Chapter 1: Dante - Where Light Cannot Follow

Slushy rain pelts across the panoramic windows, blurring the Manhattan skyline into a smear of light. I twist my wrist, the gleaming silver watch face catching the artificial glow of my office. My assistant is five minutes late. The watch tick-ticks against my pulse, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to the distant laughter, the unearned revelry bleeding through the walls.

I hate this time of year. A season when chaos possesses otherwise rational beings. Meetings canceled with vague excuses, markets closed on arbitrary days, and the break room constantly reeking of cinnamon and refined sugar, as if the people occupying this temple of commerce actually believe in the religion this ridiculous holiday espouses.

I turn to once again face the windows as the rain transforms before my eyes and crystallizes into sleet that strikes the glass. The streets below will become treacherous, leading to wrecks. Clogged roads. Family emergencies.

Excuses. Always excuses for why people can't function efficiently in December.

A clatter tears me from my thoughts. Ms. Hernandez appears in the doorway, wobbling on heels that add unnecessary height to her frame. Her emerald sweater sparkles under the office lights, offsetting dark hair she’s curled into ringlets. For a moment—just a breath—something fractures at the edges of her outline.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dante," she says, breathless. "I got pulled into the building's holiday party."

"You got pulled in," I repeat, my voice firm but not angry. I am not a man who gives in to deep emotions; those cause nothing but trouble, just like this damned holiday.

"Am I understanding correctly, Ms. Hernandez, that someone physically grabbed your body and forced you into a party?" Before she can interject, I continue, "If so, you should make a statement with HR. It's not something we permit."

Her mouth opens and closes. I wish she wouldn’t say whatever pointless thoughts float through her mind.

I don't have time for such amusements. Have long since learned to discipline my mind, to wrap emotions under a silky shroud of reality, entombing them like pharaohs.

Sometimes growth begins by trimming away the old. As I stare at the glittering, holiday-decked version of my personal assistant, I wonder if this is the growth I need heading into the new year.

Finally, she finds her voice and clears it, then bows her head. "I apologize, Mr. Dante. I let time get away from me. I am off the clock."

"Yet I'm not. You asked to meet me at 7 PM sharp. It is now 7:09. Do you want to explain why you've wasted ten minutes of my time?"

The woman looks very much like she does not, in fact, wish to explain, but she takes a deep breath, tangles her fingers together, and stiffens her spine. As if that false bit of confidence could overcome the way she fidgets, the way her teeth catch her lip. The smell of floral perfume and festive food still lingering on her. I suspect if I draw close enough, there will be alcohol tinging her breath. Truly a waste of a good mind to dilute it for a moment's pleasure.

“It's about my mother, Mr. Dante."

I can hardly fight the scoff that slips through my lips. Her mother is not my problem. I have real concerns that demand my attention—my forty-eight employees, the billion-dollar firm resting on my shoulders. Ensuring our positions remain protected against market volatility and regulatory overreach. These are matters worthy of my consideration.

I choose against responding and instead only glare at my assistant, who has so much potential, but so little ability to follow through.

Finally, the discomfort does what it always does to people who cannot control their own minds. She brushes a curl behind her ear and breaks the silence. "I've mentioned to you that my mother isn't doing well, Mr. Dante."

"You have." My response is formal, clipped even. I do not see it as a compliment that she has shared personal drama at the workplace.

"I was hoping to ask for an exception for working tomorrow, being as it's a federal holiday... sir." She speaks quickly and seems to tack the final word on as an afterthought.

I take a deep breath before responding. She has potential but no focus; she could become a trader herself, earn more than her scarcely six-figure salary, but she gives herself away to emotions too often, to familial demands pulling on her.

I check my watch once more. Seventeen minutes wasted on this. Some nonsensical Christmas song hums in the background, and people give up a cheer. Ridiculous. Very few in this building, outside of my own firm, have a reason to celebrate. It has been a down year with tight margins.

"Ms. Hernandez, our firm is working tomorrow. The Nikkei is open. If you're wishing to put in your notice, please let me know so I can make arrangements to replace you by the new year."

