There is nothing more terrifying on this Earth than two gay businessmen who sign your checks calling you into their office.
The message arrives without context. No subject line that softens the blow. No “quick chat” to lull you into false security. Just: Come upstairs.
You don’t know why. That’s the worst part. Your brain, ever the overachiever, begins producing possibilities like a cursed slot machine that only lands on disaster. Fired. Promoted. Reassigned. Investigated. Fired again, but creatively this time. Every outcome feels equally catastrophic, just dressed in different outfits.
Your pulse starts to climb, steady at first, then sprinting. You can feel it in your throat, behind your eyes, in your fingertips. There’s a strange prickling at the edges of your vision, like static creeping in. You briefly wonder if this is what people mean when they say they “saw stars,” except these aren’t stars. These are sparks. Electrical. Wrong.
You already know you’ll have to go to the doctor afterward. There is no way your cortisol levels are survivable long-term. This is the kind of stress that leaves a residue.
You work for Dolore Inc., which is, as far as you can tell, less a company and more a predator wearing a corporate logo. It consumes other companies. Not metaphorically, not in the friendly “merger” sense. It eats them. Absorbs them. Digests them. You don’t know how. You don’t ask. You’ve seen what happens to people who ask too many questions. They don’t get answers. They just… stop appearing in meetings.
You deal with numbers. Clean, obedient numbers. Numbers don’t breathe. Numbers don’t stare back. Numbers don’t call you upstairs.
You are in middle management. Sixth floor. Accounting. A safe, beige purgatory where ambition goes to nap. You are not important enough for this. That thought repeats, louder each time.
Surely there is someone else.
There is a hierarchy here. There are layers. Buffers. People whose entire job is to stand between you and them. Your manager exists. Your manager’s manager exists. There are at least three human shields who should intercept whatever this is before it ever reaches you.
Why directly with the Them?
Your mind begins to snag on smaller, sharper thoughts now. Did you miss something? A decimal point? A line item? Was there an email you didn’t respond to quickly enough? Did you respond too quickly? Too casually? Too formally? Did you say “per my last email” to the wrong person?
You try to remember your last week. Then your last month. Then everything collapses into a useless blur of spreadsheets and polite corporate language. Nothing stands out. Which is worse. Because if nothing stands out, then it could be anything.
The elevator ride up feels longer than it should, like the building is stretching just to spite you. Each floor number lights up with a quiet, deliberate ding, and with each one your chest tightens another fraction. By the time you reach their floor, breathing feels… optional. Decorative.
The hallway is too quiet.
The receptionist doesn’t notice you at first. You hover for a moment, palms damp, unsure whether to announce yourself or wait. Then they glance up. A flick of the eyes. A quick, measuring look, like they already know why you’re here and have decided you’re not worth delaying.
A small nod toward the door. “Go on in.”
The office is huge. Cathedral huge. The ceiling stretches up higher than seems necessary, like it’s trying to impress God.
And behind them, the city.
It spills out in endless glass and steel, soaked in deep purple twilight. The light bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, staining everything in bruised violet. It doesn’t feel like evening. It feels like the world is holding its breath.
They are silhouettes at first. Then your eyes adjust.
You step forward. Too fast? Too slow? Every step echoes like a decision you can’t undo.
They’re already looking at you. Staring. Waiting.
Why can’t you remember their names?
You know one is Mr. Dolore. But which one?
The one sitting behind the desk, hands folded neatly, green eyes catching the lamplight in a way that makes them look faintly… lit from within? Watching you like you’re a chess piece already solved?
Or the one standing just behind him, slightly to the side, looming without effort, posture relaxed but coiled, like he could move very fast if he wanted to?
Both of them are sharp. Not just well-dressed. Edged. Tailored into something dangerous.
No teeth. Not really. Just the suggestion of them. But your brain, traitor that it is, fills in the blanks. Fangs. Of course there are fangs. You just never noticed until now.
Your mind scrambles, flipping uselessly through fragments. Caliban Dolore? Shakespeare? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Say something. Default. Safe. Neutral. Corporate.
'Hello, Mr. Dolore. How can I help you?'
Your voice comes out wrong. Horribly wrong.
“Hey… Mmn Donyou neEd help?”
Silence. Heavy. Absolute.
Cadmus chuckled from his own office, glancing at Percy with a look that clearly said Told you.
Percy turned his head, breaking the tense quiet. “Mr. Smith, right? You found that financial error that nearly crippled one of our branches.”
Cadmus raised an eyebrow. “Ours?”
Percy’s cheeks warmed. “Well… maybe someday.”
Cadmus smirked and reached up, brushing a hand lightly against Percy’s chin. “Tease.~”
Percy nudged him, awkwardly pointing toward Mr. Smith.
Cadmus straightened, addressing him. “Right. We wanted to thank you, Mr. Smith. A bonus has been added to your next paycheck, and we made sure to note this for your next performance review. You did everyone here a massive service by catching that error—I would have hated dealing with the panic and fallout.”
Percy muttered, “Trust me… saves me headaches dealing with his.”
Cadmus laughed softly. “Percy! You are free to go, Mr. Smith.”
You nodded, Tripped and left the office and collapsed in the elevator.
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