The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 1: The Elevator Incident

“Just one more floor, Daffa. Just the lobby, then the train, then the bed,” he muttered to himself, his voice raspy and thin.

He stumbled toward the bank of elevators, his vision tunneling. When the gold-trimmed doors hissed open, he didn’t even look at the floor indicator. He just stepped into the plush, velvet-walled interior and leaned his forehead against the cool mirror.

“Going down?” a voice like a shard of ice sliced through his delirium.

Daffa jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He spun around, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Standing in the corner, looking like she had just stepped off a runway despite it being nearly two in the morning, was Clarisse Bautista. The Vice President. The ‘Ice Queen’ of the firm.

“Oh, God. I’m—I’m so sorry, Ms. Bautista,” Daffa stammered, frantically looking for the buttons. “I didn’t realize… Is this the executive lift?”

Clarisse didn't look away from her reflection, adjusting a stray strand of her obsidian hair. “The giant gold plaque outside didn’t give it away, Mr. Wicaksana?”

“I’m running on three hours of sleep and a handful of almonds, Ma’am,” Daffa groaned, reaching for the lobby button. “I’ll get out at the next stop. I really didn’t mean to intrude on your… executive space.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “The next stop is the lobby. Just stand there and try not to exhale too much carbon dioxide. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine, totally fine,” Daffa lied, swaying slightly. “Just a bit of a long shift. The quarterly reports, you know? They don’t audit themselves.”

“Clearly,” she replied, her eyes finally flicking toward him. They were sharp, analytical, and utterly terrifying. “Is that coffee on your tie, or did you have a fight with a pen?”

Daffa looked down at his chest. “Both? It was a very productive fight.”

Clarisse sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. “You analysts are all the same. No stamina. No poise. Just caffeine and desperation.”

“Hey, that’s a bit harsh,” Daffa mumbled. “We’re the ones making sure the numbers actually add up so the VPs can look good in the board meetings.”

“Are you talking back to me, Daffa?”

“No! No, Ma’am. Just… articulating a perspective. Very quietly. To myself.”

Suddenly, the elevator didn't just stop; it bucked. A violent shudder ripped through the floorboards, followed by a metallic bang that echoed up the shaft. The lights flickered, turned a sickly emergency red, and then the cabin plummeted six inches before the safety brakes groaned into place.

Daffa slammed into the side wall. “Whoa! What was that? Please tell me that was just a very aggressive stop.”

Clarisse was gripping the handrail so hard her knuckles were white. “The emergency brakes. We’ve stalled.”

“Stalled? As in… stuck?” Daffa scrambled for the control panel, punching the lobby button repeatedly. “Come on, come on! Work, you overpriced toaster!”

“Stop that! You’ll trigger a lockout,” Clarisse snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. There was a tremor in it.

“I’m calling the lobby,” Daffa said, hitting the yellow phone icon. Silence. “Uh, hello? Anyone there? We’re stuck between floors. Hello?”

“The intercom is linked to the main security desk,” Clarisse said, her breathing becoming noticeably shallow. “They... they should see the alert on their monitors. It’s an automated system.”

“Great. Automated. So we just wait for a robot to save us?” Daffa leaned his head against the door. “This is perfect. My bed is so close, yet so far.”

“Daffa.”

He turned. Clarisse was leaning against the back mirror, her hand clutching at her throat. Her face, usually a mask of porcelain perfection, was flushed a deep, alarming red.

“Ms. Bautista? You okay? You look like you’re having a heart attack, and I am definitely not trained for that.”

“The air,” she gasped, her chest heaving. “It’s… it’s too tight.”

“The elevator? It’s huge! It’s bigger than my apartment,” Daffa said, trying to stay calm. “Just breathe. Slow deep breaths, like in yoga.”

“No,” she hissed, her hands moving frantically to the back of her neck. “Not the room. The dress. It’s bespoke silk-blend… structured bodice. I can’t… my lungs can’t expand.”

Daffa blinked. “Wait, are you saying your clothes are literally suffocating you?”

“Don’t just stand there!” Clarisse’s voice was high-pitched, bordering on a scream. “I’m having a panic attack, and I can’t take a full breath because of this stupid, beautiful dress! Daffa, help me!”

“Help you how? Do you have an inhaler? Should I do the Heimlich?”

“The zipper!” she cried, turning her back to him. “Unzip it. Just a few inches. I need to expand my ribcage!”

Daffa froze. His brain, already fried from eighteen hours of work, simply short-circuited. “Ma’am, I—I can’t. That is… that is so many HR violations. I’ll get fired. I’ll get arrested. I’ll be blacklisted from the entire financial sector!”

“I am the Vice President! I am giving you a direct order!” she gasped, her knees buckling. “Unzip. Me. Now! Or you’re fired before we even hit the ground!”

“Okay! Okay! Just… hold on!”

Daffa stepped forward, his hands shaking so violently he nearly missed her shoulders. The back of the dress was a seamless masterpiece of hidden fasteners and a tiny, gold-plated zipper pull tucked right at the nape of her neck.

“I’m touching the VP. I’m touching the VP,” Daffa whispered to himself, his face heating up.