Her fingernails—painted a garish red but chipped at the edges—catch my eye as she fidgets, cheap costume bracelets clanking against her wrist. In finance, details matter. Precision matters. Her hands tell the story of someone who starts things but fails to maintain them properly.

"Mr. Dante, I've shown nothing but loyalty to this firm in the almost five years I've worked for you. Can I not have one exception? This may very well be my mother's last Christmas."

I grab my briefcase and head towards the door. "We cannot control the future, Ms. Hernandez. We can only make educated predictions based on data, which I doubt you've bothered to analyze properly. If your mother's condition is truly as dire as you claim, then logic dictates prioritization. Yet here you stand, wasting time at a work holiday party instead of maximizing whatever precious hours remain with her. Your actions and your words tell different stories, which am I to believe?"

Her brows stitch together, eyes flaring. She puffs up, words bursting from her. "Because, sir,”—and there is a firmness in the title that almost makes me proud of her—"you said we could meet at seven."

"I did, and you disregarded that request. You arrived at 7:09 and have now squandered precisely nineteen minutes of my time, first with tardiness, then with personal matters that bear no relevance to this firm. Regarding your mother, I lack sufficient data to predict her mortality timeline. Regarding your employment, however, I can speak with certainty: if you fail to appear tomorrow, punctual and prepared, it will be your final Christmas with this firm. Good evening, Ms. Hernandez."

As I step into the hallway, the overhead lights flicker once, twice, a brief dance of shadow and light that no one else seems to notice. For just a moment, the corridor seems to stretch impossibly long before me, and the sound of my footsteps echoes as if in a vast, empty chamber rather than a carpeted hallway. My heart stutters off beat. It is the kind of sign I dismiss entirely—a trick of fatigue, nothing more. Reality snaps back into place, and I continue toward the elevator.

The sleet outside bites into my skin with more precision than I'd anticipated. I adjust the collar of my wool coat with a fluid motion, a defense against both the elements and the invisible pathogens that tourists—drawn to the spectacle of New York at Christmas—invariably carry with them.

The streets are overcrowded. Even here in the financial district, where the only seasonal offerings are oversized red bulbs in the fountain and standard illuminated deer and decorated trees. Nothing one couldn't find in any unremarkable town across the country.

I exhale a cloud of contempt and begin my four-block journey to my building. I’m now twenty-two minutes behind schedule. By the time I change for my workout and reach the gym, I'll have lost nearly half an hour. Thirty minutes that will bleed into either reduced sleep or sacrificed reading time for the financial papers I subscribe to, both valuable commodities.

"Merry Christmas, sir!" A woman calls out, her bell punctuating the rumble of traffic and murmur of the crowd with metallic persistence. She ceases her ringing and steps toward me. Her cheeks and nose glow pink against the cold, yet she smiles with the fervor of someone who’d just closed the deal of a lifetime. "You look like a man open to an opportunity to discover the generosity of the holiday spirit."

"Making assumptions about others is inappropriate."

Her smile only widens. "I meant it as a compliment."

"It was not received as such. I do not subscribe to spirits of any variety, particularly not this ridiculous holiday that costs the working professional hundreds of productive hours and tens of millions of dollars annually."

Something drains from her expression, and she glances around, as if searching for allies. Unfortunately for her, this isn't a democratic proceeding. She has addressed me directly. She will receive my direct response.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just collecting donations for children who will go without this holiday season."

"Perhaps that's something their parents should consider. Why aren't they standing here ringing bells in the cold for their offspring?"

All warmth vanishes from her face. For a moment, she offers no reply, and the multicolored lights in the window behind her pulse in rhythmic silence.

"I'm not in a position to judge anyone's circumstances." She draws the bell closer to her heart like a talisman. "I'm simply trying to do what good I can."

"Well, I will judge. People shouldn't create children they cannot afford or won't properly care for. You'll note my absence of the creatures."

Her expression hardens, absorbing my tone and judgment the same as the frost crystallizing on glass. "Sounds like your nonexistent kids really dodged a bullet, huh?"

The words hang in the cold air between us. I could respond. I choose not to. Some arguments aren’t worth winning because the opponent isn’t worth engaging. I return my gloved hands to my pockets and continue my march homeward, the seconds ticking away with each precise footfall.

