“Mr. Cross?”

Michael looked up and his throat was suddenly dry.

“This way, please,” the assistant said with a polite smile, but it did little to calm him.

He straightened his tie, took a slow breath, and followed her into the room, which was his fifth interview in three months. By now, he knew the routine by heart: sit straight, smile just enough, sound confident, hide the desperation.

The conference room was brighter than he expected. Three people sat across the long table, two men and a woman. All in grey suits. None was smiling.

The man on the right flipped through papers without looking up. The woman sat still, folding her hands. The third man was busy typing on a tablet, with his fingers moving fast.

When they gestured for him to sit, Michael obeyed, folding his hands in his lap to hide the tension in his fingers.

“You studied accounting?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Graduated top of my class.” He added with a polite smile, not too wide, not too eager.

“Top of your class,” she repeated, unimpressed. “Yet you’ve had four failed interviews this quarter. Why is that?”

Michael swallowed, trying not to let the question sting.

“I don’t think I failed the interviews, ma’am,” he said. “I think the system did. They said I wasn’t the ‘right fit.’ Or that someone with better qualifications got the spot. But most times, it’s not about qualifications, it’s about connections.”

That made the man flipping through papers finally look up.

“So… you’re saying we’re part of a broken system?” he asked.

The room went quiet. Michael could hear his own heartbeat. He could lie, backpedal like always, but something in him snapped.

“I’m saying I’m right for this job,” he replied. “But sometimes, people don’t see that until they run out of options.”

The woman leaned back and lifted one brow slightly. “You’re either bold or desperate, Mr. Cross. Possibly both.”

“I’m both,” Michael admitted. “But that doesn’t make me wrong.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the man with the tablet finally looked up.

“Alright then, Mr. Cross. Let me ask you this, suppose two internal departments accuse each other of financial misconduct,” he said. “You have no access to digital records, only four years of paper files. How would you handle it?”

Michael blinked, as he was caught off guard by the sudden question but he quickly gathered his thoughts.

“First,” he began, “I’d separate the ledgers from both departments and start cross-checking their expense sheets. I’d look for duplicate entries, unexplained transfers, or numbers that don’t add up. Then I’d check for patterns, recurring vendors, rounding errors, or unauthorized signatures.”

“Unauthorized signatures?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “It’s one of the oldest tricks in internal fraud. People think no one checks old paper files. But sometimes, papers have more details than computers.”

That earned a faint smile from the man with the tablet.

“And what if both departments insist they’re innocent?” the man with the papers asked.

Michael paused, then said quietly, “Then someone’s lying. Or both are. That’s when I stop looking at the numbers… and start looking at the people.”

The room became quiet again.

“Interesting,” the woman murmured. “What about ethics, Mr. Cross? What if it’s your boss who’s in the wrong?”

“I report it,” Michael replied without hesitation.

“Even if it costs you your job?”

He took a breath. “I’ve lost jobs for less, ma’am. But I have a little sister who watches everything I do. I want her to know that staying silent isn’t safer in the long run.”

The woman blinked. For a second, something softened in her face, then it was gone.

The man who hadn’t spoken yet leaned forward and rested both hands on the table.

“We like bold,” he said. “Bold stands out. Be here tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp. The chairman will be meeting all newly approved recruits. Miss it, and you miss out. Don’t be late.”

Michael frowned slightly. “Sorry… did you just say…”

“For someone bold, you’re not very smart,” the man interrupted. “You’re hired. Forensic Financial Analyst, Providus Holdings International. Congratulations, Mr. Cross. Don’t embarrass us.”

Michael froze for a moment before he realized what had just happened. A wave of relief and disbelief washed over him.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“No, you won’t,” the woman said dryly. “Because if you do, we’ll replace you immediately.”

The assistant opened the door. The interview was over.

Michael stood, his legs were weak but his chest was tight with relief. He nodded to each of them and walked out, he was still dazed, feeling like he’d just survived a war.

Four interviews had ended with fake smiles and polite rejections. But this one, this one had cracked the wall.

Michael Cross, 25 years old, broke and burnt out, had finally been given a chance.

He walked out of the building with a new rhythm, he felt lighter. Outside, he didn’t smile, not yet. But as he sat on the bus heading home, the grin finally came. Then laughter followed.

For the first time in months, the sun looked bright again. The noise, the heat, even the traffic, none of it mattered.

He had a job. A real one. And that meant hope.

“Dad can finally rest. Ciara will get better care. Vivian will be proud,” he thought as the bus rumbled on. “We’ll sleep better tonight. This calls for a celebration.”

He stopped by a small roadside shop to buy a cheap bottle of wine and a small cake, something simple they could all share.

Ciara Cross, his 16-year-old sister, wasn’t just family, she was his reason for everything. Ever since their mother left, Michael had been forced to grow up too fast. Their father worked himself to the bone, so Michael became the protector. He cooked, took Ciara to school, stayed awake when her asthma worsened, and learned every medication by heart.

Ciara was gentle, wise beyond her years, and carried a quiet guilt for being the reason Michael had to sacrifice his dreams. She often hid her symptoms, afraid of being a burden.

Vivian, on the other hand, was Michael’s friend. She was fierce and driven, hated injustice, and always pushed him to see the bigger picture. Her family wasn’t rich, but she had enough to dream big, and enough heart to fight for others.

She tutored Ciara sometimes, dropped off food or medicine, and never let Michael drown in self-pity. She was the kind of person who made you see the truth, even when it hurt.

Their bond wasn’t romantic, but it was deep, forged by shared pain and understanding.

When the bus dropped him off on their dusty street, Michael’s heart beat. He could already imagine his father’s face, proud, and finally relieved. That thought alone made his steps quicker.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Dad?” he called out.

No answer.

He dropped his bag on the couch, still smiling.

“Dad, you won’t believe it! I got the job. After all the rejections! Thanks for the pep talk this morning…”

Then he saw him.

Lying there. Still. Too still.

“Dad?” Michael whispered.

He froze.

“Dad!”

The wine bottle slipped from his hand and shattered across the tiles. Red liquid spread like blood on the floor.

Michael rushed forward, dropped to his knees beside his father, and grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, any sign of life. His fingers trembled. His breath quickened.

“No… no, please. Not today. Not after this.”

He pressed his ear to his father’s chest. Nothing.

The world seemed to stop.

Tears filled his eyes as his body went numb. The laughter from earlier vanished like it had never happened.

“Help! HELP!” he screamed, scrambling for his phone. His fingers were shaking so badly that he could barely unlock it.

He dialed 911.

“Please! My dad’s not breathing!”