The uniform is baggy. Unreasonably so. The kind of baggy that makes you question if they even make women’s sizes or if they just handed you the smallest thing from the men’s pile and called it a day.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, tilting your head. The belt, cinched tight, still doesn’t sit right. The sleeves go past your wrists. The pants? Bunched at the ankles.

“Yeah. This inspires confidence,” you mutter.

The mirror offers no reassurance. No voice of reason telling you this is a good idea. Just you, swallowed by fabric, staring back.

You sigh, grab your bag, and head out. The air outside is crisp, the sky still tinged with the last breath of evening light.

The bus stop is only a block away and shares a corner with a store that looks too new for the neighbourhood. A scarlet red sign is emblazoned with the words Hot Boyz Bodega in white over the door and every time someone walks in or out the most delicious aromas fill the air; a tidbit you file away for future munchie purposes.

When the bus arrives you scan your card, wedge yourself into a seat near the back, lean your head against the cold window, and watch the city move past. The streetlights, the cracked sidewalks, the people waiting at corners—it’s nothing new, but you feel separate from it now. Like a piece that’s been put back with the wrong puzzle.

Or maybe it’s you that’s changed.

—

The job site is exactly what you expected: bleak. A massive concrete building, the kind with long hallways and too many doors. The security office is small, overcrowded with ancient monitors showing grainy black-and-white footage of parking lots, empty hallways, and—riveting—an elevator that nobody seems to be using.

Your new coworkers are exactly what you expected, too. Big guys, thick-necked, all muscle and high school locker room energy.

One of them—Danny, you think—gives you a slow once-over and smirks. “You sure you’re in the right place, kid?”

“Oh,” you deadpan. “You must be the funny one.”

A few of them chuckle. Danny doesn’t.

“Well,” another guy, Glen, chimes in, “hope you can handle long hours of absolutely nothing. That door over there? Your new best friend. Nobody comes in or out, but we gotta watch it anyway. Y’know, just in case.”

You glance at the door. It is, in fact, a door. Exciting.

—

Hours pass.

You sit.

And sit.

And sit.

The glow from the monitors flickers, casting odd shapes against the walls. The grainy footage cycles between empty hallways, parking lots, and the occasional janitor making rounds. The kind of job that makes you aware of every second of your life ticking away.

—

By the time your shift ends, you feel like you’ve been drained of all life force.

You trudge through your apartment door, dropping your bag onto the floor, kicking off your shoes mid-step, the uniform still swallowing you whole.

The apartment is silent when you return. No TV murmuring in the background. No clinking of ice. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the weight of exhaustion settling over you as you collapse onto the couch.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment before muttering, “I can’t believe it’s only been one day.”

For a job that involves doing nothing, you’re exhausted.

You pull the blanket over yourself and let your eyes close.

At least it’s a paycheck…

At least it’s all yours…

At least…