The Tragedy Script

March 25.

When Max walked into the office, he noticed the looks immediately. Everyone was eyeing him like he was a dead man walking. Or maybe just the village idiot.

Marco grabbed him the second he stepped through the door, dragging him into a corner. "Dude," he whispered frantically. "Please tell me you didn't actually dump five hundred grand into Horizon Energy."

"Yup, I did," Max said, nodding sleepily. He was exhausted. He'd had a nightmare where his social media feed was nothing but that embarrassing "confession audio" on a loop.

"Where did you even get the cash?"

"Borrowed it."

"You..." Marco looked like he was in physical pain. "You know the stock is still crashing today, right?"

"Yeah, I have a rough idea."

"Rough idea? Do you remember Chad? The guy with the Audi?" Marco hissed. "The Audi is gone, man! He leveraged everything, got liquidated, and lost it all. I heard his dad is scouring the city for him, threatening to break his legs."

"Oof," Max said. "My sympathies."

He meant it, too. If Max were still stuck in the original plot of A Tragic Life, that would be him right now—broke, hunted, and pathetic.

Marco squinted at him. "How are you so chill about this? Did you buy the stock or not?"

"I bought it," Max said. He just didn't mention he'd bought puts—betting on the crash, not the rise.

"Anyway," Max said, dodging the subject. " Is the Big Boss in today?"

He wasn't about to announce he was shorting the market. He wasn't trying to be the next Oracle of Omaha. Besides, Max knew the golden rule: never flash your cash. If people knew he'd just made a fortune, he'd be drowning in insurance salesmen and "long-lost cousins" within the hour.

"He ran out for some emergency," Marco said. "Why? You need something?"

"Yeah. I'm quitting." Max pulled a white envelope from his jacket.

"Quitting?!" Marco's eyes went wide. Then, a look of understanding dawned on him. "You're making a run for it, aren't you?"

Max stared at him. "..."

Why can't anyone assume I have a cool reason for quitting? Max wondered. Like I achieved financial freedom? Or I'm leaving to fight crime? Or save the world?

"Max! There you are!"

Max turned to see Old Joe barreling toward him, looking urgent.

Max instinctively hid the resignation letter behind his back and blurted out a defense mechanism.

"I didn't buy long, my account is fine, I have savings, zero debt, I can feed myself, I love my job, my mental health is great, the weather is beautiful, and my future is bright!"

Old Joe froze, his mouth hanging open. He hadn't even said a word yet.

Marco's lip twitched, but after a sharp glance from Max, he kept his mouth shut.

Max sighed internally. If even Marco thought he was fleeing debt, quitting now would be a PR disaster. The office gossip mill would turn it into a viral story: Millennial loses everything in stocks, flees country in shame.

And if Old Joe—being the office snitch—reported that back to Max's family? Total chaos.

Max shoved the letter back into his pocket and walked to his desk, letting out a long breath.

Why was quitting a job harder than making five million dollars?

Max let out a sigh. Screw it, he thought. I'm going to get fired for missing my sales quota anyway. I should just look at this downtime as my personal contribution to the national unemployment statistics.

Like most young dreamers who refused to settle for mediocrity, Max's reasons for getting into insurance sales had been painfully realistic.

The plan was simple: make his first million as fast as humanly possible. He wanted a foothold in the city—maybe not a mansion and a Ferrari right away, but at least a decent two-bedroom apartment where the kitchen wasn't inside the bathroom. He wanted a place where he could bring his parents for visits, letting them enjoy the city life and retire without financial stress.

The roadmap was clear. Make money, take on twenty years of crushing debt to buy a tiny condo, and officially put down roots. Then, maybe in his thirties or forties, if he made a name for himself, he could launch a startup. He'd run the gauntlet of Angel Investors and Series A through D funding, hit a net worth of a hundred million, and officially say he'd made a killing.

But things had changed. Now that he actually had ten million sitting in his account, saying he lacked ambition would be a lie. He didn't want to quit his job because he wanted to be lazy.

He wanted to quit because a Fortune 500 company was suddenly too small to hold him.

"Whoa!"

"Ouch!"

Max's grand vision of the future was interrupted by a collision with reality—literally. He stumbled, slamming right into someone who had been jogging from the side.

He spun around to see a young woman in a black dress sprawled on the pavement, clutching her ankle and hissing in pain. The dress was short, revealing a pair of pale, model-quality legs that made Max's heart skip a few beats.

He quickly averted his gaze, trying to be a gentleman. "I'm so sorry! I was spacing out and didn't see you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really. I should be the one apologizing," the woman said. Her voice was soft and timid. "I was rushing to beat the traffic light."

Max glanced up. The crosswalk light was definitely red now. He looked back down at her hand gripping her ankle.

