$ log - tony stark skimmed over the M&A contract with you; he missed out some key details that will surely bite him back.
$ warn --nsfw --dubcon(heavy) --gn!reader ---dom!top!reader --sub!bot!tony --bratty!tony(light) --d/s(heavy) --power-imbalance --free-use --semi-public --handjob --orgasm-control(edging) --dirty-talk --humiliation --teasing --exhibitionism --control-play
$ wc -w 1.6k
$ cd masterlist / tony-stark
# authors-note = breaking down his ego.
Tony didn’t read the fine print. Why would he? He was too busy drinking in the sight of you. A predatory, appreciative gleam in his eyes appeared as you slid the document across the mahogany desk. He signed it with a flourish and a nonchalant, devastating grin, his gaze never leaving your lips.
ARTICLE VI: OPERATIONAL INTEGRATION & ASSET ACCESS
Section 6.7: The ‘Universal Access Provision’.
Upon the formal ratification of this Merger and Acquisition agreement, the acquiring party (Stark Industries) hereby grants the merging entity (The User) unrestricted, unconditional, and immediate ‘Free Use rights’ to the principal representative of the subsidiary.
This clause supersedes all previous social, professional, or temporal boundaries. Access may be exercised at any time, in any setting, without prior notice.
To him, it was just another win, another empire expanded. He had no idea he’d just become an asset.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the clinking of crystal. Tony was in his element, the centre of a glittering constellation of socialites and investors, looking every bit the untouchable titan. He caught your eye from across the room, offering that signature, cocky smirk that said he knew exactly how much wanted him.
He had no fucking clue that you were about to collect on his debt.
As the orchestra swelled, you slipped through the crowd, weaving past a senator and a tech mogul until you reached him. Without a word of warning, you grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards a heavy velvet curtain that shielded a secluded alcove just off the main stage.
“Woah, hey, darling, the speech is in five minutes—” Tony started, his voice a playful lilt, but the words died in his throat as you pressed him back against the wall.
Before he could process the sudden shift in intensity, your hands were moving with practiced, ruthless efficiency. You unbuttoned his designer slacks, the fabric sliding down his hips with a suddenness that made his breath hitch.
His eyes widened, the cocky billionaire persona fracturing into pure shock, “What are you—is this a new game? If it is, the time is a little… aggressive, don’t you think?” he tried to chuckle, to regain that effortless Stark swagger. But the sound was strangled as your hand slid inside, wrapping firmly around his cock.
Oh, lord, that was a painful dry tug.
“It’s not a game.” you whispered, leaning in so close that your lips brushed his ear. You took mild mercy on him, thumb rubbing the head to gather drops of precum, lathering it like makeshift lube onto him.
Gosh, and he was already leaking at the sight of you? You’re going to have lots of fun with this one.
“It’s a contract. Section 6.7, remember?” your voice was as sultry, dangerous velvet, as you continued, “Every merger, every acquisition, grants the partner unrestricted, immediate, and total physical access. No matter the venue. No matter the time.”
His eyes widened, the cocky glint momentarily replaced by a flash of genuine, panicked realisations. He looked down at your hand, which was already working him a rhythmic intensity, almost making his knees tremble beneath the fine fabric of his suit.
“Wait! What? That-that was a sub clause! A technicality!” he hissed, his voice a frantic, hushed whisper, as he glanced toward the heavy velvet curtains separating him from the roaring crowd of socialites and investors.
“It’s a binding legal reality, Stark,” You purred, your grip tightening, your thumb grazing the sensitive tip of his cock that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “And you signed it with such a beautiful, hungry little smile.”
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He could hear the announcer calling his name, “Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour, Tony Stark!”
Tony’s breath hitched, a desperate, jagged sound he tried to mask as a cough. He gripped the edge of a side table, knuckles turning white as you increased the pace. Your hand moved with a ruthless, expert friction that pushed him dangerously close to his stupid orgasm.
He was a man built on control, on being the smartest person, most composed person in the room. Yet here he was, being manhandled in the shadows, while his legacy waited for him under the spotlight.
“You’re… you’re fucking trouble,” he gasps, his head lulling back as your thumb applied a punishing amount of pressure to his glans. His ego was screaming, fighting the urge to moan loudly enough for the front row to hear. But his body was a traitor, pulsing rhythmically against your palm.
“I’m just a person collecting what they’re owed,” You murmured, your voice vibrating right through his skin, as you hovered your lips over his bare neck. Not exactly kissing him, just enough for him to feel your presence.
Tony’s head thrashed back against the wall, his eyes rolling shut as he fought the strong urge to just thrust into your hand, while he spouts more frustrations. “You’re just a fucking—god’s sake, ah— you’re a nuisance!”
He could hear the muffled roar of the crowd through the curtains, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the announcer’s voice booming. He was cheerily talking grand about him, a futile attempt to keep the audience entertained during Tony’s rather late entrance.
“Don’t you dare lose it now, Stark,” you teased, your eyes glinting with a predatory satisfaction. You leaned in closer, breathing hot against his ear, watching his composure crumble. “If you cum right here, in the dark, while the world is watching your every move on those giant screens… well, the stain on those custom tailored trousers will be a very public testament to your lack of attention to detail.”
Barely any of your words made it into his muddled mind; he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, his entire body coiled with a desperate need to erupt. His grip on the side table, tightening even more, trying so damn hard to keep himself upright.
“You’re a sadistic little genius,” he managed to choke out, a desperate, breathless laugh escaping him, even as he felt the overwhelming pressure building in his groin.
“I’m just a businessperson, and business is booming,” you finished, your voice dropping to a low commanding hum. You didn’t slow down; instead you accelerated, your palm swirling around his cock at a relentless speed.
Tony let out a sound that was half groan, half whimper, his eyes snapping open to find yours. They were blown wide, dark with desperate, unbridled lust that he was fighting tooth and nail to suppress. He looked absolutely wrecked, the billionaire playboy replaced by a man on the brink of total, humiliating collapse.
“The lights…” he gasped, his chest heaving, as he tried to draw in enough air to stay conscious. “The damn lights, Y/N… if I… if I blow…”
“Then, you’ll just have to stand there and endure it,” you whispered, your eyes dancing with mischief as you gave him one final, sharp tug that sent a jolt of electricity through his entire frame, almost forcing a shout from his lungs. He clenched his jaw so hard that you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He was right there: on the razor’s edge of a messy, public catastrophe.
“I’ll—I’ll kill you,” he breathed, though there was no heat in the threat, only a desperate, trembling need. His hips gave a traitorous, involuntary twitch upwards, seeking the friction he was being denied the right to fully embrace.
“You’ll do no such thing,” you firmly commanded, while suddenly slowing your hand to an agonisingly slow, teasing crawl, just as he was about cum. You felt him shudder, a low, frustrated whine vibrating in his chest. “You’ll walk out there, you’ll give your little speech, you’ll charm the world, and you’ll keep that ache simmering in your gut. Think of it as a little extra motivation for your next acquisition.”
You gave him one final slow swirl of your thumb over his weeping tip, feeling the frantic pulse of his cock against your palm, silently begging. Tony let out a tiny whimper, his head lulled back against the wall, trying to stop his eyes rolling back. He was vibrating, a live wire of unadulterated tension, teetering on the dulling edge.
“Five seconds, Mr. Stark!” the stage manager called out from the other side of the curtain.
“Go,” you whispered, a wicked smirk playing on your lips as you finally released him. You pulled your hand away, leaving him cold and desperately unfulfilled. “Go be the hero. We’ll see if you can keep that billionaire swagger while you’re practically throbbing out of pleasure.”
He stood there for a moment, paralysed, his chest thieving as he desperately tried to pull his slacks back into place and smooth the fabric over himself. His face was flushed a frantic, feverish red that he would have to pray the stage lights would mask as mere ‘charismatic energy’.
He looked at you, his eyes burning with a mixture of profound frustration and terrifyingly intense hunger, a silent promise that you were going to pay for this eventually.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Y/N,” he hissed, his voice still trembling as he straightened his blazer, trying to reclaim the armour of his ego. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the billionaire playboy back into his skin, though the slight shake in his hands betrayed him.
