Chapter 1: The Joke That Went Too Far

A coworker cracked a joke at my expense during the company’s annual meeting. He called me out for being on my phone, and before I knew it, Mr. Jacobs, our supervisor, swooped in and took it away. I felt like a kid getting busted in front of the whole class—embarrassed, exposed, and more than a little pissed.

The room was already on edge, everyone wearing that fake enthusiasm people put on at these things. My cheeks burned as every head turned my way, some folks barely hiding their smirks. The air was cold—over-air-conditioned, so dry it made my skin itch. The burnt coffee smell from the break room hung around like a bad joke. I could feel every eye drilling into me as Mr. Jacobs, who never missed a chance to flex his authority, strode over and just yanked my phone out of my hand. For a second, I wanted to crawl under the table.

My coworker flashed a smug grin, couldn’t help but rub it in. "Well, Mason, looks like you lost this time. Don’t forget you owe me dinner after work."

He said it loud, making sure everyone caught it—his voice cutting through the low buzz of side conversations. Of course he wanted everyone to hear. Some coworkers laughed. I could tell he loved making me look stupid in front of everyone. He leaned in, expecting me to laugh along, but my stomach twisted. I tried to fake a smile, but it felt weak, like my skin didn’t even fit right.

I blurted out, not even thinking, "Your house is on fire. Your mom’s been burned and she’s in the hospital right now." I probably should’ve tried to get his attention first—warned him, eased into it—but panic just took over and the words tumbled out, raw and frantic.

My voice shook. The words came out too fast—urgent, desperate. I saw his grin die, his face twist from confusion to something darker. My heart hammered in my chest. I wanted to grab him, shake him, make him get it—this wasn’t a joke. Not even close.

He glared, getting annoyed. "Come on, Mason, we’ve agreed—whoever embarrasses the other at the party pays for dinner. If you don’t want to pay up, just say so. Why say something like that?"

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head, his tone going from teasing to pissed. The people around us traded glances—some frowning, some just shifting uncomfortably. He sounded actually pissed now, his voice going hard, like I’d really crossed a line. The tension in the room ratcheted up; I could feel it prickling at my skin.

But I wasn’t joking. My chest tightened. The second he called me out and Mr. Jacobs took it, I saw the screen light up—missed calls, a text. The preview screamed: his house was on fire, his mom burned, being rushed to the hospital.

My hands started to shake. I kept replaying the message in my head, the words burning into my memory. I saw that flash before my phone was snatched away—couldn’t get it out of my mind. The pit in my stomach just kept growing. I kept glancing at the door, wishing I could just run out and call someone. But I was stuck, boxed in by people who all thought this was just some tasteless prank. Just a joke, right? Wrong.

I wasn’t making this up. I was desperate for someone to believe me. I was telling the truth—every word of it.

My voice felt tiny in that big, echoey meeting room. I tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at me—his jaw locked tight. My chest felt tight, my hands clammy. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of what I knew pressing down, and realizing nobody here cared.

Why did his family call me? Easy. Everyone had to turn in their phones for the meeting. But I had two—turned in one, kept my old one. His family couldn’t reach him, so they tried me. When I didn’t answer, they texted, hoping I’d see it and let him know.

It was just a dumb secret—my old phone, still working, tucked away in my jacket. I never thought it would matter, but now it was the only reason his family had any shot of reaching someone in this sealed-off room. I felt guilty for breaking the rules, but that guilt was nothing compared to the dread crawling up my spine.

Just as I saw the message, Mr. Jacobs swooped in and took my phone. My stomach dropped. I had no way to prove anything now, but I still blurted out to my coworker, "I’m serious. I’m not joking."

My voice cracked—desperation leaking through. I wanted to grab him, make him listen. My palms were slick with sweat, cheeks burning. My mouth went dry. I glanced around, hoping for backup, but all I got were blank stares.

"Your house really is on fire. Your mom’s hurt. She’s being rushed to the hospital."

I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out pleading, almost begging. I saw the disbelief set in on his face, his eyes narrowing like he was waiting for the punchline. The room seemed to get colder—everyone pulling back, not wanting to get involved in whatever mess this was becoming.

Still, my coworker thought I was messing with him. He glared, and the others started giving me those weird looks too.

I could feel the judgment, the way people shifted in their seats or whispered behind their hands. Classic office—nobody wants to get involved unless they have to. I felt alone, right in the middle of a crowd.

