Elated to take the CEO’s chair following the former boss’s mysterious d3:ath, the new chief executive froze in horror when he pulled open the desk drawer and found a suicide note written in his own handwriting: “You’re next!”
I. THE HEIR UPON THE ASHES
In a certain poor city, where skyscrapers rise incongruously amidst gray slums and mud-soaked streets after every heavy rain, making a living is always ruthlessly harsh. In that corner of the street, there was a small financial company full of corporate intrigue, where people were willing to trample on one another to seize every breath of power.
And then, the most shocking event of the year happened: the former CEO suddenly died in his office on a stormy night. There were no signs of natural stroke, no struggle, just a quiet, cold, and mysterious death on the most luxurious leather chair on the top floor. The police closed the case with a conclusion of physical exhaustion and sudden death, but in the shadows of the building, everyone tacitly understood that death was the price paid for endless underground power struggles.
Right behind that vacant chair, another person rose.
He—a department manager who had spent years bowing, scheming, and enduring—finally achieved what he had yearned for so long. The CEO’s chair, the private office overlooking the panoramic view of that poor city from above, and absolute power to control all personnel and finances were now neatly in his hands.
On his first afternoon in office, as blood-red twilight streamed through thick tempered glass, he sat alone in the vast room. The space was chillingly quiet, enveloped by the mild scent of high-grade oak and expensive leather. He leaned back, thoroughly enjoying the absolute comfort of the leather chair left behind by his predecessor. A satisfied, arrogant smile bloomed on his lips. He thought of late nights drinking, vicious schemes, and stabbing colleagues in the back to climb to this position. All those trade-offs had now borne fruit.
— “Ultimately, this world is beneath my feet,” – he muttered to himself, his deep voice echoing in the empty space, carrying the supreme triumph of a ruthless victor.
II. THE TEMPTATION OF POWER AND THE INVISIBLE WALL
He stood up, walked to the large window, and looked down at the tiny people scurrying back and forth like ants on the dusty roads below. The feeling of standing at the peak is truly addictive. It made all fears, all pangs of conscience, or the shadows of the past instantly vanish into thin air. To him, this world is divided into only two kinds: rulers and the slaves at the bottom of society. And he, from this moment on, was the supreme king of this miniature realm.
He returned to his desk—a grand, imposing monolithic block of wood, intricately carved in every detail. This desk once belonged to his predecessor, whom he once deeply respected, but also whom he secretly sought every way to eliminate to usurp the position.
He began exploring his new space. Opening each side filing cabinet, he flipped through confidential files, million-dollar contracts that previously he only dared to gaze at from afar with envious eyes. Everything was neat and perfect, reflecting the cautious, cold working style of the deceased.
However, when he pulled to the final drawer—the deepest drawer on the far right, near the desk legs—he realized it was stuck.
He frowned, applying more force to pull. The drawer let out a dry, screeching sound: Creak… then popped open.
Inside the drawer, there were no business documents, no backup seals, nor any of the luxury items he had imagined. At the bottom of the drawer lay only a time-yellowed sheet of paper, carefully folded into quarters and placed right in the middle.
III. THE FATEFUL HANDWRITING IN THE DARK DRAWER
He reached out and picked up the paper. As soon as his fingers touched the rough paper surface, an unexpected, chilling sensation ran down his spine, making him involuntarily shudder. The air in the room seemed to stall, becoming thick and suffocating.
He slowly unfolded the paper under the warm desk lamp light starting to brighten as night fell outside.
Striking his eyes were handwritten lines crafted with blue ink, sharp, decisive, angular in every stroke. His eyes widened, his breath suddenly choking in his throat. His heart beat erratically, his chest feeling as though it were squeezed by someone.
That was not his predecessor’s handwriting.
It was his own handwriting. Every curve, every dash, even the habit of pressing heavily on the last letters of a sentence… entirely his own, unmistakably his.
And the content written on that paper was ruthlessly concise, coldly sowing ultimate fear into his mind:
“The next one will be you.”
IV. DAYTIME NIGHTMARE AND UTTER PANIC
He fell backward into his chair, cold sweat pouring profusely across his forehead, streaming down his pale cheeks. The suicide note fell flat onto the desktop, lying desolate like a deadly trap.
— “Impossible… What is the meaning of this?!” – he muttered, his voice trembling, lost in the silent space.
He had never written this letter. He remembered that very clearly. Until now, no one besides him possessed this strange handwriting—a handwriting with a slant and unconscious habit he had maintained since his school days. How could this paper be here? How did it appear in the desk drawer of the former director—who died so suspiciously before he could step foot into this chair?
Or… had the predecessor discovered something before dying? Or had the predecessor also found a similar letter before being murdered?
He rushed to the room door, twisting the door knob hard to run out, call security, or find help. But the door had been locked from the inside long ago. He panicked, shaking the lock hard, pounding his hands on the glass door, but the sound produced only muffled, humming noises, echoing a terrifying isolation.
When he turned back to look at the desk, he suddenly found the room unusually stifling. Darkness from the corners of the room began expanding, swallowing the yellow light. Intermittent fragments of memory began surfacing in his mind: late nights working, severe headaches of unknown origin, and blank spaces in his memory that he could never explain.
There were times he woke up in the morning, feeling his hands as sore as if he had just written a large amount of text, but there was nothing on the desk except blank sheets of paper. At the time, he only thought it was due to heavy work pressure causing sleepwalking or memory loss.
But now, looking at the handwritten suicide note in his own handwriting, a horrifying, morbid, and insane truth began forming in his mind: He had written this suicide note beforehand himself. In some unconscious moment of which he had no awareness at all.
V. THE LOOP OF DEATH AND FOOTSTEPS IN THE HALLWAY
Panic turned into supreme fear. He clutched his head tightly, collapsing onto the cold floor, his eyes wide open, staring fixedly at the fateful paper on the desk.
If he had written this letter, what did that mean? It meant death had been predetermined for him before he even managed to sit in this chair. The predecessor did not die of a stroke, but had also found this letter in despair, then ended his own life—or was forced by some invisible force to follow a pre-written script.
An endless loop. An inherited curse among power-hungry individuals in that poor street. You snatch the chair of the person before you, and simultaneously you sign your own death warrant for the one who will replace you tomorrow.
Just as his mind was sinking deep into the abyss of despair and madness, from outside the dark hallway of the building, a quiet sound echoed.
Clack… clack…
It was the sound of slow, heavy, steady footsteps on the tiled floor. The footsteps stopped right outside the director’s office door.
He held his breath, his body rigid like a stone statue, eyes glued to the frosted glass door slit.
From outside, a man’s silhouette appeared vaguely through the glass. The figure’s features were unclear, but the gaze piercing through the dark carried a hair-raising familiarity—his own gaze, yet cold, soulless, and murderous like someone waiting to usurp this chair.
The doorknob outside began to turn gently.