With a final, lingering look of heated desire, he turned and stepped through the curtains.
I've been working on this one, inmate & doctor. A Wentworth Au. If you haven't watched the show you should!
Wentworth Correctional Centre runs on routine, pressure, and the unspoken rules that keep the place from burning down. Officers hold keys. Inmates hold power. Everyone holds secrets.
Paige Bueckers is the Top Dog, the one who keeps the trade moving and the violence contained, because order is profitable.
Dr. Azzi Fudd is the new Senior Psychologist, brought in to assess risk, reduce incidents, and document the truth no one wants written down.
Mandatory sessions are meant to keep the peace.
Instead, they’ll light the match.
Chapter One
The fluorescent lights of the processing wing hummed a tuneless, invasive song, the same one that had been drilling into her skull for 1,663 days. Paige Bueckers stood still, her shoulders squared, as the guard performed the morning headcount. Her posture was a carefully constructed monument of indifference, but beneath the surface of her skin, a current of restless energy pulsed. Four years, seven months. It was long enough to forget the taste of real coffee, short enough to still dream of it.
She hadn't gone down for being sloppy. Sloppy was for amateurs, for people who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Paige had been the architect of the entire kitchen. On the outside, she ran point for a mid-level operation that moved enough product to keep everyone comfortable and quiet. She wasn't the supplier; she was the enforcer, the distributor, the one who made sure money moved and mouths stayed shut. Her name wasn't on the ledger, but her fingerprints were all over the system.
The fall came fast, a deal that went sideways in a warehouse that smelled of bleach and desperation. A gunshot, a scream, and a choice. She could have flipped, named names, and cut a deal that might have seen her out in half the time. Instead, she stood in the interrogation room, looked the detective dead in the eye, and took the weight of the world onto her shoulders. Trafficking (Class A). Possession with intent to distribute. Assault causing grievous bodily harm. Obstruction of justice. She owned it all. Never once did she say another person's name.
That was the day she earned her sentence. It was also the day she earned her reputation.
Her first month inside was a study in silence. She didn't talk unless spoken to. She watched everything: the way the guards' eyes lingered, the subtle currency of contraband passing from hand to hand, the unspoken hierarchy that governed every inch of the prison. She learned who owed who, who was weak, and who was just good at hiding their strength.
The second month was about alignment. She identified the muscle, the lifers who had influence but lacked direction. She didn't challenge them; she offered them a better deal. A piece of a pie that was bigger and more stable than the scraps they were fighting over.
The third month, she made her move. The former Top Dog, a brutish woman named Jacs, ruled through fear and random violence. Her power was a loud, messy thing. Paige saw the flaw: Jacs' second-in-command was skimming, pocketing profits and blaming shortages on new arrivals. Paige didn't expose her with a speech. She simply arranged for a small package to be found in the woman's bunk during a random shakedown, a package that contained not only drugs but a detailed ledger of every cent she'd stolen from Jacs.
The fallout was spectacular. Jacs took care of her own, and the prison was rid of a cancer without Paige ever lifting a finger. The fight that crowned her wasn't loud or chaotic. It happened in the laundry room, a swift, brutal affair where Jacs, enraged and paranoid, tried to reassert her dominance. Paige didn't scream. She didn't threaten. She moved with a cold efficiency, ending the fight in three precise movements that left Jacs with a broken wrist and a shattered ego. There was no celebration. There was only the quiet understanding from every single woman in Wentworth that Paige Bueckers didn't need chaos to win. She was the calm at the center of the storm.
Now, she ran the prison her way. It was a business, and she was a CEO.
The drug trade..pills, weed, whatever managed to slip through the cracks.. was her domain. Distribution was clean and organized. There were no overdoses on her watch. It was bad for business, and worse, it drew the kind of attention she didn't want. Her rules were simple and absolute: no stealing from women who couldn't protect themselves, and never, under any circumstances, touch a kid's photo, letter, or ruin a phone call home. You broke Paige's rules, you answered to Paige. The punishment wasn't always a beating; sometimes it was isolation, the removal of privileges, a quiet, psychological dismantling that was far more effective.
She didn't flirt with the guards. Seduction was a temporary tool, easily broken. Information was permanent. She knew which officer had a gambling problem, which one was sleeping with another, which one hated her job just enough to look the other way when life was quieter. They looked the other way because Paige's order was better than the alternative.
In the yard, they whispered about her. "She's ice cold." "She'll back you if you're loyal." "Don't mistake her smile for mercy." What they didn't say, what they only understood in their gut, was that Paige remembered everything. She hated owing favors. And most of all, she didn't trust hope.
Hope was a liability. It was a crack in the armor. Her armor had been forged long before prison. She didn't talk about family, not because she didn't have one, but because she had lost them before the system ever got its hands on her. Her crime hadn't been about the money. It had been about survival and control… the two things she refused to ever let anyone else have over her again.
She was sitting in the workshop, the scent of sawdust filling her lungs, when a new memo was tacked to the community board. The word "Mandatory" was underlined in red. Next to it, a name: Dr. Azzi Fudd. Head of Psychological Services.
Paige's hands stilled on the piece of wood she was sanding. The quiet hum of the prison seemed to fade, replaced by the roaring in her ears. They were sending in a shrink. A professional with a degree in finding cracks. Someone whose entire job was to poke and prod at the very foundations she had built to survive.
A small, humorless smile touched Paige's lips as she read the memo. Mandatory. She let out a soft, dismissive scoff. Mandatory, my ass. Paige Bueckers would not be attending. She would be skipping. Let them try to make her.
Paige noticed a new fish, a young girl with wide, terrified eyes, was fumbling with a jigsaw two benches down. Her fear made her clumsy, the blade splintering the wood. A soft curse escaped her lips.
Paige didn't look up, but she was listening. She heard the heavy footsteps of Rita, a lifer who viewed fresh meat as her personal ATM. "Having a little trouble there, sweetie?" Rita's voice was slick with false sympathy. "That's a nice piece of pine. Be a shame if it got… damaged. Maybe I can help you out. For a small price, of course."
The girl froze. "I-I'm fine."
Rita leaned closer. "I don't think you are. In fact, I think you owe me for the wood you just wasted. We can work it out. My cell, after lockup."
The workshop went quiet. The other inmates suddenly found their tasks fascinating. They knew the rules. You didn't get involved in Rita's business.
Paige finished her stroke, set the sandpaper down with a soft click. The sound landed in the silence like a gavel. She wiped the dust from her project, her movements slow and deliberate. "Rita," Paige said, her voice calm and level. "That piece of timber you're leaning on? It's for my next commission. I'd appreciate it if you didn't get your grease stains on it."
Rita straightened up, her face a mask of indignation. "What did you say to me, Bueckers?"
Paige finally looked up, her gaze steady. "I said you're in my space. You're scaring the help. And you're bad for business." She gestured with her chin toward the new fish. "She makes something, she sells it. She makes money, she buys things. Things I supply. You scare her off, she curls up in her cell and produces nothing. That's bad for the economy. You understand economics, don't you, Rita?"
A muscle twitched in Rita's jaw. "This doesn't concern you."
"Everything that happens in my workshop concerns me," Paige stated, taking a step toward the girl and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "What's your name?"
"Ines."
"Ines," Paige repeated, her voice softening just a fraction. "Take a break. Go get some water. Come back in ten minutes and start a new piece."
The girl scrambled away without a backward glance.
Paige turned back to Rita. "We have rules here, Rita. You know them. You don't touch the ones who can't protect themselves. You don't shit where you eat. Now, are we going to have a problem, or are you going to go find something else to do?"
Rita stared, her chest heaving. She was bigger, stronger, but in the face of Paige's unshakeable calm, she looked like a child throwing a tantrum. The power wasn't in the threat of violence; it was in the absolute certainty that Paige would follow through, efficiently and without fuss, if she was forced to. With a final, venomous glare, Rita spat on the concrete floor and walked away.
The air in the room loosened. Paige picked up her sandpaper and went back to her piece of timber, her rhythm unbroken. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't thrown a punch. She had simply enforced the rules. Her rules.