“Stop narrating your internal crisis and pull the tab!” Clarisse demanded, her head lolling forward.

“It’s tiny! Why is it so small?” Daffa fumbled with the zipper. His fingers brushed against the soft, warm skin of her upper back, and he felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the elevator’s electrical system. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ve got it.”

He tugged. The zipper didn’t budge.

“It’s stuck,” he croaked.

“It’s not stuck, it’s just tight!” Clarisse groaned, her voice muffled against the velvet wall. “Pull harder, Daffa! I’m seeing spots!”

“If I break it, you’re going to sue me!”

“I’ll sue you if I die of hypoxia! Pull!”

Daffa braced his feet, placed one hand on the small of her back to steady her—an act that felt like touching a live wire—and gave a sharp, controlled yank.

Zip.

The sound was loud in the small space. The silk parted, revealing the intricate lace of a corset-style bra and the smooth curve of her spine. Clarisse let out a long, shuddering gasp, her entire body sagging.

“Oh, thank God,” she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “I can… I can actually feel oxygen again.”

Daffa, however, was not okay. He was standing inches away from his semi-exposed boss, his hands still hovering in the air. “Is that… is that enough? Can you breathe now? Should I stop?”

“Don’t move,” she murmured, her forehead still pressed against the mirror. “Just… give me a second. My head is spinning.”

“Mine too, Ma’am. Mine too.”

The elevator was silent for a moment, save for the hum of the emergency fan. Daffa was acutely aware of the scent of her perfume—something that smelled like expensive jasmine and cold rain. He was also aware that he was holding the back of her dress open so it wouldn’t slip further.

“Daffa?”

“Yes, Ms. Bautista?”

“You’re still holding my back.”

“I’m trying to ensure the structural integrity of your outfit, Ma’am! If I let go, it might… slide. And then we’re both in a much worse situation.”

She turned her head slightly, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were softer now, the icy glare replaced by something more vulnerable, more human. “You’re surprisingly steady for a man who claimed to be made of jelly ten minutes ago.”

“Adrenaline is a hell of a drug,” Daffa said, his voice cracking. “I think I’ve reached a level of exhaustion where I’ve transcended fear and entered a state of pure, panicked functionality.”

“You did well,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Let’s never mention this. To anyone. Ever.”

“Agreed.”

Just as the tension in the air started to shift from 'emergency' to 'awkwardly intimate,' the elevator gave another violent jolt. The lights flashed back to a bright, sterile white, and the motor hummed to life.

“Oh, no,” Daffa whispered.

“What?”

“The floor indicator. We’re moving.”

“Fast! Zip it back up!” Clarisse hissed, panicked.

“I can’t! The fabric is caught in the teeth now because you moved!” Daffa struggled with the zipper, his fingers dancing frantically against her skin. “It’s jammed! It’s really jammed this time!”

“Daffa, the doors are going to open in three seconds!”

“I’m trying! It’s—it’s not going!”

Ding.

The doors slid open with a cheerful chime.

Standing in the lobby was the night shift security supervisor, two guards, and the head of maintenance, all holding flashlights and radios. They stared into the elevator.

What they saw was Daffa Wicaksana, a disheveled analyst, standing mere inches behind Clarisse Bautista, the Vice President, his hands buried in the open back of her dress while she leaned against the wall with a flushed face and messy hair.

The silence in the lobby was absolute.

Daffa froze. The security supervisor’s jaw dropped. One of the guards actually dropped his flashlight.

“It’s… it’s not what it looks like,” Daffa squeaked, his hands still stuck on the zipper.

Clarisse reacted with the speed of a predator. She stepped forward, forcing Daffa to let go, and clutched the front of her dress to her chest, spinning around to face the crowd. Her face instantly transformed back into the mask of the ruthless VP.

“Finally,” she snapped, her voice like a whip. “We’ve been trapped in there for twenty minutes. The ventilation is abysmal, and the emergency system is a joke. I want a full report on this mechanical failure on my desk by noon.”

The supervisor blinked, snapping to attention. “Yes, Ms. Bautista! Of course! We—we were just about to manually override—”

“Save it,” she interrupted, walking past them with her head held high, the back of her dress still gaping open, though she held it together with one hand behind her.

Daffa stood in the elevator, paralyzed, as the security team looked at him with a mix of awe and horror. He slowly stepped out, his legs feeling like lead.

“Uh… good job on the rescue, guys,” Daffa muttered, trying to bolt for the exit.

“Mr. Wicaksana.”

Clarisse’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks. She was standing by the glass revolving doors, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of her face. She didn’t turn around.

“Yes, Ma’am?” Daffa squeaked.

“You look like a mess,” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire security team to hear. Then, she leaned back slightly, her voice dropping to a terrifying, low whisper that only he could catch. “My office. 8:00 AM sharp. If you’re a minute late, you can consider your career in this city over. Do I make myself clear?”

Daffa swallowed hard, the last of his energy vanishing. “8:00 AM. Yes, Ma’am.”

She didn't say another word, disappearing into the night and leaving Daffa to face the silent, judging stares of the entire night shift.

He had six hours to live. Or at least, six hours until his professional execution.