"Is your foot okay?"

"It stings... I think I sprained it." She looked up, her delicate features pained in a way that immediately triggered Max's protective instincts.

"Here, let me help you over to that bench."

She hesitated for a split second before nodding gently. "Thanks. Sorry to be a bother."

Max hoisted her up. She leaned her weight against him, hopping on one foot toward the roadside bench. They were close enough that Max could feel the softness of her arm and smell her perfume—a faint, intoxicating scent that made his brain short-circuit.

For a total rookie in the romance department like Max, this was sensory overload. His heart was hammering against his ribs.

Was this it? Had Cupid finally remembered that Max had been single and invisible for over twenty years?

The girl wasn't a supermodel like Hazel, but she had that wholesome, girl-next-door vibe. She was the kind of person who made you want to keep her safe. And with her leaning against him like this, Max's imagination was already running wild.

He settled her onto the bench and noticed the problem: the heel of her shoe had snapped clean off.

"I must look ridiculous," she said with a bitter smile, massaging her ankle. "It's actually my first time wearing high heels. I guess I wasn't ready."

"I was here for an interview nearby," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I didn't get the job, and then I twisted my ankle trying to catch the bus. I'm pretty useless, huh?"

"Hey, don't say that," Max said, guilt washing over him since he had technically knocked her over. "You're young. If this one didn't work out, the next one will. You'll definitely find something better."

"Thanks." She forced a smile and checked her watch. "I... I actually really need to get back. So, goodbye."

"But your foot—"

"It's fine. It feels a lot better."

She grabbed her broken shoe and tried to stand, balancing on one foot. But she hadn't taken two hopping steps before she wobbled, nearly face-planting into the concrete again.

Max caught her just in time. "Okay, stop trying to be a hero," he said. "Where do you live? I'm catching a cab and taking you home."

"No, really, I couldn't—"

"I insist." Max didn't give her a choice. He helped her to the curb, flagged down a taxi, and ushered her into the backseat.

"Um... thank you," she murmured, looking down at her lap, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Don't worry about it. I'm partly to blame for the sprain anyway. So, where to?"

"Riverview Heights."

Riverview Heights? Max paused. That was a high-end complex. It definitely wasn't cheap. He shrugged it off; maybe she came from money.

"Driver, Riverview Heights, please."

As the taxi merged into traffic, the silence in the backseat grew thick and awkward. Max wasn't exactly a smooth operator like his friend Shane, but he tried to break the ice.

"I didn't catch your name, by the way."

"I'm Lucy. And you?"

"I'm Max."

"That's a nice name."

"My dad was a surfer," Max lied effortlessly, trying to make a joke of it. "He loved the ocean, so he named me Max because he wanted me to live life to the 'max,' like a big wave. But don't get the wrong idea—just because I'm named after the ocean doesn't mean I'm 'drifting' around. I'm a solid guy."

"I can see that," Lucy said, staring intently at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You just look really familiar," she said softly. "You look a lot like my first love."

"Uh..."

Max blinked. I have the face of a 'First Love'? Why has nobody ever told me that before?

Still, having a beautiful girl tell him he looked like her ex-boyfriend caused a little stir of excitement in his chest.

After all, with a coincidence like this, he had to be starting with some bonus points, right?

Max didn't know the first thing about "running game." He certainly didn't have a playbook for talking to girls. Yet, somehow, the awkward silence between them faded as they traded stories in the back of the cab.

Despite looking like a stiff breeze could knock her over, Lucy was tough. She told him she'd left her family estate—some small town in the middle of nowhere—to make a life in Sutton. She'd been scraping by for years, saving every penny, hoping to land a stable job so she could bring her parents and little brother to the city.

She spoke about the future with such shiny, wide-eyed optimism that Max couldn't help but admire her. She was a survivor.

Even the cab driver was eating it up. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the young couple, grinning like an idiot. Ah, youth, his expression seemed to say.

When they arrived at the gates of Riverview Estates, the car stopped.

"You can drop me here," Lucy said.

"You sure you can manage?"

"Mm-hm! I'll be fine, don't worry." She flashed a sweet smile.

Max nodded. It was their first meeting; walking her all the way to her literal doorstep might cross the line from "heroic" to "creepy stalker." Plus, her ankle seemed much better. "Alright. Go home and rest. See ya."

He turned to leave, but felt a tug on his jacket.

He spun around. Lucy was standing there, head bowed, cheeks flushed pink. It was the kind of shy, gentle look that usually only happened in anime. For a second—just a split second—Max had to admit his heart skipped a beat.

"Um... could I..."

She looked like she was summoning all her courage as she held her phone screen up to his face. Add Contact.

Max's brain, previously marinating in hormones, instantly flash-froze.

Wait, he thought. Why does this feel familiar?