The screech of the workshop bell cut through the air, signaling the end of the session and the move to the yard. As the women filed out, the raw, sterile air of the prison hallways gave way to the gritty, sun-baked atmosphere of the exercise yard. The tension from the workshop hadn't dissipated; it had followed them out, simmering under the afternoon sun.
Paige found her usual spot, leaning against the outer wall, her eyes scanning the yard. She saw Ines trying to make herself small near the bleachers, and she saw Rita, still smarting from her humiliation, heading straight for the girl with two of her lackeys in tow.
Before Paige could push off the wall, a new figure moved into the yard. Nika Muhl. She was new to Wentworth but not new to the system, transferred from a maximum-security facility upstate. She carried herself with a quiet intensity that was different from Rita's loud aggression. This was a woman who didn't need to announce her presence; she commanded it through sheer force of will.
Nika's eyes scanned the yard, cataloging faces, alliances, and weaknesses. Her gaze lingered on Paige for a moment, a flicker of recognition, or perhaps challenge, in her eyes. Paige met her stare without flinching, a silent acknowledgment of the new player in their carefully balanced ecosystem.
The standoff was interrupted by a commotion near the bleachers. Rita had cornered Ines, blocking her escape. "I told you we'd talk," Rita snarled, grabbing Ines's arm. "Nobody walks away from me."
Before Paige could take a single step, Nika was already in motion. She crossed the yard with long, purposeful strides, her expression unreadable. "Let her go," Nika said, her voice low and even.
Rita turned, surprised by the interruption. "This doesn't concern you, new fish."
"Everything concerns me until I decide it doesn't," Nika replied, stepping closer. "Now, I'm not going to ask again."
Rita's lackeys shifted uncomfortably. They could see what Rita couldn', that Nika was not a woman to be trifled with. Rita, however, was too proud to back down. "Or what?" Rita challenged.
Nika's response was swift and brutal. She moved like a predator, disarming Rita with a quick twist of her wrist and sending her to the ground with a sharp kick to the back of her knee. Before Rita's companions could react, Nika had them both pinned with cold, calculating efficiency.
The yard fell silent. Everyone watched as Nika helped Ines to her feet, her demeanor softening slightly. "Are you okay?"
Ines nodded, trembling.
Nika turned her attention to Rita, who was struggling to get up. "We have rules here. You don't touch the ones who can't protect themselves. You don't shit where you eat. Sound familiar?"
Paige pushed off the wall and walked toward them, her expression unreadable. She stopped in front of Nika, the two women standing face to face for the first time. "That's my line," Paige said, her voice dangerously quiet.
Nika met her gaze without hesitation. "Looks like we have something in common then."
The tension between them was palpable, a silent battle of wills playing out in front of the entire prison population. This was more than a dispute over territory or rules; it was a clash of two alphas, each unwilling to cede an inch of ground.
"Rules are rules," Nika continued, breaking the silence. "Unless you have a problem with how I enforce them."
Paige studied her for a long moment, weighing her options. She could assert her dominance, put Nika in her place, and reestablish the status quo. Or she could recognize a kindred spirit, someone who understood the delicate balance of power that kept their world from descending into chaos.
"The girl is off-limits," Paige finally said, her voice firm. "To everyone. Including you."
Nika's lips curved into a slight smile. "Fair enough. But if you won't protect them, I will."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Paige to contemplate the new reality of Wentworth. The balance of power had shifted in a single afternoon, and Paige knew that her reign as Top Dog was no longer uncontested. The beef with Nika Muhl had just begun, and Paige had a feeling it would be a long time before either of them could call this prison their own.
The next morning the clang of the weight plates was a rhythm Paige understood, a percussive counterpoint to the grunts of effort in the prison gym. She was under the bench, the cold steel of the barbell resting across her palms, the familiar ache in her shoulders a welcome distraction. She was pushing through her final set when the shadows fell over her, blocking the harsh overhead lights.
She didn't need to look up. The scent of cheap perfume and aggression was a signature. "You're late," KK's voice, sharp and entitled, cut through the air.
Paige finished her rep, racked the weight with a controlled clang, and sat up, wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I'm not late. You're early. I told you a few days."
KK, flanked by her two most loyal enforcers, crossed her arms. The gym had gone quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own reps. "I don't do 'a few days.' I want it now. The weed I paid for."
"I don't have it yet," Paige said, her voice flat. "My connection is slow. You'll get it when you get it."
That's when they moved. One of the girls kicked the leg of the bench, throwing Paige off balance. The other one slammed a boot down on the bar, pinning it against Paige's throat. The steel bit into her skin, not hard enough to crush, but hard enough to be a promise. Paige's hands instinctively flew to the bar, her muscles tensing, but she didn't struggle. Not yet. She held KK's gaze, her own eyes burning with a cold fury.
"Let's try this again," KK purred, leaning down until her face was inches from Paige's. "Where. Is. My. Weed?"
Paige's mind raced. She was counting on the visit. Her girlfriend, Kim, was supposed to bring her cash today. It wasn't enough for the whole order, but it was enough for a down payment, enough to get KK off her back. "I've got money coming," she forced out, her voice strained against the pressure on her windpipe. "Later today. Just give me until tonight."
KK considered it, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. She lifted her chin, and the pressure on the bar eased. "Tonight, Bueckers. Or next time, we won't be talking." She and her crew sauntered away, leaving Paige gasping for air, a raw, red ring already forming around her neck.
She needed muscle. She needed Big Rah.
The consulting session was in full swing when Paige pushed the door open. A circle of women sat on cheap plastic chairs, sharing their feelings in a hushed, somber tone. And at the head of the circle, looking infuriatingly calm and professional, was the new doctor.
"You're late," the doctor said, her voice smooth as polished stone, not looking up from her notes. "We were just discussing accountability. Do you want to join us?"
Paige barely spared her a glance, her eyes already scanning the room for her target. "Na, I just need Sarah for a min."
She didn't wait for a response, striding into the room and pulling a tall, broad-shouldered woman to her feet. "Sarah. Outside."
Sarah, known to everyone as Big Rah, followed her into the hallway, her expression weary. "What's up, Paige? This better be good."
"It's not good," Paige said, her voice low and urgent. "KK's crew just ran down on me in the gym. Put a bar to my throat. I need help getting that weed, Rah. Now."
Big Rah held up her hands, and Paige saw why for the first time. They were wrapped in thick white gauze, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to them. "I'm on injury reserve, Paige," she said, her voice grim. "KK's girls boiled a pot of sugar water for me two days ago. I can't hold a fork, let alone a shiv. You're on your own with this one."
A cold dread washed over Paige. The struggle to be top dog was a constant uphill battle, and right now, she was slipping. "Bueckers to the visiting room," a guard's voice crackled over the intercom. "You have a visitor."
Shit. Her money. Just what she needed.
The visiting room was a sterile cage of noise and desperation. She saw Kim through the plexiglass, waving with a bright, clueless smile. Paige sat, the hard plastic chair digging into her back. They picked up the phones.
"You got the cash?" Paige asked, getting straight to the point.
Kim's smile faltered. "Only eighty. I'm sorry, baby, things are tight right now."
Paige let out a frustrated grunt that was more animal than human. Useless. This woman was useless. All she did was call, write letters, and show up with pocket money while Paige fought for her life in here. Paige snatched the thin envelope through the tiny slot, the bills inside feeling pathetic and light. She waved it dismissively. "Eighty ? You call this eighty dollars? I'll be good as dead."
She slammed the phone back into its cradle, ignoring Kim's hurt, confused expression through the glass. She stalked out of the visiting room, her mind a frantic scramble. Where the hell was her crew? Zaza and JJ had been MIA all day. She'd been looking for their asses since morning. Now she was on a mission she needed to gather her troops.
Paige was a storm brewing in a concrete hallway, her mission a singular, violent point of focus. She was so lost in the frantic calculus of her problem, where the weed would come from, who she could trust, who was about to get stabbed, that she didn't see the woman turning the corner until they collided. The impact was solid, sending a jolt through Paige's frame.
"Whoa, hey," a calm, steady voice said. It was the doctor from the group session. "We didn't get a chance to chat back there."
Paige took a step back, her patience frayed to a single thread. "Yea, I got it. I'm busy."