Nobody would meet my eyes. People looked away, shifted, suddenly fascinated by their notepads.

It hurt more than I thought it would. I’d always been the quiet one, just kept my head down and did my job. Now I was front and center, and for all the wrong reasons. I wanted to grab them, shake them, make them see.

"Mason, it’s just a bet. If you can’t handle losing, just say so. Why say something like that about my family?"

His voice dripped sarcasm, but underneath, there was something else—hurt, maybe, or just the fear I’d hit too close. He crossed his arms, trying to act tough, but I saw the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

"You think that’s funny? There are some lines you don’t cross, you know. Don’t joke about someone’s parents. Don’t you get that?"

He jabbed a finger at me, his words echoing through the room. Someone in the back muttered, "Yeah, not cool," and I felt whatever slim support I had slip away. My chest tightened. I wanted to shout, but the words wouldn’t come.

He scoffed, still convinced I was joking. I was desperate—what else could I say to make him believe me?

My patience was shot. My fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to just storm out, find some way—any way—to prove myself.

The clock ticked, loud and slow. Every tick just made it worse.

I opened my mouth, but Mr. Jacobs cut me off.

"Enough, both of you. You’re using the company’s annual meeting to make bets? You think this is your living room?"

His voice boomed across the room—the kind that shut everyone up. He glared over his glasses, and even the senior staff straightened up. The room fell dead silent. You could feel the tension in the air, like a wire pulled tight. People exchanged nervous glances, a couple of folks shifting in their seats.

He was pissed at both of us for making a bet during the meeting. This was work, not a playground.

He straightened his tie, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line. His hands clenched at his sides. The silence was brutal. I wanted to disappear.

Then Mr. Jacobs turned on me. "Mason, didn’t I say everyone had to hand in their phones? You brought yours in, and a coworker had to call you out."

He stared me down, eyes cold. I felt like a kid caught red-handed. The room was so quiet I could hear the buzz from the lights overhead.

"There’s nothing to discuss. You broke the rules. That’s a $300 fine—a major violation."

He didn’t even blink. The words hit like a gut punch. Someone gasped. Someone else muttered, "Harsh." My heart dropped. That was more than half my rent—gone, just like that.

He turned and walked away. I called after him, "Mr. Jacobs, give me my phone back—his house really is on fire!"

My voice cracked, echoing off the white walls. I took a step forward, reaching out, but he didn’t even look back. The others watched, some with pity, some just waiting for the next bit of drama.

But before I could finish, he slammed my phone to the floor. I froze, shock washing over me. The crash was sharp and final—like a gunshot. My iPhone—gone, just like that. The pieces skittered across the floor. Someone gasped. Someone whispered, "Damn."

It didn’t feel real, watching the pieces slide across the tile. A month’s salary, smashed in an instant. But all I could think about was the message. I clenched my jaw. Fought the urge to yell. To cry. To do anything but just stand there.

Yeah, I was pissed, but that didn’t matter now. My coworker’s family needed help. That was all that mattered.

The sting of losing my phone was nothing compared to the urgency in my gut. I looked at my coworker, hoping—begging—he’d just listen for a second. My hands shook, the urge to do something nearly unbearable.

Before I could get another word out, Mr. Jacobs, still fuming, jabbed a finger at me and barked, "Mason, don’t push me. Don’t make me regret cutting you slack."

His voice thundered. His finger stabbed the air in my direction, his face red with anger. The others shrank back, not wanting to get caught in it. I could feel my own anger boiling, but I swallowed it down.

"As long as you’re on my team, you’re my problem. Keep this up, and I’ll make things real hard for you. Or I’ll just fire you. Got it?"

He spoke in that clipped, icy tone that meant he was dead serious. No room for arguing. I nodded, jaw tight. The threat just hung there, heavy as stone.

As soon as he was done, my coworker piped up, "Yeah, we agreed on the bet. If you can’t admit you lost, just say so. Why drag my family into it? You think that’s funny, Mason?"

He smirked, like he’d just scored a win. The others watched, some entertained, others just awkward. My blood boiled. My fists clenched.

He looked right at me, loving every second. He only made that bet to rub it in.

He leaned back, arms folded, smug look plastered on his face. I wanted to wipe that look off. He soaked it up, milking it.

But I was telling the truth. Why wouldn’t he believe me? God, it was infuriating.

I wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him see. My voice was stuck. I wanted to yell.