I scowled at the sticky note plastered to my monitor:
QUOTA: 100 calls/day. NO EXCEPTIONS!
I shook my head and snuffed out the cigarette in a chipped ashtray. I wasn’t much of a smoker, but this job had a way of making one forget one’s resolutions.
Glancing at the wedding band on my finger, my mood darkened even further. Were things ever great with Elena? Maybe, once. But the debts stacked up like a stone wall, and arguments about our future never seemed to end. These days, the ring felt more like a shackle. Elena’s response to life’s pressures was to shop—often and extravagantly. How was a man to keep his family afloat if his wife kept adding water?
If there were one consolation, it was Irina. My five-year-old little girl was the light of my life, and I would suffer any indignity if it meant keeping her clothed and fed. Her smile when I brought home a small treat—despite Elena’s complaints about “wasting money”—made everything worth it.
So that was how I found myself here, in the Golden Summer Resorts call center, locked in this soul-draining job that paid next to nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing—double what the local call centers paid, in fact. My company specifically hired people with strong foreign language skills to target wealthy Western Europeans, Germans, Russians, and sometimes even Americans. With Bulgaria’s EU accession negotiations speeding up, and a 2007 target date now official, foreign speculators were circling like sharks, eager to snap up coastal properties at a fraction of Mediterranean prices before the inevitable boom.
And then there were operations like ours. We weren’t exactly illegal; the properties we sold did, in fact, exist.
But things were often, shall we say, “enhanced” in our presentations.
“Just a short walk to the beach!” (If you happen to be an Olympic sprinter.)
“Full sea view!” (If you stand on your balcony railing and lean out at a precise 45-degree angle.)
“Premium amenities coming soon!” (No timeline specified. Could be next year, could be never.)
Was it our fault if prospective customers didn’t do their due diligence? This business thrived on ambition and optimism—both theirs and ours. Who didn’t want to believe in undiscovered gems and ground-floor opportunities?
And then, there was the commission. Up to 2,000 leva for the elite units. In a country where the average salary was about 500 leva per month, well, you can imagine why my principles were flexible.
I needed that money. Elena didn’t understand the pressure I was under, working two jobs—this high-pressure gig in the evenings after my day job at the university library. She’d roll her eyes when I mentioned how hard I worked, then turn around and order another pair of shoes or book a spa day with her friends.
If she wanted to maintain her lifestyle, someone had to make sacrifices.
Overhead lights buzzed, snapping me from my brief reverie. The fans did little to combat the stifling heat. Sweat trickled down my temple, staining my button-up shirt.
I was about to resign myself to another call when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw the floor manager hovering, arms crossed. Georgi Petrov carried himself with the disappointed air of a former bureaucrat, from his yellowed mustache stained by cheap cigarettes to his ill-fitting suit that hung on his soft frame.
His beady eyes stared silently at the call counter on my monitor.
Only twenty-three calls today, not even a quarter of my quota, and it was almost time for my lunch break. Well, more like dinner break. I stifled a yawn.
Just as Georgi opened his mouth to speak, the phone in my headset beeped—another call connected. Relief washed over me. Saved by the bell.
I mouthed “I’ve got this one” to Georgi, who crossed his arms and leaned against the cubicle wall. Not leaving.
Of course not. I straightened my posture and cleared my throat.
Showtime.
“Thompson speaking,” came a crisp British accent.
Georgi stepped forward, tapping the speaker button so he could listen. I inwardly cursed.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Thompson,” I said, recovering smoothly. “My name is Dragomir from Golden Summer Resorts.” My accent was flawless, my university degree finally paying off, though not in the way I had imagined.
I launched into my pitch about Bulgarian coastal properties, but he quickly interrupted.
“Not interested. I’ve already got property in Spain and Portugal. Eastern Europe isn’t on my radar.”
I glanced up at Georgi, who was tapping his watch impatiently. This was a moment to prove myself. I pushed the script aside and leaned forward in my chair.
“Dr. Thompson, you’re a surgeon, correct?” I asked, ignoring Georgi’s warning glare. The monitor gave a brief bio provided by our leads company. We were supposed to use this information to tailor our pitch, but never reveal we had access to these personal details.
“Yes, orthopedics,” he replied, sounding surprised. “How did you—”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Then you understand timing better than most,” I continued, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Bulgaria is exactly where Spain was in 1983. And right now, beachfront property here costs one-twelfth of comparable Spanish locations. It won’t stay that way for long.”
I could sense his interest growing. I pressed on, describing our “exclusive development” with its “Swiss architect” and mentioning the British professionals who had already invested—all carefully crafted half-truths and embellishments. The development existed, but not quite as grand as I made it sound. The British buyers were real, though not doctors or lawyers, as I claimed.
“How much?” Dr. Thompson finally asked.
My heart raced. I had him.
“￡75,000 for standard units, but for someone of your stature, we are offering a twenty-percent pre-construction discount this week only.”
Georgi’s expression soured. He had authorized no such discount. I ignored him and kept talking, weaving a compelling story about investment returns, limited availability, and the inevitable price surge once the EU accession was complete.
When Dr. Thompson asked about visiting the property, as these marks often did, I promised an “exclusive preview event” complete with helicopter tours and five-star accommodations—amenities our company had never offered. Georgi’s expression soured.
“You can guarantee that?” he asked, clearly interested.
“Absolutely. I’ll arrange everything personally—”
Click.
The line went dead as Georgi reached over and disconnected the call with a sharp jab of his finger. Rage boiled beneath my skin.
I yanked off my headset and slammed it onto the desk. “What the hell did you do that for? So close!”
A fat commission, gone up in smoke.