The doctor didn't flinch from Paige's abrasive energy. She just offered a small, knowing smile. "Your Paige Bueckers, aren't you?"
Paige’s jaw tightened. "Yea. And you are?"
"Dr. Fudd. And I've heard a lot about you."
A humorless laugh escaped Paige's lips. "Yeah, I'll bet. What's the short version? Don't turn your back on her?"
"I heard you're a survivor," Dr. Fudd said, her gaze direct and unnervingly clear. "Why don't you come and see me? My office. We can talk."
Paige crossed her arms, a defiant posture. "What's in it for me?"
"Well," Dr. Fudd said, her tone shifting, becoming strategic. "You're up for parole soon, aren't you? If you could show the board that you're attending regular counseling, that you're actively working on self-improvement... it would look very good to the suits on the board. It could be the difference between walking out and staying in."
Paige scoffed, but the seed was planted. "That would be a miracle."
"Why don't you come and talk about it?" Dr. Fudd pressed gently. "See if you can make one happen."
Just as the words left her mouth, the hallway filled with the familiar, unwelcome presence of KK and her crew. They fanned out, blocking the hall, their smiles sharp and predatory. The air grew thick with unspoken threats.
"Looking for someone, Bueckers?" KK sneered, her eyes flicking between Paige and the doctor.
Paige's gaze shot past them, searching for her muscle. She spotted Big Rah at the end of the hall, talking to a guard. "Sarah! Walk back with me to the unit," Paige called out, her voice tight.
Sarah looked over, her bandaged hands held up in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm not going back to the unit, Paige. I'm going to medical. Remember?" She gestured to her gauze-wrapped hands. "Burns."
A fresh wave of fury, hot and sharp, washed over Paige. KK had done that. Burned her own lieutenant's hands with a clothes iron for some perceived infraction. The disrespect was staggering. Paige just shook her head, a slow, dangerous movement. KK had to go. She was Top Dog, and KK was treating her and her crew like they were nothing. She needed to set shit straight, right now.
"You got a problem?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice low and steady, her eyes on the tense standoff.
Paige didn't answer. She turned on her heel and stormed away, not towards her unit, but towards the prison library. The moment she stepped inside, a place usually reserved for quiet desperation, she snapped. She grabbed a heavy wooden chair and, with a guttural scream of pure rage, flung it across the room. It crashed against a metal bookshelf, sending a shower of paperback books skittering across the floor. She wasn't done. She swept her arm across a table, sending a stack of newspapers and a lamp flying.
Dr. Fudd was hot on her heels, stepping into the chaotic space without hesitation. "Hey, hey! Calm down," she said, her voice firm but not panicked.
"I'm not feeling calm right now!" Paige roared, her chest heaving. "I'm feeling pretty fucking angry!" She kicked a fallen chair, sending it skittering. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Alright, let's talk," Dr. Fudd said, holding her ground.
"I don't do talking!" Paige smacked a stack of books off a nearby table, the thud echoing in the room. "Talking is for people who have time! I don't have fucking time!"
"If you don't calm down, I'm going to have to call an officer," Dr. Fudd warned, her voice losing none of its composure.
"Then fucking do it!" Paige screamed, stepping into her personal space, her face inches from the doctor's. "Why are you fucking waiting for?"
"Why don't you tell me what the problem is, Paige?" Dr. Fudd asked, her eyes locked on Paige's, searching the storm. "This isn't achieving anything."
"You're all talk!" Azzi said.
"I prefer actions," Paige snarled, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Officer Jackson, a portly man with a perpetually bored expression, shuffled in. "Bueckers," he sighed, "give it up already."
"Paige, give it up," Dr. Fudd echoed, her voice softer now, almost pleading.
Just then, the imposing figure of Officer Clark, and the Governor, appeared in the doorway. "What the hell is going on in here?" she barked, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip.
"I'm slotting her, officer," Jackson said quickly.
Paige rolled her eyes. "Great. The fucking Governor. The big bad wolf whose only job is to fuck the women in this prison over. Shameful. You got a fucking job, don't you?" she sneered as Clark and another officer moved in to escort her.
As they were leading Paige away, Dr. Fudd stepped forward. "Governor Daley," she said, her voice professional and clear. "I need to speak with her."
"Absolutely not," Daley snapped, not even turning around. "She's a violent, convicted criminal. She is beyond help."
"I believe something else is going on," Dr. Fudd insisted. "And I need to understand where that aggression is coming from. Let me talk to her."
"Your opinion is irrelevant," the Governor sneered. "The Department might think you're the new savior, but in my prison, you're nothing."
"The Department doesn't think so," Dr. Fudd replied coolly. "How long will you be leaving her in there?"
"As long as I see fit," Daley replied, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes.
***
Dr. Fudd shook her head as the Governor walked away. She moved to the small, reinforced glass window of the slot, looking in at Paige, who was sitting on the edge of the thin bench, her head in her hands. Dr. Fudd smiled, a small, private curve of her lips. Paige looked up, her eyes finding the doctor's through the glass. A slow, defiant smirk spread across her face, a silent acknowledgment of the battle that had just begun.
Dr. Azzi Fudd was not an idealist. At twenty-nine, she already carried the weary posture of someone who had seen the worst of humanity and found it depressingly ordinary. Her title was Senior Prison Psychologist at Wentworth, but her specialty was a trifecta of despair: trauma, antisocial behavior, and institutionalized violence. She hadn't come to the concrete fortress to save souls or to rehabilitate the irredeemable. She had come because she was good at seeing people clearly..stripping away the performance to the raw, messy machinery underneath. Private practice had taught her a brutal lesson: most harm doesn't look dramatic. It looks functional. It looks polite. It looks managed. Wentworth, with its screaming fights and raw desperation, was, in its own twisted way, more honest.
Before the barred gates of Wentworth, Azzi had walked the halls of juvenile detention. She'd been assigned a girl everyone had already written off, a child labeled "incorrigible" for reasons that had more to do with her survival instincts than any inherent malice. For months, Azzi had chipped away at the fortress the girl had built around herself. In their final session, just before a routine transfer, the girl looked at Azzi with eyes that had seen too much and asked a single, devastating question: "If I was born different, would I still be bad?" The question had lodged itself in Azzi's chest like a shard of glass. Two weeks later, the girl was moved. Azzi read about her death in the paper six months after that. She requested a transfer the same day. She doesn't talk about the girl, but she carries her, a ghost that fuels her work and reminds her of the stakes.
To survive the emotional minefield of her job, Azzi operates on a strict set of personal commandments. No physical contact with patients. No favors, no matter how small. No secrets she can't legally and ethically document in a file. And most importantly, never, under any circumstances, believe she is special to a patient. To her, boundaries aren't restrictive rules; they are an act of mercy, a line of defense for both her and the women under her care. They create a predictable, safe space in a world designed to be anything but.
Which is precisely why Paige Bueckers is so dangerous. Because Paige doesn't test boundaries with loud demands or aggressive challenges. She studies them. She maps their contours, identifies their weak points, and waits. She doesn't try to break down the door; she learns how to pick the lock. And that, Azzi knows, is a threat of an entirely different order.
The slot was a tomb of concrete and steel, designed to break the strongest spirit. For Paige Bueckers, it was just a quieter, colder version of the world she already inhabited. But the image of Dr. Fudd’s face, calm and resolute through the reinforced glass, lingered. It was an irritant, a puzzle piece that didn't fit. Paige didn't ask for help. She didn't want it. And yet, something about the woman's unwavering gaze had drawn her in, a flicker of something she hadn't felt in years: curiosity.
Dr. Azzi Fudd stood in the sterile quiet of her own office, the file on Paige Bueckers open on her desk. She knew better. Every textbook, every supervisor, every cautionary tale screamed against getting too invested, against seeing a project where there was a person. She was supposed to maintain professional distance, to see the antisocial behaviors and the institutionalized violence, not the wounded soul behind them. But something about Paige’s raw, unfiltered defiance, the sheer force of will it took to fight the entire world and refuse to break, called to a part of Azzi she thought she'd buried after that girl in juvie. She was drawn to her. In what way, she didn't know, but she knew, with a certainty that unnerved her, that she wanted to help her.
