THE LAST EXIT

The first lie WIC Company told Ethan Cole was that five million dollars could solve all his problems. The second was that earning it would be easy. Ethan discovered both lies on a rainy Tuesday morning, although he would not understand the truth until much later. At twenty-two, he had learned that poverty was not simply the absence of money. It was the sound of creditors calling before sunrise. It was watching your mother pretend she had already eaten so that you could finish the last portion of food. It was opening your phone to find another message reminding you that your unpaid bills were getting worse. And it was the envelope lying on the kitchen table. FINAL NOTICE. His mother sat beside it, staring at the wall. "Ethan," she said quietly, "the landlord came again." He stopped near the doorway. "How long did he give us?" "Three days." Three days. He looked around the small apartment he had called home since childhood. The cracked paint, the old refrigerator that worked only when it felt like cooperating, the family photographs hanging crookedly above the television—all of it suddenly seemed temporary. His father had died four years earlier, leaving debts that had grown faster than anyone could repay. Ethan had abandoned his plans to attend university and taken a warehouse job instead. His salary barely covered food, transportation, and the interest on what they owed. Now even that job was gone. The warehouse had dismissed several workers the previous week, and Ethan had been among them. "I'll find something," he promised. His mother looked at him. "You always say that." There was no anger in her voice. Somehow, that made it worse. Ethan left the apartment before he could answer. Outside, the city was already awake. Cars crawled through traffic, street vendors arranged their goods, and commuters hurried past one another without looking up. Everyone seemed to be chasing something. Ethan was chasing time. He spent the morning visiting businesses, checking recruitment notices, and making calls. By noon, he had received three rejections and one promise that someone would contact him later. By evening, his phone battery was almost dead. That was when he noticed the advertisement. It appeared on a recruitment website he had never used before. WIC COMPANY — CONFIDENTIAL HUMAN PERFORMANCE PROGRAM Thirteen participants. Seven days. Five million dollars for the successful candidate. The advertisement promised accommodation, meals, medical supervision, and an immediate payment upon completion. No experience required. No special qualifications. Only courage, discretion, and willingness to participate in a controlled experimental environment. Ethan read it twice. Then a third time. Five million dollars. It was more money than he had ever imagined earning at once. Enough to pay the debts, secure a new apartment, and give his mother the peaceful life she deserved. The application required his name, age, emergency contact, and a short explanation of why he wanted to participate. He typed: I need the money to support my family. He almost deleted it. It sounded desperate. Then he remembered the envelope. He pressed submit. A confirmation appeared immediately. APPLICATION RECEIVED. Ethan laughed without humour. "Of course," he muttered. "Another useless application." His phone vibrated. An unknown number. Congratulations, Ethan Cole. Your application has been approved. He stopped walking. The message continued. Please attend a confidential assessment tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. Transportation will be provided. Bring identification and essential personal belongings only. Beneath the message was an address outside the city. Ethan checked the sender's details. There was no name, no photograph, and no ordinary contact information. He searched WIC Company online. The results were strange. A corporate website appeared, displaying photographs of glass buildings, smiling executives, and statements about innovation and human potential. There were no clear details about the advertised programme. Still, the company looked legitimate. Or legitimate enough. He called the number. A woman answered after the second ring. "Good evening. WIC recruitment." "I received a message about an assessment." "Mr Cole. Yes. Your application has been approved." "Why me?" There was a short pause. "Your profile meets our selection criteria." "What's the actual job?" "The programme is explained to successful participants during orientation." "That doesn't answer my question." "It will make sense tomorrow." Ethan frowned. "And the five million?" "The reward is guaranteed to the final successful participant, subject to the programme agreement." Final successful participant. He should have asked more questions. Instead, he asked the question that mattered most to him. "When do I get paid?" "Immediately after completion." He closed his eyes. Three days. He had three days before his family might lose their home. "All right," he said. "I'll be there." "Excellent, Mr Cole. A vehicle will arrive at your address at seven tomorrow morning." The call ended. Ethan remained on the pavement, holding his phone. For the first time in weeks, hope had appeared. He did not notice the black vehicle parked across the street. He did not notice the man behind its tinted windows. And he certainly did not notice the small red light blinking above the vehicle's dashboard. Inside the car, someone watched Ethan walk away. A voice emerged from a speaker. "Candidate confirmed." Another voice answered. "Begin preparation." On a screen, Ethan's photograph appeared beside twelve others. Thirteen names. Thirteen faces. And beneath them, a single line of text: THE LAST EXIT — PARTICIPANT SELECTION COMPLETE. The screen went dark.