Dead Men Don't Play Padel

Marcus stood at the padel court, his vitamin supplement rattling in the plastic bottle like accusations. Three years of this—quarterly reviews, KPIs, the relentless bull his boss spewed about synergy while Marcus felt his soul calcifying.

"You coming, or what?" Brent called from across the net. The company's golden boy, the one who'd Marcus's spot in the partnership track. The one who'd made a pass at Marcus's wife at the Christmas party.

Marcus's phone buzzed. Sarah: *I know about the vitamins. The sleeping pills. We need to talk.*

He'd been the walking dead for months now—going through motions, smile plastered on, caffeine and supplements keeping him vertical. A zombie in an Italian suit, and none of them noticed.

The bull—that's what the partners called their ruthless acquisition strategy. Feed or be fed upon. Marcus had fed on others once. Now he was just... hungry.

"Marcus?" Brent's voice sharpened.

He stepped onto the court. The glass walls reflected his own hollow face back at him—twenty years of ambition reduced to this padded cage.

His hand found the vitamin bottle in his pocket. All those promises of energy, vitality, life. What a joke.

"You know what?" Marcus said, walking to the net.

Brent smirked. "What's that, buddy?"

Marcus emptied the bottle onto the synthetic turf. Thirty capsules scattering like spent ammunition. "I'm done being dead."

He left his racquet on the ground, walked past the stunned executives, through the glass doors, into sunlight that actually felt warm for the first time in years. His phone lit up with Sarah's name again. This time, he answered.