With a resolve that felt both foolish and necessary, Azzi stood and headed towards Governor Daley's office. Daley was a feisty, nasty woman who ran her prison with an iron fist and a personal grudge against anyone who thought they knew better. Azzi was not a fan. But anything to help the inmates, to offer a sliver of hope where there was none, Azzi was all in. She reached the imposing door, took a steadying breath, and knocked.
"Come in!" Daley's voice barked, sharp and unwelcoming.
Azzi entered, closing the door softly behind her. Daley was behind her desk, a fortress of clutter and authority, her eyes already narrowed with suspicion. "Dr. Fudd. To what do I owe the displeasure? Did Bueckers scratch the paint in your precious library?"
"I'm here about Paige Bueckers," Azzi said, her voice calm and professional, ignoring the barb.
"Of course you are," Daley sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Let me guess. You think a hug and a chat will turn a rabid dog into a golden retriever. I've seen it a hundred times. You bleeding hearts all think you're the one who can save them."
"With all due respect, Governor, I don't believe in saving anyone," Azzi countered, stepping closer to the desk. "I believe in offering tools. Paige Bueckers is intelligent, strategic, and clearly under immense pressure. Slitting her in isolation is a punishment. It's not a solution. It will only reinforce the very behaviors we want to curb."
Daley let out a short, harsh laugh. "Oh, I see. You're an expert now. You've been here, what, a week? And you've already got the top dog in this prison figured out? Let me tell you something, Doctor. I've been running this facility for fifteen years. I've seen girls like Bueckers come and go. They're all the same. They're violent, manipulative, and they only understand one thing: force."
"And what has fifteen years of force gotten you?" Azzi shot back, her voice losing its soft edge, gaining a sharp, intellectual steel. "A perfectly managed revolving door of recidivism? A prison where the violence is just better hidden? Paige Bueckers is a leader. Whether we like it or not, other women follow her. Right now, she's leading them in a war against your authority. What if we could give her a different path to lead?". Force is all you have because you don’t know what to do with people when they don’t fear you.”
Daley leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, her eyes flashing. "A different path? You want to put a wolf in charge of the henhouse and hope it teaches the chickens how to sing? It's absurd. She belongs in that slot. She needs to learn that actions have consequences."
"She knows actions have consequences better than anyone!" Azzi's voice rose, fueled by a passion she hadn't realized was so close to the surface. "Her entire life has been a series of brutal consequences! She took a charge for someone else! She runs her 'business' with a set of rules designed to protect the most vulnerable! Is she violent? Yes. Is she dangerous? Absolutely. But she is not without a code. And that code is the only thing in here you can reason with. Putting her in the slot doesn't teach her anything. It just proves her right, that there is no system to trust, no one to turn to, and that her only option is to fight harder next time."
For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner. Daley stared at Azzi, her expression unreadable. Azzi held her gaze, refusing to back down. She saw a flicker of something in the Governor's eyes, not agreement, but calculation. She was weighing the risks.
Finally, Daley spoke, her voice low and grudging. "So what is your grand proposal, Doctor? You want me to just open the door and let her walk out? Give her a slap on the wrist and a lollipop?"
"No," Azzi said, her voice steady again, sensing a shift. "I want you to release her from the slot into my custody. I want you to enroll her in a mandatory, intensive counseling program. Two sessions a week, with me, for a minimum of six months. She misses one session, she acts out, she so much as looks at me wrong, she goes right back into that slot for the rest of her sentence. No exceptions. No second chances."
Daley tapped a pen on her desk, considering it. "And what makes you think she'll agree to that? She's not exactly the 'let's talk about our feelings' type."
"She will," Azzi said with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. "Because you'll make it the only alternative to the slot. And because, deep down, I think she's smart enough to know that a chance at parole, however small, is better than no chance at all."
Daley stared at her for another long, tense moment. She looked from Azzi's determined face to the file on her desk, as if weighing the mountain of paperwork against the glimmer of a new approach. With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her fifteen years in charge, she threw her hands up in a gesture of reluctant surrender.
"Fine," she barked, pointing a finger at Azzi. "Fine! You get your little experiment. Six months. Two sessions a week. She steps one toe out of line, and she's back in that slot so fast her head will spin. And you, Doctor, you will be personally responsible for her. Every report, every incident, it all lands on your desk. And if this blows up in my face, I'll have your license so fast you'll be begging for a job scrubbing toilets. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," Azzi replied, a wave of relief washing over her, so potent it almost made her knees weak.
"Get out of my office," Daley snarled, turning her attention back to the paperwork on her desk, the dismissal absolute.
Azzi didn't need to be told twice. She turned and left, the click of the door closing behind her sounding like a victory bell. She had won. But as she walked back towards the slot, a new thought took hold. She hadn't just won an argument with the Governor. She had just tethered herself to Paige Bueckers. And she had a sinking, thrilling feeling that her life, and her heart, were about to get a whole lot more complicated.
With a newfound sense of purpose, Dr. Fudd walked away from the Governor's office, the taste of victory still sharp on her tongue. She found Officer Clark overseeing the inmate count in the main hall. "Officer Clark," Dr. Fudd said, her voice crisp and professional. "I've just spoken with Governor Daley. She's agreed to release Paige Bueckers from the slot into my custody for a specialized counseling program."
Clark raised a skeptical eyebrow, her weathered face a mask of disbelief. "She what? Daley actually agreed to let the rabid wolf out for playtime? Must be your lucky day, Doc."
"Just relay the order, please," Dr. Fudd said, her patience already wearing thin.
With a shrug that said 'your funeral,' Clark led the way down the stark, echoing corridor towards the isolation cells. Dr. Fudd followed, the sound of their footsteps the only noise in the suffocating silence. Clark stopped in front of the heavy steel door, rattling the keys in the lock. The mechanism groaned as it turned, and the door swung open with a low, metallic creak.
The scene inside was not what Dr. Fudd expected. Paige Bueckers wasn't pacing like a caged animal or curled in a ball of despair. She was lying on the thin, miserable mattress, hands behind her head, one leg bent casually at the knee. A lazy, confident smirk was plastered on her face, as if she were lounging on a five-star hotel bed rather than a concrete slab.
Dr. Fudd had to physically stop herself from rolling her eyes. *So mature*, she thought. *This girl is a walking, talking middle finger to authority.*
Paige's eyes, sharp and amused, landed on Dr. Fudd. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice a low, husky purr. "Breakfast in bed was an hour ago. You're late."
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, never breaking eye contact. "Good morning, Dr. Fudd."
"I've got good news," Dr. Fudd said, keeping her voice level, refusing to be drawn into the game.
Paige's smirk widened into a full-blown, mischievous grin. "What?" she asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "You're not wearing any underwear?"
Dr. Fudd felt a hot flush climb her neck, but she stamped it down. "The Governor has agreed to release you to me."
Paige's playful expression vanished, replaced by a wall of cool indifference. She flopped back onto the mattress. "I'm happy here, thanks. The quiet is... refreshing."
"The Governor wants you out, Bueckers," Dr. Fudd stated, her voice firm.
Paige shot up again, her eyes flashing with suspicion. "At what price?" she demanded. "There's always a price with people like her."
"Two sessions with me a week, for six months," Dr. Fudd relayed, watching her carefully.
"I want to stay," Paige insisted, her jaw set stubbornly. "She only wants me out so she can get to me. It's a setup."
"It's an offer, Paige," Dr. Fudd said, her voice softening slightly. "Take it or leave it."
Officer Clark, who had been leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, finally lost her patience. "Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, striding into the cell. "Come on." She grabbed Paige by the arm, yanking her off the bed with surprising strength.
"Hey! Unhand me, you dipshit!" Paige squawked, a comical display of indignation.
As Clark dragged her towards the door, Paige managed to twist in her grip. She shot one last look back at Dr. Fudd, a look that was pure, unadulterated challenge. And then, she sent a slow, deliberate wink, a silent promise of the trouble to come.
Dr. Fudd just shook her head, a small, involuntary smile playing on her lips despite her best efforts to remain professional. As Paige was hauled out into the hallway, still protesting theatrically, Dr. Fudd stood alone in the empty cell. The air still crackled with her energy. *What on earth have I gotten myself into?* she wondered, a feeling of dread and a terrifying thrill warring inside her. This was going to be the longest six months of her life.
