The morning started better than most.
Dean waved him into the glass office before his coat was even off.
“Levin, sit down, mate. Got something for you.”
Levin sat, nervous by default, but Dean was smiling — genuinely smiling.
“You’ve been solid. Steady. I’ve already spoken to Projects — they’ve got a vacancy in Audit Review. Bit more technical. Bit more scrutiny, but you’re built for it. I’ve recommended you directly.”
Levin blinked.
“Wait. You mean…?”
“It’s yours if you want it. Thirty six grand a year. Start next month. Bit of a learning curve, but honestly? You’ve earned it.”
For a moment, Levin just sat there. His brain felt like it had stepped outside for a smoke.
“I… thank you. Thank you, Dean. I didn’t think I’d…”
“Don’t thank me. Thank your work.”
The rest of the day passed in a strange glow. He typed faster. Smiled, briefly, when someone made a joke near the break room. Didn’t even flinch when he saw an email from HR — just an onboarding link for the new role.
He left work with a rare lightness. The wind felt less sharp. The walk to his bike shorter.
He almost forgot what he’d done.
That evening, he allowed himself a minor luxury: real chicken breast from the Co-op. No yellow sticker. Full price. He made a curry from scratch, not bulk — just one portion. No spreadsheet entry. No calorie count.
He watched a video about how people from the 70s lived on a single income and bought homes. He laughed — out loud, actually. Not in a bitter way. Just the absurdity of it.
He went to bed at 10 p.m., belly full, feeling something he hadn’t felt in years:
Possible.
At 7:43 a.m. the next morning, just as he was lacing his shoes, the knock came.
Three short raps. Official rhythm. Not a neighbour. Not a parcel.
He opened the door.
Two uniforms. One taller, taking the lead.
“Mr. Carrick?”
“Yes?”
“We’d like to speak to you about an incident that occurred on the 14th at the Co-op on Lings Road. May we come in?”
He didn’t remember sitting down. One of them was talking. The other opened a tablet.
“CCTV shows you placing approximately eight packs of green tea powder into both jacket pockets. Estimated value: £20.80”
The figure seemed absurdly specific.
“This is a voluntary interview. You’re not under arrest. We just need to clarify your intentions.”
“Intentions?” Levin said. “I don’t… I didn’t…”
He stopped.
He remembered the way it felt — light, automatic. Almost outside of him.
They asked him if he understood the caution. He said yes.
“We’ll treat this as a community resolution. It’s not a conviction, but it will be visible on certain background checks. The Co-Op have agreed not to press further if you reimburse them for the items.”
The words felt like someone sanding the bone.
After they left, Levin sat in silence.
He didn’t move for a long time.
Eventually, he opened the spreadsheet. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He didn’t type anything.
Finally, he muttered to the room:
“Did I miss a camera?”