Reaching my building, the doorman bows his head. "Mr. Dante."

A perfunctory nod, and I'm through the door into warmth and silence. The lobby stretches before me—black marble, muted lighting, the distant murmur of a piano. My private elevator alcove waits at the far end.

I swipe my card, press the button.

Nothing.

The elevator doors remain closed. The hush of the room is almost complete. Another flicker echoes through the space, another ignored tremor in the universe around me.

I disregard it as nothing more than my growing headache making my eyesight unreliable. Too many inconveniences for one day. Why do I pay exorbitant fees for the penthouse if they can't even keep the place maintained? I turn on my heel and head back out to the main lobby where a man—Arnold? Amir? Something with an A—wears a crimson tie with a pinned sprig of fir and winter berries for a boutonniere.

"Mr. Dante. A Merry Christmas to you, sir."

"My elevator is out."

His gaze drops, and he fusses with his glasses. "Ah, yes. We had a storm earlier. It seems electricity is out in part of the building, but we do have the main elevator working up to the 40th floor."

I stare at this man who, despite his neat appearance and unwrinkled outfit, is materializing more and more like a shrug in human form.

"My apartment is on the 55th floor."

"Yes, sir. But the staff elevator is open on the far side of the building, and you are welcome to use that until we get yours restored."

I rip a glove off and slap it against my palm. It is unlike me to let emotions grip me, direct me, like some undisciplined child incapable of holding back tears. But this is beyond ridiculous.

The attendant only smiles at me, as if a pleasant expression might somehow solve the problem.

The main elevator dings in the distance, and the doors open. The resident manager strides into the lobby, a wheeled suitcase clicking behind him, reflecting in the obsidian floors.

"Mr. Callahan." I step up beside him.

"Ah, Mr. Dante. Happy holidays to you, sir."

"It's not happy for me, actually. My elevator is out."

Mr. Callahan sighs, his forehead wrinkling beyond its normal furrowed appearance. "Yes, I apologize for any inconvenience, sir."

He heads towards the front doors, and I follow. "Any inconvenience? You can't mean to leave with this significant of an issue unresolved?"

"I'm afraid I have a plane to catch." Mr. Callahan stops walking right before the gold-trimmed doors and looks up at me. "I assure you the general manager has been fully briefed and will resolve this matter promptly when operations resume after Christmas."

"Two days from now?" I am almost too stunned to speak. I do not pay the exorbitant fees here to deal with these kinds of inconveniences. "I need to attend to my workout."

Mr. Callahan chuckles. "Take the stairs, Mr. Dante. That would be a workout."

I step back, my unbuttoned coat flying out behind me. "It's arm day for me, Mr. Callahan."

The man releases another sigh. A sigh that conveys he very much doesn't wish to remain the residential manager for the next year. "It's Christmas Eve. We will compensate you for your inconvenience. And there is the service elevator you are welcome to use."

He turns and walks out the door.

I stand rooted, unable to process the dismissal. Then I quicken my pace and follow out into the slush of the crisp New York December night.

This is unacceptable. My life is architected on discipline. Does this manager think I enjoy spending so much money to live in this building? No. It provides a short commute by foot to work and offers the amenities I need to remain productive—nothing more.

Already, others have consumed nearly an hour of my evening routine.

The man told me to take the stairs as my workout. That is precisely the slippery slope upon which others construct their disordered lives. One missed workout routine, for a holiday I have no intention of celebrating, could lead to another. Then one more.

Then a poor choice of eating would follow.

How easily one domino of comfortable choice could fall after another until it topples everything I've meticulously built for myself. The security that belongs to me alone.

The sleet bites at my cheeks, and the icy wind cuts through my open coat, but I don't halt my pursuit. "Mr. Callahan, this is truly unacceptable. In no reality⁠—"

My foot strikes a patch of forming ice, and in my haste, I lose my footing and slip.

A taxi roars around another, its driver likely frustrated with working on a holiday. Eager to get home. Rushing.

I, who have built my life on schedules and certainties, run headfirst into the one appointment I haven't penciled in.

My body hits the pavement right as glowing headlights shriek into view, time compressing into a final, crystallized moment.