Story code: ST-000499
Part 3: The Hustle
The black hornets in Marcus’s vision suddenly swarmed the center of his eyes, drowning out the bright white of the kitchen.
His knees hit the floor with a heavy, sickening thud. The impact sent a shockwave up his spine, but he barely felt the pain through the icy numbness paralyzing his limbs. The clipboard slipped from his rigid, clawed fingers, clattering loudly against the pristine marble tiles. He pitched forward, catching himself on his palms just before his face struck the floor. He was gasping, pulling in jagged lungfuls of air that tasted heavily of copper and the sweet, cloying scent of the teriyaki glaze.
“Hey! Watch the floor!” The polished baritone snapped, entirely devoid of concern.
Marcus couldn’t lift his head. The room tilted on a violent, nauseating axis. The roaring in his ears grew deafening. “Please,” he managed to croak, his voice a dry, ragged whisper scraping against his throat. “Sugar. Need… orange juice. Please.”
A heavy sigh echoed above him. The sound of expensive leather shoes shifted on the marble, stepping further away. “Unbelievable. Is this a joke? You guys pull this sick-stunt routine for a bigger tip? Look at you. You’re a liability.”
Marcus forced his eyes open. The dark static slowly receded, leaving a blurred, tunnel-vision view of perfectly creased wool trousers. He dug his trembling fingers into the grout lines of the tiles, fighting gravity to lift his heavy head. “Mr. Vance… please,” Marcus pleaded, the words slurring together. “My medication… I’m crashing.”
The man paused. Silence stretched for a second, broken only by Marcus’s ragged breathing.
Then, the man laughed. It wasn’t a chuckle; it was a sharp, grating sound of genuine amusement. “Elias? You think I’m the big boss?”
Marcus blinked, his sluggish brain struggling to process the words. He stared up at the unlined face.
The man adjusted his silver cufflinks, looking down with a mixture of pity and contempt. “I’m Trent. Elias just let me use the guest estate to host my victory lap for Q3. Though,” Trent smirked, turning to trace a finger over the silver Apexis Pharmaceuticals logo on the leather folder sitting on the counter, “I practically bought him his new yacht. You see this?”
Trent tapped the heavy leather binder. “My regional sales strategy. I told Elias we were leaving money on the table with that new synthetic insulin line. The enzyme.”
The words pierced through the thick fog in Marcus’s brain like ice picks. *Synthetic insulin. The enzyme.* The translucent orange bottles in his bathroom cabinet.
Trent casually stepped around the massive kitchen island, completely ignoring the man shuddering on his floor, and pulled open the heavy door of a brushed-steel refrigerator. A wave of perfectly chilled air spilled out, washing over Marcus’s feverish face. Trent reached inside and retrieved a tall, glass carafe filled with bright, pulp-heavy orange juice.
The vibrant color hit Marcus’s retinas like a rescue flare. His mouth watered so violently he nearly choked. His empty stomach cramped into a tight, agonizing knot. The juice was salvation. It was right there.
“Just a glass,” Marcus begged, his voice tearing. He tried to push himself up, his left palm slipping dangerously in the drops of spilled sauce. “I’m diabetic. I’m… rationing. Please.”
Trent pulled a crystal highball glass from an open floating shelf and poured the juice. The liquid splashed beautifully against the glass. Trent brought it to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip, letting out a refreshed, satisfied breath.
“Diabetic? So you know the product,” Trent said, swirling the orange liquid in the crystal glass. He leaned his hip against the counter, looking down at Marcus. “I pushed the aggressive markup. Four hundred percent increase across the board. It was my pitch. People need it to live, right? Inelastic demand. You literally can’t say no. Best quarter Apexis ever had. My bonus cleared yesterday. Hence the premium catering.”
Marcus stared blankly at the glass in Trent’s hand. The condensation beaded on the crystal, catching the recessed lighting of the kitchen. He was dying because of the numbers in that leather folder. He was convulsing on a kitchen floor because the man drinking the orange juice had decided a four-hundred-percent markup was a smart career move.
Against Marcus’s thigh, the phone vibrated again in a long, continuous buzz. Dex. The blood money. The violent street life he had promised himself he would never return to.
“You know,” Trent continued, his tone shifting into a patronizing lecture, “instead of begging for handouts and making excuses on a client’s floor, you should look at the economics of your situation. You’re in the gig economy, man. It’s about the hustle.”
Marcus’s jaw trembled. His eyes remained locked onto the bright orange liquid.
“Look at me,” Trent said, taking another agonizingly slow sip. “I saw an undervalued asset, I optimized the pricing model, and I crushed my quota. You? You’re complaining about blood sugar when you should be optimizing your delivery routes. You want to afford the new insulin prices? Pick up more shifts. Add a side gig. Work smarter. Don’t guilt-trip the people actually moving the market.”
Trent set the half-empty glass of juice down on the edge of the marble island. It was exactly three feet away from Marcus’s face. So close he could smell the sweet, acidic citrus.
“Wipe up that sauce,” Trent ordered, his voice hardening into a cold, corporate command. “Take your clipboard, and get out of Elias’s house before I call your dispatcher. I don’t reward laziness, and I definitely don’t tip for theatrics.”
Marcus remained frozen on his hands and knees. The buzzing in his pocket drilled into his thigh, a relentless rhythm matching the pounding in his skull. He stared at the golden puddle of condensation forming around the base of the crystal glass, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Trent’s smug, unbothered gaze.