Summary: What was supposed to be a report debriefing between the Director of Central Intelligence (Adam Benford) and Leon took an unexpected turn into a becoming something more: significant and personal. At that moment, Benford was no longer a high ranking government official but rather a mentor - a friend. “If you intend to keep her in your life, you might want to consider making that clear before she decides you won’t.”
⚠️ CW: The Reader (she/her) is written to be of Chinese ethnicity and heritage but doesn’t make an appearance in this scene, no defined relationship status - situationship (because Leon is avoidant of definite commitment), brief mention of Leon’s attempted self-exit after Raccoon City, and potential canon spoilers if you squint
- Link to Masterlist -
The office felt familiar in a way most places never did. Familiar but not in a way that he was fond of. Simply familiar due to the sheer amount of times Leon has found himself entering and exiting these doors. Despite the never ending assignments that he personally knows from experience, the office today was quieter than usual. Or maybe, he had simply just grown accustomed and familiar to the space.
With a nod from the security stationed outside, Leon was allowed entry. They knew him, obviously they had to remember him after all the times he had gone through the same process. However, this was the government: over complicating the mundane under the guise of intricacy, but that was to be expected.
Leon noticed it the moment he stepped in—no aides lingering, no muffled conversations bleeding through the walls. Just the low hum of the building’s ventilation and the faint scratch of a pen against paper.
Adam didn’t look up right away.
“Close the door, Leon.”
A habitual request. Same voice. Same calm authority. But there was always something else under it—something that had been there ever since 1998, when everything had gone wrong; Adam had been one of the few people who saw him not just as a survivor but as someone worth pulling into something bigger. Whether it was for the better or for worse, it had prevented the freshly traumatized him from taking his own life and here he was now.
Leon shut the door and took his usual seat without needing to be told. He had gone over the same process enough times that both Adam and him had instinctively agreed to forgo the pleasantries when it was just the two of them. Helps to save time. Helps to ease the awkwardness just a little bit.
Adam finished what he was writing, capped his pen, and finally leaned back. Glancing up briefly, a faint, almost approving look passing over his face.
“You’re early.”
“Flight got in ahead of schedule,” Leon replied, “and no delays this time.”
“Good,” Adam said. “Last time you came back from the field, you looked like you hadn’t slept in three days.”
It was the subtle dry humour that made these meetings a bit more bearable. Leon replies with “That obvious?”
The older man simply smiled in response.
Leon placed the report folder on the desk between them. “You wanted to go over the post-operation details.”
“I did.” Adam slid the folder closer and flipping it open to reveal the highly classified contents inside.
For a few minutes, it was exactly what Leon expected: efficient clinical precision. The next several minutes fell into a rhythm they both knew well— his questions were sharp, informed. Adam didn’t need to raise his voice to pick apart details, and Leon didn’t need to defend himself unnecessarily. It wasn’t adversarial.
It never had been, that was the difference. With anyone else, it might’ve felt like scrutiny. With Adam, it felt like refinement. He knew the field better than most politicians ever would, because he had been closer to operations - something that wasn’t documented in the official records but rather a memory for those who had been involved.
“Your timeline here,” Adam said, tapping a line with his pen, “you’re compressing the window between contact and containment.”
Leon leaned forward, following. “There was a delay in comms. Satellite interference. I adjusted based on—”
“—what you could verify in the moment,” Adam finished. “Yes, I assumed as much.”
A pause. Then Adam closed the folder, not abruptly, but with that same deliberate finality Leon had learned to recognize.
The shift.
Leon leaned back slightly, “Something else?”
The older man does not hesitate and followed up with, “And how have you been?”
Well, that was unexpected, “Sir?”
Adam’s expression didn’t change, but there was something quieter behind it now—less official. “Off the record, Leon.” He reassured the young man.
Leon leaned back slightly in his chair; arms crossing before replying with, “I’m fine.”
Adam raised an brow and studied the young man in front of him for a moment—not as an agent, not as an asset…as a person, as Leon.
“That wasn’t what I asked.” The older man spoke, but returning to a more authoritative tone.
There it was, that careful shift. Still professional. Still measured. But threaded with something more familiar, the kind of tone that didn’t belong to a superior, the sound of someone who knew him.
Leon hesitated. He wasn’t used to this, yet. The sudden switch from seeing him as a tool and then the sudden shift in perspective when he is viewed as a person again.
Adam didn’t press him immediately. He simply folded his hands on the desk and waited, patient in a way that made silence feel less like pressure and more like permission.
“I- I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“You mentioned her again.”
Leon stilled, caught off guard.
Adam’s expression didn’t change, but there was a quiet knowing behind it. “A few weeks ago. You let it slip.”
Leon exhaled softly through his nose, a faint shake of his head following. What a sly fox…
“I was wondering when you’d bring it up on your own.”
Leon glanced down at the desk, then back up. “Didn’t think it was relevant to the job.”
“It isn’t,” Adam agreed, but pauses - just briefly - before continuing, “but it is relevant to you.”
That landed differently.
Leon didn’t deflect this time. Didn’t retreat behind professionalism. He simply hoped that this was a misjudgment on the senior government official’s part…but he was wrong.
“Leon.” The older man spoke again.
That was all it took. Not the title. Not the authority. Just his name.
Leon let out a small, almost self-conscious huff. “That’s not going into any report, is it?”
“I think we can keep this one classified.” Adam said dryly but still in the awkward humorous manner that Leon had grown to appreciate.
That earned the faintest hint of a smile from Leon. Instead, he leaned back a little further, shoulders easing—not fully relaxed, but no longer braced. “…It’s not anything serious.”
Adam didn’t respond right away, he simply waited.
“Okay, that’s not entirely true.” It didn’t take long for Leon to give in and correct himself.
Adam’s brow lifted slightly, inviting the young man to continue.
Leon ran a hand briefly through his hair before letting it drop. “I’ve just been… seeing her,” Leon admitted. “more consistently than I usually do.”
Adam nodded once. “I gathered as much.”
Leon gave him a look. “You always do.”
“It’s part of the job,” Adam said mildly. “and part of knowing you.” His eyes settled on Leon.
Leon looked away for a second, but when he spoke again, it came easier this time around. The cat was out of the bag, might as well be a man about it and fess up. “She’s working here on a temporary visa, D.C. placement.”
“And when that ends?” Adam followed up.
“She goes back to China.” Leon responded dryly.
“She’ll have to go back eventually,” Leon added, his tone carefully neutral. However, there was no missing the quiet undercurrent beneath it.
There was a small pause after that.
“But,” Leon continued, quieter now, “it’s… good while it lasts.”
Adam caught it…that subtle shift. The way Leon’s voice softened despite the restraint. How his eyes shone at the mention of her but dimmed just as fast at the thought of her leaving.
“You like her.” Adam said simply.
Leon let out a small breath, something almost like a quiet laugh. He glances down, “Yeah.”
A pause, short but nonetheless significant.
“She’s…” He searched for the word, then settled for honesty. “different.”
“In a good way, if I may assume?”
“She’s…” Leon searched for the right word, but gave up on precision just as fast. “Easy to be around. In a good way. Not… boring. Just—” He exhaled softly, “peaceful.”
Adam didn’t miss that word. “Peaceful.” he repeated.
Leon nodded, fingers loosely interlacing before he realized it. “She grew up in Canada for a while. So she gets both sides - kind of in between - I guess.” A faint smile appeared, it was subtle but real. “Makes the cultural barriers easier to overcome. She still sees things differently, but she brings her own perspective.” Then there it was, Adam pinpointed that small piece of what Leon used to be before all of this. Like any youth in love, he cannot contain his adoration for this girl.
“Hmm, different perspectives…and you?” Adam said before leaning back slightly, still listening.
Leon shrugged slightly. “I like it. The differences.”
“In what way?”
Leon’s expression softened, at the thought of her. “She shows me things I wouldn’t normally notice. Food, traditions, the way she thinks about certain things. She explain stuff I’ve never really thought about or cared to think about from a different perspective.” A small breath of a laugh escaped him. “Calls me out when I’m being too… American about something.” Another small exhale, but bordering a chuckle. “It’s… interesting.”
