounding site: "Unlock Your True Potential – Discover the Hidden You."

Alex frowned. "Spam," he muttered, but his mouse hovered over the subject line. His finger hesitated on the button. The timing felt too perfect, too coincidental. Against his better judgment, he clicked.

The email was brief, almost cryptic:

"Are you struggling to understand what's inside you? You're not alone. Come to 1408 West Ashfield Street for answers. Midnight tonight. You'll find what you're looking for."

Alex sat back in his chair, his pulse quickening. His brows furrowed deeply, and he bit the inside of his cheek. Was this a trap? A scam? Or… something more?

He looked around his apartment, the silence pressing in on him. The stack of resignation papers sat on the counter, next to a sink full of dishes he hadn't bothered to clean. He felt adrift, like a man clutching at straws to stay afloat.

His gaze returned to the screen, the words burning into his mind. You'll find what you're looking for.

Alex closed the laptop with more force than he intended, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he tried to make sense of his own thoughts.

He felt a sudden flicker of warmth at his fingertips. He yanked his hand away, staring at it as if it belonged to someone else. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a faint glow.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head vehemently. "This isn't happening."

His breaths came faster, the walls of the apartment feeling like they were closing in. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and began pacing. His movements were restless, his arms crossing and uncrossing, his fingers flexing and twitching at his sides.

As much as he hated the idea, he knew he couldn't ignore the email. He stopped in the middle of the room, staring at the dark window that reflected his worn-down figure. His jaw clenched.

Midnight.

"Fine," he said aloud, as if daring the universe to answer. "I'll go. But this better give me answers."

His voice wavered, betraying the fear creeping into his chest. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and threw it on, the weight of the decision settling on him like a heavy cloak.

For the first time in days, a faint flicker of purpose crossed his face. Even if it was a trap, he needed to know. And he was willing to risk everything to find out.