The Link My Coworker Sent at 4 PM
I don’t usually open links from Frank. Frank is the guy at the desk next to mine who collects novelty ties and believes in at least three conspiracy theories. He once spent an entire lunch break explaining why birds aren’t real. Not in a funny way. In a “I have spreadsheets to back this up” way. So when he messaged me on Slack with nothing but a URL and a winking emoji, my first instinct was to ignore it.
But it was 4 PM on a Friday. The week had been brutal. My inbox was a war zone. My boss had added “ASAP” to three different tasks with three different deadlines. And Frank, for all his flaws, had decent taste in weird internet distractions.
The link led to a vavada mirror. I didn’t know what a mirror was at the time. Still don’t, really. Something about alternate access points. Frank had written in the message: “main site’s blocked at work but this one works. thank me later.” I clicked it. The page loaded clean and fast. Bright colors. Big buttons. The kind of design that doesn’t apologize for wanting your attention.
I didn’t deposit anything. Not at work. That felt like a line I shouldn’t cross, even on a Friday, even with Frank’s blessing. But I browsed. Looked at the games. Read the descriptions. There was one called “Candy Fiesta” that looked like someone had injected a sugar rush directly into HTML. Another called “Dead Man’s Spin” that was all skulls and fog. I bookmarked the mirror and closed the tab.
That night, I was home by 7 PM. Pizza on the way. No plans. The kind of Friday that feels less like freedom and more like waiting. I opened my laptop, found the bookmark, and clicked. The vavada mirror loaded again. Same bright colors. Same big buttons. No judgement.
I put in fifty dollars. That was my “Frank tax” — money I was willing to lose just to say I’d tried it. If Frank asked on Monday, I wanted to have an answer. Not a big win. Just an opinion.
I started with a slot game that had a jungle theme. Monkeys. Bananas. A soundtrack that sounded like a carnival on cough syrup. I played for fifteen minutes. Won a little. Lost a little. My balance stayed stubbornly around forty-eight dollars. Then I found a game that wasn’t a slot at all. It was a ladder. You start at the bottom. You click a button. The ladder goes up or down. Every step changes your multiplier. Cash out anytime. Wait too long, you fall off.
Simple. Stressful. Perfect.
I bet five dollars. The ladder went up. Multiplier: 1.2x. Cashed out. Six dollars. Bet five again. Ladder went up twice. Multiplier: 1.5x. Cashed out. Seven fifty. Bet ten. Ladder went up, up, down. I cashed out at 1.8x. Eighteen dollars. My balance hit sixty-two.
This is where it gets blurry. The pizza arrived. I ate a slice while playing. Pepperoni. Grease on the keyboard. I didn’t care. The ladder kept moving. Up. Up. Down. Up. I kept cashing out early. Small wins. Small profits. The kind of grinding that doesn’t make for good stories but fills your pocket anyway.
My balance hit ninety dollars. Then a hundred and ten. Then ninety-five. Then a hundred and thirty.
I increased my bet to twenty dollars. The ladder went up to 2x. I cashed out. Forty dollars. Balance: a hundred and fifty. I bet twenty again. The ladder went up to 2.5x. Cashed out. Fifty dollars. Balance: a hundred and eighty.
I was shaking. Not from fear. From the rhythm. The click, the climb, the cash-out. It felt like a dance I was winning. I bet twenty again. The ladder went up to 3x. My finger hovered. I should cash out. Sixty dollars. That’s triple. That’s smart. But the ladder kept climbing. 3.2x. 3.5x. 4x.
I cashed out at 4.2x. Eighty-four dollars. Balance: two hundred and thirty-four.
I closed the laptop. Ate another slice of cold pizza. Stared at the wall. Then I opened the laptop again, withdrew two hundred dollars, and watched the confirmation screen like it was a nature documentary. The money hit my account in nine minutes. I checked twice. Three times. Real. All real.
I texted Frank: “ok i get it now.” He texted back a single bird emoji. I still don’t know what that meant.
That was three months ago. I still use the vavada mirror sometimes. Frank sends me updated links every few weeks. He’s built a whole system around it—folders, bookmarks, a color-coded spreadsheet that tracks which mirrors load fastest. I don’t ask questions. I just click.
I’ve never hit a ladder like that again. Most nights I lose twenty or thirty and close the tab. That’s fine. That’s the game. But that first Friday—the pizza grease, the climbing numbers, the cash-out button I hit at exactly the right moment—that one was special. It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t strategy. It was a conspiracy theorist in novelty tie sending me a link at 4 PM because he thought I looked like I needed a win.
He was right. I did.
The two hundred dollars bought me nothing important. Takeout. A video game. A round of drinks for people whose names I barely remember. But the feeling—that electric click of the ladder climbing when it shouldn’t have—that’s still there. Every time I open a mirror. Every time I see Frank’s name in my inbox. Every time I take a bite of cold pepperoni pizza and remember that Friday when the universe said yes.
I still don’t believe him about the birds, though. Some lines you don’t cross.