"Of course it's raining," Markle says to no one as he steps outside the office building. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead in seconds. "Why wouldn't it be raining at midnight on the one day I forget my umbrella?"
Thunder rumbles overhead like the world is laughing at his misfortune. Markle pulls his coat collar higher, a futile gesture against the downpour.
"Taxi!" he calls, raising his arm. The yellow cab splashes by without slowing. "Thanks for nothing," he mutters.
He begins the long walk home. His shoes squelch with each step, water seeping through the worn soles. The city lights blur through the rain.
"Could be worse," he tells himself. "Could be... actually, no, this is pretty much rock bottom."
A car rushes past, sending a wave of dirty water over his pants. Markle stops walking and looks up at the sky.
"Really? Was that necessary?" He addresses the clouds directly. Lightning flashes in response, illuminating his tired face.
His shoulders slump under the weight of his wet coat. Each step feels heavier than the last. His body moves on autopilot.
People hurry past with umbrellas and raincoats, their faces hidden. Markle walks among them like a ghost, half-present.
His mind drifts back to his desk, to the work waiting for him tomorrow. The endless cycle of reports and revisions.
"What am I even doing?" he asks a mannequin in a store window. It stares back, as lifeless as he feels.
Rain runs down his neck, cold fingers tracing his spine. His socks are soaked through. Each step makes a sad squishing sound.
The walk seems longer tonight. His apartment building appears through the rain, a dim light in the storm. Home, but not comfort.
"Evening, Mr. Voig," says the night doorman. "Caught in the storm, I see."
"No, this is my new look. Drowned rat chic. Very in this season."
The doorman smiles politely. "Elevator's acting up again. Might want to take the stairs."
"Perfect. Four flights in wet shoes. The cherry on my day."
Markle trudges up the stairs, leaving wet footprints behind. His legs burn with each step, a reminder of his fatigue.
The hallway to his apartment stretches before him. Doors identical to his own line the walls. Lives contained in boxes.
His key sticks in the lock, as it always does. He jiggles it with practiced irritation until the door swings open.
The apartment greets him with darkness and silence. He doesn't bother turning on the lights right away. The dark suits his mood.
"Honey, I'm home," he announces to the empty rooms. His voice echoes back at him, a sad reminder of his solitude.
Water drips from his clothes onto the floor. He peels off his coat, letting it fall with a wet slap.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Keller: "Need Bramson draft by 8AM." Markle doesn't reply.
The emptiness of the apartment presses against him. No pets to greet him, no plants even. Just himself and the rain tapping at his windows.
He walks to the bathroom, flicking on lights as he goes. The harsh fluorescents make him wince. His reflection looks ghostly.
"You look terrible," he tells his mirror image. "But at least your personality makes up for it. Oh wait."
The decision to take a bath comes from somewhere deep in his tired bones. A rare indulgence to wash away the day.
He turns the faucets, watching steam rise as hot water fills the tub. The sound drowns out the storm for a moment.
His bathroom is small, tiles cracked in places. The window above the tub is fogged with condensation, lightning flashes visible through it.
Markle adds bath salts he got as a gift years ago. Never opened until now. Small crystals dissolve in the swirling water.
He undresses slowly, muscles protesting each movement. His work clothes form a soggy pile on the floor.
The water is almost too hot when he steps in. He hisses but doesn't adjust the temperature. The heat feels necessary.
His body sinks into the water. For the first time all day, his shoulders relax. The water laps at his chest.
"This is nice," he says to the bathroom tiles. "Why don't I do this more often?"
Outside, the storm grows stronger. Rain lashes against the window. Thunder booms closer now.
Markle closes his eyes. His thoughts start to drift. Work seems distant here, underwater.
The bathroom light flickers once, twice. The building's old wiring struggles with the storm.
He notices the flickering through closed eyelids but doesn't open them. Too comfortable to move.
Water cradles him. Almost weightless. The tension of the day dissolves like the bath salts.
The ancient pipes groan in the walls. Something else too—a strange electrical hum he's never noticed before.
"Should probably get that checked," he murmurs. But he knows he won't. Just like the leaky faucet. The cracked ceiling.
Lightning crashes, closer than before. The bathroom illuminates in stark white for a split second.
The thunder that follows is immediate, a physical force that shakes the glass in the window.
The lights flicker more violently. On-off-on-off. The electrical hum grows louder.
Markle opens his eyes, suddenly uneasy. Water sloshes as he sits up straighter.
Another lightning strike. This one feels like it hits the building itself. The lights go out completely.
In the sudden darkness, Markle feels the hairs on his arms rise. Static electricity crackles in the air.
"That's not good," he says, his voice tight. He moves to stand, water streaming from his body.
The lightning comes again. This time, Markle sees it strike the metal roof antenna through the bathroom window.
A surge of electricity races through the building's wiring. The faulty circuit in his bathroom wall overloads.
Markle doesn't see the spark behind the light switch. Doesn't know about the ground wire that was never properly installed.
The electricity finds its path—through the pipes, through the water, through him.
His body goes rigid. His mouth opens in a silent scream. The pain is everywhere and nowhere at once.
The water around him seems to glow for a moment, or maybe that's just his consciousness failing.
His last thought is absurdly about the Bramson proposal. How Keller will be angry when it's not in his inbox by morning.
Then darkness. Complete and absolute. Different from the power outage. This darkness has weight. Has finality.
Markle Voig dies in his bathtub on a Tuesday night, during the worst storm of the year.
But death, it seems, is not the end of his story.