Story code: ST-000264
Part 2: The Price of Rescue
The grip on Mateo’s shoulder was alarmingly strong. Fingers dug into his collarbone, hauling his dead weight backward. Mateo’s rubbery legs dragged uselessly over the threshold track, his worn sneakers catching on the plush, pristine carpeting of the penthouse. He tried to resist, a primal instinct flaring against being pulled into a stranger’s territory, but his muscles were water.
“Easy. Let’s get you off the floor,” the man commanded, his voice smooth but laced with an undeniable, practiced authority.
The penthouse smelled of ozone and expensive cedar. Mateo’s head lolled back against the cold leather of a low-profile sofa. The ceiling above was a sprawling expanse of exposed concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass, spinning wildly in his fading vision. The terrifying, familiar hollow echo in Mateo’s chest roared, drowning out the ambient hum of the room. He needed to tell the man not to call an ambulance. The absolute certainty of a three-thousand-dollar emergency room bill was a threat more tangible than death.
“No… box…” Mateo mumbled, his thick tongue stumbling over the word ambulance.
“Drink this.”
Cold glass pressed against his chapped lips. A heavy hand gripped the back of his neck, tilting his head forward. Mateo choked as an intensely sweet liquid flooded his mouth. Freshly squeezed orange juice. His throat worked reflexively, swallowing the liquid gold. He coughed, a few drops spilling down his chin and soaking into the collar of his faded jacket, but the man didn’t pull the glass away.
“Keep swallowing,” the man said.
Mateo drained it. He slumped back against the leather, his chest heaving, his skin clammy and freezing. The silence in the room was immense. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sugar to hit his bloodstream. It always felt like a warm, agonizing crawl, a slow unfreezing of his vital organs.
Minutes stretched. The aggressive trembling in his hands began to downshift into a dull vibration. The gray static at the edges of his vision finally began to recede, leaving behind a pounding headache.
Mateo opened his eyes. The blurry shapes of the penthouse sharpened into devastating focus.
He was suspended in a glass box above the city. Through the panoramic windows, he could see the grid of streets he usually navigated in his sputtering Corolla. Down there was where his uncle’s shop used to be, now permanently buried beneath this very tower of steel and wealth.
The man was standing by a massive marble kitchen island, casually wiping his hands with a linen towel. He looked to be in his late fifties, with silver hair perfectly styled and a face that managed to look rugged yet impeccably moisturized.
“Better?” the man asked, tossing the towel onto the counter.
Mateo nodded weakly, lifting a shaking hand to wipe his mouth. “I… yes. Thank you.” He suddenly remembered the scattered bags in the hallway. “The groceries. The app-”
“I brought the bags inside. Don’t worry about your rating,” the man interrupted, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Though I’d advise against bleeding on my vintage silk Persian rug. You’re lucky I was home. I know exactly what a diabetic crash looks like.”
Mateo flinched. He was a mess, a liability in this sterile environment. “I can leave. I just need a minute to stand-”
“Stay sitting,” the man ordered, not unkindly, but with the tone of someone who had never been told no. “If you stand up now, you’ll pitch right back over. I’m Arthur, by the way.”
Arthur turned his back, pouring a glass of water from an elegant dispenser. Mateo’s gaze drifted from the man to the coffee table in front of him. It was a slab of raw-edge walnut, meticulously clean except for a thick, leather-bound portfolio lying open in the center.
Mateo’s eyes locked onto the header of the exposed document.
*Novalis Biopharma – Executive Summary: Q4 Retail Margin Adjustments.*
Next to the bold text was a sleek, overlapping double-helix logo. Mateo’s breath caught in his throat.
Novalis.
The name echoed in his skull, louder than his erratic heartbeat. That exact double-helix logo was stamped on the small glass vials in his refrigerator. The vials he had stared at for hours on Tuesday night, agonizing over the microscopic tick marks on the plastic syringe. The vials that had just spiked to three hundred and forty dollars out of pocket, forcing him to ration his doses because his gig-economy jobs offered no insurance.
Arthur walked back over, oblivious to the terror mounting in Mateo’s chest. He set the water glass on the table, right next to the portfolio detailing the cost of Mateo’s life.
“You gig workers,” Arthur said, shaking his head with a sympathetic sigh that sounded incredibly hollow. “You push yourselves to the brink for pennies. It’s a broken system. You really ought to take better care of your health, son. I work in healthcare economics. I know firsthand that chronic illness isn’t something you can afford to manage poorly.”
Mateo stared at the water glass. It trembled slightly, mirroring the violent shaking that had returned to his hands. It wasn’t the hypoglycemia making him shake anymore. It was a suffocating wave of adrenaline.
“I…” Mateo’s voice was a ragged whisper. He looked up at Arthur’s face, at the self-satisfied smile of a savior who had just handed him a glass of juice funded by his own extortion.
“Don’t try to thank me,” Arthur chuckled, clapping a heavy hand onto Mateo’s shoulder again. “Just consider it your lucky day. Now, let’s talk about getting you some proper help. You’re still pale as a ghost, and a juice glass isn’t a permanent fix.”
Arthur pulled a sleek silver phone from his pocket. “I have a private concierge physician on call for the building. I can have him up here in ten minutes to administer a proper IV and run your vitals.”
Mateo’s stomach plummeted. “No. Please. I can’t pay for that.”
“I’ll cover the call-out fee,” Arthur said smoothly, already dialing. “But you’ll need to handle the treatment costs. It’s for your own good. I insist.”
Mateo was trapped on the fifty-second floor, entirely at the mercy of the man who had authored his near-death experience, listening to the phone ring as Arthur boxed him into a corner he couldn’t afford to survive.