Peterson Greymore did not like his name. It was two names, really, and cumbersome. His mother, a literature graduate student, and his father- her advisor, had been taken with the notion of naming their only son something strong, literary and romantic. He'd once asked his mother why she hadn't just named him Lord Grayson and have done with it. She had slapped him with her eyes and he skulked out of the room, the topic of his name never coming up again.
At work he went by plain old Peter. Plain old Peter lived in a nondescript apartment with white walls and minimalist furnishings and designs. He also worked in IT- it was the most boring non-romantic job he could think of growing up and the perfect fuck you to his elitist academic parents. They took heart in the knowledge that he had been accepted into MIT, they ignored the fact that he'd dropped out after a semester to attend ITT Tech.
Peter enjoyed the anonymity of his career. He never had to leave the cave like office where his cubicle sat. In fact, most of the time he hardly talked to anyone save Sam- cubicle neighbor and fellow underachiever. While drinking beers after work at the local titty bar, Sam liked to point out that one was hardly an underachiever who knew coding like they did. Peter just nodded but knew better. It wasn't necessarily their careers that were an underachievement but their participation in life.
Peter enjoyed the routine of going from home to work to bar to home. Occasionally he played the part of the dutiful son and returned home for dinner or the requisite holidays functions but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had escaped this gilded cage society his parents so loved...