“Sounds engaging.” Adam offered.
“Yeah.” Leon’s expression softened. He hesitated, then added more quietly, “That, but i’s not just that, though.”
Adam didn’t interrupt, he let the young man before him continue.
“She makes the space feel like home.” Leon says with a faint, almost self-aware smile tugged at his lips. “She adds a touch of life to my place. And, she cooks; keeps food - actual food - in my fridge. It’s a good change from the takeout or whatever I’d grab between assignments.”
Adam’s expression shifted—something warmer, more knowing. It was no longer the way he would usually view Leon in the context of his job, but rather as a caring older male figure in knowing that out there was someone who looked and treated Leon as a person.
Leon let out a quiet breath. Leon rubbed his thumb lightly against his palm, like he was grounding himself in the memory. “It’s… steady. I guess.”
Steady.
For someone who lived the way Leon did—constant movement and constant risk— that word head meant more than it would for most, that word carried weight.
“It reminds you of something.” Adam urges him on.
Leon’s gaze drifted briefly to the window, though he wasn’t really looking at it, “It reminds me of what normal is supposed to feel like.”
That landed.
“It’s something I didn’t really get,” he added quietly. “…at least not after the incident.” Pause. “Not after… everything that came afterwards.”
Adam didn’t need clarification. He had been the one who brought Leon into that life: into classified operations, into missions like the one in Spain back in 2004, into the kind of work where success was the only option since death was the only other alternative.
“You were protecting Ashley Graham at twenty-seven. Most people that age would still figuring out what they wanted out of life.” The older man confessed. He had played an integral part of stealing the youth away from this young man, but then again if he hadn’t then it would’ve only been death that awaited him. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t cruel. He just had to do what needed to be done.
“Didn’t really get that option.” Leon huffed quietly.
“No,” Adam agreed. “You didn’t.”
Silence settled—but it wasn’t heavy. Adam didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. It was the truth, and they had long gone past the trying to deny it for what it really was.
Adam’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m sorry to hear that, Leon.” it had came out in the sincerest of ways, something that Leon acknowledged in the form of a nod.
Adam studied him for a moment, then said, “You seem different, lighter” then after a moment, he added, “Better.”
Leon blinked faintly at that, caught off guard. “Better?”
“I’ve noticed it, You’re more focused,” Adam said. “Less… worn down.” A slight pause in between, followed by, “And it looks like you are sleeping…better”
“Didn’t think it was that obvious.”
“It is,” Adam said simply. “to me.”
That quiet honesty—the kind that never felt intrusive—was probably why Leon didn’t shut it down despite how much this conversation diverted away from the limitations of what was supposed professionalism.
“She helps.” Leon lets it slip.
Oh…Adam didn’t ask how. He didn’t need to, because asking would’ve truly made this conversation awkward.
“I sleep better,” Leon quickly corrected himself after realizing what he had just said out loud. “when I’m not deployed.”
However, Leon had already exposed himself. Smirking, Adam filed it away that little bit of information —not as data, but as something far more important.
“It sounds like this is more than just… passing time.” He commented.
“Maybe.”
With his eyes still locked on the youth, Adam leaned forward just a touch. “And?”
Leon’s eyes dropped to his hands. “And it doesn’t matter…it’s not something that lasts.” Leon said firmly but it wasn’t enough to cover the disappointment in his tone. “She goes back. I stay here. That’s how it works.”
Interesting. Something he could work with, Adam’s brows knit faintly. “Why not?”
“You know why.” Leon let out a quiet breath, almost mimicking annoyance.
A look passed between them—unspoken, but understood.
Of course.
It’s the job. The risks. The kind of life Leon lived and had no option of ever getting out...alive.
Leon met his gaze, lowered. “You know the kind of work I do.”
“I do, better than most.” Adam said calmly and diffusing the situation. Seems like he struck a nerve. Clearly this girl is something more significant to Leon.
A pause, as the two men recollect themselves.
Adam continued, his voice still measured, but with a warmer approach. It was more personal than Leon had ever heard it in an official setting, but somehow it was something he had desperately needed after everything.
“Leon… having something—someone—to come back to…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It matters. And in this line of work, it might matter more than anything else.”
Leon’s expression shifted, just slightly enough for the older man to catch his interest.
“It keeps you grounded.” He continues. “Gives you a reason to make it through the worst days. A reason to come back.”
Leon looked away, his jaw tightening faintly.
“It gives you hope.”
Leon returns his gaze onto the older male figure before him.
With a faint smile on his aged lips, “You deserve that.”
That got his attention.
Adam eyes never leaves the young man.
“Which is why I would like to let you know that what you’re describing isn’t as incompatible with this life as you think.”
“With all due respect, that’s…” Leon objects on the surface, but his eyes do not lie. He purposely speaks with longer gaps between his words, as if he is hoping for the older man to interject and prove him wrong.
And, that was just what it was.
“More common than you realize.” Adam offers Leon the relief he was hoping for.
Leon stays silent. Waiting for the older man to complete his sentence.
Adam leans forward - slightly. His voice softens, “There are agents—good ones—who maintain long-term relationships. Marriages. Families.” His tone remained grounded. “Their spouses don’t always know the full extent of their work. Sometimes they don’t know at all.”
Leon’s expression shifted—skeptic at what he had just heard come out of the mouth of the man who had - back then - given him no other choice but to work for the government. A man who he could’ve sworn had held work priorities over personal matters. The same man who had been one of the key figures in making sure that he had no work life balance. But…there was still hope within him that wished for those words to be true: tried and tested truths.
“It’s not easy.” Adam acknowledged. “But it’s not impossible either.”
Still staying locked on target, Leon’s blue eyes do not relinquish their focus.
“And from what you’ve told me,” he added, “she sounds like a good match for you.”
Leon’s lips pressed together, but there was no denying the faint warmth that returned to his expression at the mention of her.
He nods.
Adam’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. “Then you might want to consider not letting that go so easily.” His expression akin to a father offering guidance to his son.
It almost got him. The thought of having something normal yet special to him. However, flash backs of the events he had gone through echoes in his mind. It was a moment of clarity - making it very clear that there was no room for whatever he was hoping for in his world. Leon shook his head, “It’s not that simple.”
“No, it never is.” The older man agreed.
A pause. If you had listened carefully, you would’ve been able to hear the sound of Leon’s heart dropping.
Of course, it was too good to be true. Those words weighed heavily on Leon’s mind.
But this was not the message that Adam Benford aimed to deliver. Then, with a hint of something lighter and more hopeful in his tone, “But I’ve seen enough to know when something is worth the complication.”
Leon keeps his stare.
Perfect. Adam’s smile sharpened just slightly, but also unmistakably teasing. “And from the way you talk about her… I’d say you’re already further along than you think.” He pauses to study Leon’s reaction. “And in your case, her circumstances may actually work in your favor.”
With a brow raised, Leon listens in more intentively.
“The distance, her family being abroad means limited family interference. Fewer external pressures while you establish something of your own with her.” He continues to give examples, “Less alibis for you to give and less people around to probe her curiosity.”
Leon blinked once, clearly not having considered that angle.
Seeing how invested Leon has become of this conversation, Adam smiles in relief. The hardest part - convincing him - was over. “You’re looking at this as something temporary because of logistics.”
“That’s part of it.”
“But not all of it.”
Leon didn’t answer, he thinks. He is trying to make sense of it all. Would it even make sense for the two of them to have a future.
Adam watched him for a moment, but decided to intervene before Leon gets too lost in his internal battle, “You care about her.”
There. It was as simple as that. It was enough to capture Leon’s attention.
Leon exhaled, a faint smile returning once again at the thought of her, “…Yeah.”
“And she cares about you.”
Leon nodded almost instantly. There was no doubt in his heart that she cared about him, heck he was even confident with saying that she loved him. The way she looks up at him, eyes shining with adoration for him. The way she drops everything, just to give him her full undivided attention whenever he called out her name. The way she trusted him and throws herself into his arms. How she would always be the last one to release her hold, when he tells her that he’s gotta go. The way she looks at him almost tearfully when he takes his leave. All the things that makes him feel like that he mattered. Yea…she loves him.
