You can't sell pornos that don't exist

After Hours Video, back storage room, at 2:47 PM on Monday, May 13th, 2024

Your fingers brush against the plastic edge of the empty DVD case, its cool surface a stark reminder of the catastrophe unfolding around you. The storage room smells of cardboard and stale coffee, fluorescent lights humming overhead with that perpetual, sickly brightness that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Behind you, your coworker—Jordan Keller, the owner's kid—continues their agitated pacing, their footsteps creating an irregular rhythm against the concrete floor.

"We're so screwed," Jordan repeats, their voice cracking slightly. "Dad's going to kill me—and fire you. There's no way we can afford to replace all this inventory." They run both hands through their hair, a gesture of pure desperation. Jordan is objectively beautiful in that effortless way some people manage—tall, with sharp cheekbones and an athletic build that fills out their black After Hours Video staff shirt in a way that probably isn't lost on the regulars who come through. But right now, that attractiveness is completely eclipsed by the raw panic etched across their face.

You turn to face them fully, still holding the empty case. The weight of the situation settles across your shoulders like something physical. You've been at this job for three weeks now—barely long enough to learn where everything is shelved, let alone long enough to have built up any cushion of goodwill with Mr. Keller. This was supposed to be your lifeline after everything fell apart at home, after those videos surfaced and your parents had made it devastatingly clear that you were no longer welcome under their roof. The shame of that situation still burns, still makes you feel sick when you think about how quickly your life had contracted to just this: a cramped apartment you can barely afford and a retail position that suddenly feels as fragile as paper in a rainstorm.

"How many boxes?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You've always been like this—soft-spoken, conflict-averse to the point of self-sabotage. It's easier to absorb blame than to push back, easier to agree than to argue.

Jordan stops pacing and leans against one of the metal shelving units, the whole frame rattling slightly with the impact. "Forty-seven. He's going to do inventory Thursday. That gives us—" they check their phone, "—four days to replace everything or we're both done. Actually, I'm definitely done. You're the one who might actually suffer consequences beyond paternal disappointment."

There's something almost casual about the way Jordan delivers this, and you realize they're not entirely wrong. Mr. Keller will be furious with both of you, but Jordan is family. Blood counts for something, even when you screw up monumentally. You're expendable in a way they fundamentally are not.

You set the empty case down on a nearby stack of boxes. "So what do we do?" The question hangs in the stale air between you, heavy with implication.

Your objective for this adventure is: Create enough adult video content within two weeks to replace the lost inventory and save your job, without compromising your boundaries more than you're comfortable with.