Georgi loomed over me, face flushed with anger. “Drago, what the hell was that? Helicopter tours? Five-star accommodations? Are you insane? I can understand stretching things a bit, but that’s beyond the pale. You were about to promise things the company would never deliver.”
“I almost had him!” I snapped back, fists clenched against my thighs. “You saw it—he was interested! I would have figured something out later.”
“Figured something out?” Georgi scoffed. “That’s how we end up with lawsuits, Drago. That’s how companies like ours collapse overnight.”
I glared at him, silently calculating how many months’ rent that commission would have covered. Months I now had to scramble to find elsewhere, all because this small-minded bureaucrat couldn’t see the bigger picture.
Georgi shook his head. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. Stick to the script. Say the script, move on.” He smirked. “Even a ‘professor’ like you can make a sale if you follow it.”
I tensed, jaw clenching. I was this close to telling him exactly what I thought of him and his pathetic little fiefdom.
“Which reminds me,” Georgi continued, “your numbers are lagging again. If you can’t meet the targets, you know we’ll have to—”
Before he could finish, the entire floor lurched. Several screams filled the air as a low, thunderous rumble ripped through the building. Lights flickered wildly, and computers clattered to the floor.
I wobbled, nearly falling from my chair, as Georgi took a spill on the floor.
An earthquake? In Sofia? The ground shook with an intensity that rattled every bone in my body.
Chaos descended in seconds. Shouts mingled with the screech of twisting metal. Cubicle walls toppled like dominoes, and the plaster overhead split into jagged lines.
This was no minor tremor.
I dove under my desk, curling my arms over my head as the earthquake intensified. I looked up just in time to see a large section of the ceiling collapse—right where Georgi was standing. The man was buried within seconds, his scream cut off by falling rubble.
I blinked in surprise. The man who had berated and belittled me daily was likely dead, crushed beneath concrete and steel.
I shuddered. No one deserved to die like that, not even Georgi.
And yet, a strange calm washed over me. Perhaps even a hint of satisfaction. One less obstacle in my life. One less person holding me back from what I deserved.
No, that was wrong. I pushed the thought away.
When the violent trembling finally stopped, dust and fragments of concrete clouded the air. I dared to peer out from beneath my desk. The dust was so thick I could see absolutely nothing but stifling darkness.
A surreal hush settled over the wreckage, followed by a few stifled cries.
An aftershock rumbled through the remains of the building, and something massive slammed into my desk.
Miracle of miracles, it held, even as the last bits of light faded to complete darkness.
I coughed, choking on dust. I covered my face with my shirt.
This can’t be how it ends, I thought. My pants were soaked in warm blood—Georgi’s, by the look of it. I reached out with trembling hands, trying to find an opening in the darkness, but there was nothing but twisted metal and pulverized concrete.
All I could think of at that moment was that I was done. Perhaps one of our many satisfied customers had prayed for divine retribution.
I fumbled around, but I couldn’t see anything. Minutes bled into hours—I couldn’t tell how long I lay there. From time to time, I’d hear a scream or cry for help. I did very much the same thing until my voice was raw.
Eventually, exhaustion forced me into a fitful sleep.
I awoke to silence. The dust had settled somewhat, and to my surprise, the darkness was not completely absolute.
Directly ahead of me, a faint, bluish glow pierced through a wide, horizontal crack in the rubble.
At first, I wondered if it was just a reflection or a spark from exposed wiring. It gleamed with an otherworldly shimmer, almost fluid in how it pulsed.
Blood pounded in my ears. The sky? A rescue light? My mind spun with possibilities.
Still, it was my only beacon in the surrounding gloom.
“Help!” I shouted. “I’m here!”
There was no response other than the light shining steadily.
Well, if the light weren’t coming to me, I would go to it.
I gritted my teeth and wriggled out from under the broken desk. The crack was perhaps wide enough for me to worm through. I tried to ignore the fact that Georgi was buried beneath it.
Every inch was a battle against scraping metal and crushed drywall. My forearms burned where shards of concrete dug in, but the adrenaline kept me moving.
Anything was better than dying.
It felt like an eternity of crawling before I finally reached the source of the light, set in a small refuge within the rubble. My eyes widened at the glowing, oval portal nestled between bent steel beams.
Its surface roiled like liquid cobalt, beckoning me in.
“I must be dead,” I thought, edging toward it. “This has to be some hallucination.”
Yet it was the only thing I had. I had read many English sci-fi and fantasy novels over the years—a guilty pleasure—and this looked like something right out of them.
The longer I stared, the brighter it seemed to glow, as if urging me forward. Maybe it would lead to somewhere outside this rubble.
I hesitated. What were my options? Wait for rescue? The building had collapsed entirely—I’d heard enough to know that. And there was nowhere outside this small chamber. How long would it take them to dig through? Hours? Days? My lungs burned from the dust, likely riddled with asbestos, and the air was growing thinner. My thirst was already unbearable.
And if I did survive, what then? Back to the same miserable job, the same arguments with Elena, the same grinding poverty despite working myself to exhaustion.
But then Irina’s face flashed in my mind. Her gap-toothed smile, her delighted squeal when I returned home.
Who would protect her if I were gone? Who would make sure she grew up knowing her father loved her?
The glow pulsed almost impatiently. As if it understood my deliberation and found it tedious.
“I’m sorry, my little sparrow,” I whispered into the darkness, hoping somehow my words would reach my daughter. “Tatko loves you.”
With one final push, I dragged my body through the narrow opening. The cool glow enveloped me, and gravity seemed to shift. I squeezed my eyes shut as a wave of vertigo seized me.
Then, in a moment that defied all reason, I was pulled into the portal—away from the rubble, away from the remnants of the life I despised—into something wholly unknown.