Chapter 1: Candidate #345

Chapter 1: Candidate #345

The severance package felt less like a safety net and more like a final, polite shove off a cliff. For three weeks, Elias Vance had been freefalling. Three weeks of hollow reassurances to his wife, Lena, of forced smiles for his two kids, and of the gnawing, acidic dread that kept him staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. His title, Director of Operations, had evaporated overnight, leaving him with a mortgage that mocked him and a resume that felt like a relic from another man’s life.

Desperation was a foul taste in his mouth. It made him answer emails he would have deleted a month ago, from headhunters with names like “Apex Solutions” and “Synergy Corp”—faceless entities promising six-figure salaries for vaguely defined “logistical management” roles.

Then came the offer from Lumen.

It was different. The email was minimalist, almost sterile. One line: “Mr. Vance, we have a position uniquely suited to your problem-solving capabilities. A car will be at your residence tomorrow at 0800 hours. Your discretion is paramount.” No application, no interview, just a summons. When he’d called the number, a calm, impossibly smooth voice had answered.

“This is Mr. Sterling. We’ve been observing your career for some time. We value efficiency. The preliminary stages are… unnecessary.”

Elias had wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the thought of Lena’s worried face and the mounting pile of bills had cemented his tongue. He’d simply said, “I’ll be ready.”

The car that arrived was a sleek, black sedan with windows so tinted they looked like polished obsidian. Mr. Sterling, who introduced himself with a handshake that was firm but utterly devoid of warmth, sat in the passenger seat. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in a suit so sharp it could have cut glass, with silvering hair at the temples and a smile that never reached his calm, observant eyes.

“Just a preliminary assessment, Elias,” Sterling said as they drove, his voice a placid hum against the silent purr of the engine. “A chance for you to see our facility, for us to see you in our environment.”

The “facility” was a monument to anonymity. A gleaming white tower that stabbed into the overcast sky, it had no name, no logo, nothing to distinguish it from a hundred other corporate monoliths. They didn't go through a lobby. A private elevator took them from a subterranean garage deep into the building’s core. The ride was unnervingly silent, the only sound the soft ding as they ascended.

Sterling led him down a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. White walls, white ceiling, white floor, all bathed in the flat, shadowless glare of fluorescent lights. The air was cool and smelled of ozone, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. There were no windows, no art, no signs of human life beyond the two of them.

“Your workspace for the assessment,” Sterling announced, gesturing to a door marked with a simple, elegant plaque: Office #345. “Settle in. Familiarize yourself with the terminal. I’ll return shortly to begin the onboarding.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. With another bloodless smile, Sterling turned and walked away, his footsteps making no sound on the polished floor until he vanished back down the endless hall.

Elias pushed the door open and stepped inside. The sense of sterile uniformity continued. A white desk, a high-backed ergonomic chair, a sleek, dark computer terminal that was currently sleeping. The room was pristine, unnervingly so. Not a stray paperclip, not a speck of dust. It felt less like an office and more like a showroom, a place where the idea of work was displayed but never actually performed.

His meticulous nature, the very trait that had made him a good Director of Operations, kicked in. His eyes scanned for details, for anything out of place. He ran a hand over the cool, smooth surface of the desk. He checked the drawers; they were all empty. He looked for a phone, but there was none. Only the terminal.

Then he saw it.

On the wall to his left, where a window should have been, hung a single framed plaque. It was an “Employee of the Month” award. His logical mind registered the corporate cliché, but then the details sharpened into focus, and the air in his lungs turned to ice.

The name on the plaque was Elias Vance.

The photograph was of him. It was undeniably his face, the same dark hair, the same scar above his left eyebrow from falling out of a tree when he was nine. But the man in the picture was… wrong. His eyes were hollowed out, shadowed with an exhaustion that went bone-deep. New lines were etched around his mouth, lines of stress and grim resignation. He looked ten years older, and a hundred years more broken.

Below the photo, the date sent a tremor of pure, unadulterated shock through him.

October 2027.

Three years in the future.

He stumbled back, his hand hitting the desk for support. This had to be a joke. A prank. An incredibly elaborate, cruel joke. They’ve been observing your career. Sterling’s words echoed in his head. How? Who were these people?

His heart hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to take a breath, to be the pragmatic problem-solver. There had to be a rational explanation. A doctored photo. A mistake. He turned his attention to the computer terminal, hoping to find a company directory, an HR contact, anything.

He touched the screen, and it silently blinked to life. There was no login prompt, no corporate desktop. Just a single, solitary file icon in the center of the screen.

It was a video file, labeled simply: WATCH_ME_344.

Hesitantly, Elias tapped the icon. The screen filled with the face of a man, filmed in what looked like this very office. The man’s face was a mask of sheer terror. His hair was disheveled, his eyes wide and bloodshot, darting around as if expecting someone to burst through the door at any second.

And it was his face.

Not the older, haggard version from the photo, but him. Right now. The same suit, the same weary expression, the same barely-contained panic. It was like looking into a live video feed of himself, but the man on the screen was frantic, desperate. A doppelgänger.

The man leaned in close to the camera, his voice a ragged, urgent whisper.

“If you’re seeing this, it means you’re next. You’re Candidate #345. My name… my name was Elias Vance. I don’t know what they’ve done to me, but you have to listen.”

Elias’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t breathe.

“They promise you everything,” the man on the screen rasped, his eyes locking onto Elias’s as if he could see him through time and space. “Security. A future for your family. It’s a lie. This place… it’s a machine, and it grinds you down. It takes what you are and replaces it.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his panic escalating. “They’ll use her against you. They’ll use Lena. They know everything. The way she laughs, the little birthmark on her shoulder… all of it. They’ll twist it. They’ll use your love for her to break you.”

The doppelgänger’s face contorted in a rictus of fear and grief.

“You have to fight it. You have to remember what’s real. Whatever you do, whatever they show you…” He leaned in so close his forehead nearly touched the camera lens, his whisper dropping to a chilling, conspiratorial hiss.

“Don’t trust the mirrors.”

The video ended. The screen went black, reflecting Elias’s own pale, horrified face. He was alone again in the silent, white room, the stranger’s warning echoing in the suffocating stillness. He was no longer a desperate job applicant. He was Candidate #345. And he was in terrible, terrible trouble.