Joseph Humbridge woke with the distinct impression that something had died inside his skull.
He groaned and flopped a hand across his face, palm cold against the heat of his skin. His eyes refused to focus. His tongue felt like dried cotton. His thoughts staggered around like vagrants searching for a place to sleep.
Too much stim. Too much cheap liquor. Never again.
He rolled to his side and squinted at the clock on his nightstand. 8:37 AM. He hadn't set an alarm. He hadn't needed one. What job did he have left to wake up for?
Joseph lay still for a few long seconds, waiting to see if the pounding in his head would fade. It didn't. He groaned, sat up, and reached for the bottle of painkillers on the shelf above his bed. Two pills, dry-swallowed. His throat caught on them and he coughed, wheezing. Another brilliant idea, right alongside last night's.
He blinked blearily at the room. His apartment was small and stale, reeking faintly of synth-beer, engine grease, and the ozone tang of overstressed electronics. One of the power conduits sparked in the ceiling again—he made a mental note to ignore it, like always.
"Might as well get a shower. Maybe scrape some dignity together."
The mirror in the bathroom confirmed his suspicions: he looked worse than he felt. His dark hair stuck in six directions, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his jaw was coated with rough stubble. He splashed water on his face, grunted, and stepped into the shower.
Try again, Joseph, he thought. Get clean. Get moving. You've been lower than this.
He wasn't sure that was true anymore.
By the time the water ran cold, the painkillers had dulled his headache to a tolerable throb. He dressed slowly—grey cargo pants, a faded black shirt, the one clean pair of boots he owned—and shuffled into the kitchen.
He poured a bowl of synth-cereal. It looked like plastic pebbles, smelled like lemon, and tasted like damp disappointment. He didn't care. It was food. Sort of.
Then he checked his phone.
15 unread messages.
He blinked. That was unusual. He tapped the first.
Patrick:
Hey Joey… why did you ask me last night to lend you money again? I can't remember, bro.
Joseph frowned. He couldn't remember either.
Had he needed it for stim? For food? For something else?
The memory was hazy—just vague impressions of a bar, a drink, a woman with dark eyes and a sharp smile.
He texted back.
Joseph:
No clue. If you remember, let me know.
The next few messages were spam or from people he didn't recognize—leftover contacts from better days. Days when he had a job. A fiancée. A future.
But one message stood out.
Carla:
Good morning. I hope we can move forward with the proposition I gave you last night.
Joseph blinked at the name. Carla.
The woman at the bar.
She'd been poised and articulate, with a professional smile that hadn't quite touched her eyes. She'd talked about some kind of test. A contract. Fifty thousand credits, just for volunteering.
Joseph stood slowly and padded into the bedroom. He dug through the pants he'd worn the night before, and his fingers closed around a sleek, matte card.
GENTECH.
Just the logo. No contact information on the front. But on the back: a number. A direct line.
He stared at it, pulse picking up.
Fifty thousand credits. Enough to pay off Patrick. Maybe even leave Earth.
A bitter grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Easiest money I'll ever make."
He texted the number.
Five minutes later, his phone rang.
He hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice snapped to life on the other end, brisk and businesslike. "Yes, is this Joseph Humbridge? This is Susie, Carla's secretary. I'm calling to confirm your interest in the Gentech opportunity."
Joseph rubbed his temple. "Uh… yeah. I guess. Still kind of hazy on the details."
"No need to worry," Susie said. "We have an opening for a voluntary experimental subject, duration to be determined. Compensation will be 50,000 credits upon successful completion of phase one."
Joseph frowned. "Okay, but—don't I need to pass an interview or something?"
"Not unless you're applying for a job," she replied curtly. "Which, according to your profile, you're not qualified for. Unless you want janitorial work."
Joseph snorted. "Even the secretary's taking shots now?"
Silence on the other end.
Then, "A shuttle has been dispatched to your address. Please be ready in twenty minutes."
The line went dead.
Joseph lowered the phone slowly.
"A shuttle? Already?"
Something about that felt too fast. Too planned.
But fifty thousand was fifty thousand.
He had no idea this had been in motion for far longer than one drunken night at a bar. No idea that Gentech had been watching him for over a year. That every string pulling him toward Helix had been deliberately threaded through job rejections, fake misconduct claims, and social sabotage.
By the time the shuttle landed on the rooftop of his complex, Joseph had already packed a bag.
He didn't look back as he boarded.