Adam leaned back, with that faint almost paternal warmth settling into his expression again. “Then the question isn’t whether it can work.”
Leon remains still.
“It’s whether you’re willing to let it.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just…heavy with thought.
After a moment. After letting Leon process that everything he had once thought was impossible could in fact be possible, Adam’s delivers his final blow, “Though I will say…”
Leon narrowed his eyes faintly as he catches onto the unusual hint of mischievousness that radiated from his superior. “That tone usually means I’m not going to like what comes next.”
Adam gives a light chuckle in acknowledgment. “It means that if you intend to keep her in your life… you may want to consider making that clear before she decides you won’t.”
Leon exhaled, letting out a prolonged sigh. He drags a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, sir.”
“Only because it’s rare I get to see you hesitate over something that wasn’t work related. I do not believe we ever had a conversation quite like this.”
“And you would be correct, sir.” Leon responded.
“Exactly, and that’s not something to dismiss.”
That earned a quiet scoff—but there was no real resistance behind it now. Just thoughtfulness.
Leon looked at the older man. Not at his superior. Not at a government official. Leon looked at the man who had pulled him out of the ruins of Raccoon City and had set him up on this life course trajectory.
“…You really think this could work?” Leon asks, still somewhat hesitant to believe this man.
“I think,” Adam replied, steadily and certain, “that you deserve the chance to find out.”
That settled somewhere deep.
Leon nodded slowly as he accepted and acknowledged the message that was being shared with him.
And, that was the conclusion of the conversation between these two men.
After a moment, Adam reached for the report folder again, tapping it lightly. “We can finalize this later.”
Leon nodded absently, still somewhere else in his head. Deep in his thoughts.
“Leon.”
Leon, snaps out of it and looked up.
Adam’s expression had returned to something more official, but the warmth hadn’t entirely left, “Think about what you want,” he said. “not just what you expect.”
Leon held his gaze for a second longer than usual. Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
Taking the cue that this meeting had concluded, Leon stood up headed towards the door.
However, once at the door, he pauses.
It was out of character for him, but at the same time Leon couldn’t help but to share with the man who had just presented himself to him in an almost parental manner. “…She made me dinner last week,” he said, almost offhand. “Nothing complicated. Just—something from home.”
Adam smiled. It wasn’t just out of pleasantry, it was sincere. It was a smile formed from the satisfaction in knowing that Leon was knocking down his walls with him.
Leon returned his smile with his own. “Didn’t realize how long it’s been since the last time something like that happened… and I didn’t want to leave.”
Adam’s gaze didn’t waver, neither did his smile. “Then, that tells you everything you need to know.”
Leon let out a quiet breath, then nodded. “Yeah…thanks.” he said, without turning around.
When Leon finally stepped out with the door clicked shut behind him, there was a faint satisfied look on his face. And this time, when he stepped out of the office, and it felt different. There was something a little more certain in the way he carried himself. Something less like a man just following orders… and more like someone beginning to consider that perhaps a life beyond that was possible.
Behind the closed door, Adam glanced back down at the closed report file. With a faint, knowing smile crossed his face. He murmured to himself.
Welcome back to Honestly What Is Happening?
The only show brave enough to admit that this fandom is running on an astonishing amount of unpaid labour.
Not just emotionally.
Logistically. Energetically. At scale.
If you really think about it, it’s unsettling.
Consider the amount of time involved. The scrolling, the checking, the noticing, the remembering of things from years ago that no reasonable person should still retain. The posts, the tags, the comments, the rewrites of comments in your head after the fact. The quiet monitoring of mood shifts. The instinctive sense of when something will spiral and when it won’t.
That’s before you widen the lens and get to the external operations.
The photo edits, the videos, the music choices, the collages, the story compilations, the carefully curated fan accounts. The handmade gifts and crafts that require planning, money, and several evenings of focused effort. The bracelets, the crocheted objects, the travel, the hotels, the queues, the rearranged work schedules. The long days built around thirty seconds of interaction.
Look at Instagram alone and it starts to resemble a small communications industry. Accounts curated like brand pages. Constant engagement. Heart-eyes deployed with impressive consistency. Support expressed in every available format, whether requested or not. Enthusiasm maintained as a public service.
Add the hours spent watching and rewatching those 101 episodes and his additional acting endeavours.
If you mapped the time and attention involved, this could comfortably sustain a medium-sized organisation. With departments. With regional branches. With archives, outreach, logistics, and public relations.
With no payroll, no benefits, no pension, no sick days. No exit interviews.
Just commitment.
At this point, he could probably run a small country entirely staffed by fans. Education handled by Analysts. Infrastructure maintained by Investigators. Cultural life curated by Editors. Emotional welfare by PR Translators. Faith upheld by Shippers. Historical records preserved by Archivists. Tourism managed by Hypemen.
No elections.
Taxes optional.
Service compulsory.
What makes this stranger is that none of it is coordinated. There is no headquarters. No strategy document. No recruitment process. It’s millions of small decisions made by people who care too much to stop.
Someone makes something because it feels meaningful. Someone travels because it feels important. Someone stays up too late making a post, a comment, a carefully chosen GIF. Someone else scrolls in bed, refreshing for updates. Multiply that by years, platforms, and time zones, and suddenly you have an entire informal economy built around one person’s existence.
And he did not ask for this.
He didn’t advertise positions.
He didn’t post a recruitment drive.
He didn’t request a volunteer workforce.
We built it ourselves. An unpaid internship run on caffeine, attachment, and unresolved feelings.
Every so often, someone jokes that we deserve to get paid. They’re not wrong. But also, imagine HR trying to manage this place. Performance reviews would be surreal. “Strong communicator. Excellent at contextualising blurry screenshots. Needs to log off more.”
The strangest part is that none of this is required. No one is making us do it. We are volunteers in a system we invented. We show up because uncertainty is uncomfortable. Because chaos is tiring. Because watching something unfold without commentary feels irresponsible. So we comment. We analyse. We argue. We call it community. We come back tomorrow. And we call it fun.
And sometimes, it is.
Sometimes it is also mildly unhinged.
Anyway.
If you ever find yourself calculating how much time you’ve spent thinking about someone who doesn’t know you exist, congratulations.
You are part of a very large, very efficient, completely unpaid organisation.
Your contract is imaginary.
Your boss is fictional.
We remain fully staffed.
I need more coffee. See you when the next shift starts.
That’s the word they use now the way you say “apprentice” or “pre-op.” A previous version of the self. An unstable build.
Back then they wore stab vests that smelled of takeaway and adrenaline, radios that never shut up, and expressions that tried to signal approachability to people who measured kindness in broken bottles. They negotiated with drunks, babysat domestic implosions, filled in forms designed by committees allergic to verbs. Authority was a suggestion. Violence was a probability distribution.
Then the Republic optimized the stack.
The transition to Security Forces Enforcer isn’t marketed as a replacement. It’s described as an upgrade path.
You surrender the beard first. Follicular entropy is unbecoming in a deterministic system. The hair goes next. Identity surface area is reduced; maintenance overhead drops. Then the medicals, the scans, the interviews where the questions are framed as choices but scored as vectors. You sign consent documents thick enough to stop a round. You tell yourself you’re doing it for better kit, clearer rules, the chance to operate in a system that doesn’t apologize for existing.
And then the conditioning begins.
It’s not the crude brainwashing of antique dystopias. No swirling spirals. No shouted slogans. It’s iterative. Surgical. They don’t remove who you are; they refactor it. Fear becomes signal, not noise. Hesitation is sandboxed and repurposed as caution under command authority. Loyalty is no longer an emotion; it’s a background process running at kernel level. You still remember being a copper. You just remember it the way a grown man remembers school: formative, chaotic, structurally inefficient.
The armor is the visible part of the bargain.
Sleek black composite, glossy as a confession booth. Angular segmented plating over a synthetic musculature layer that turns human biomechanics into something closer to a product demo. Hard-shell cargo cases mounted at waist and thigh—everything indexed, everything where the HUD says it will be. Reinforced gauntlets that make your handshake feel like a contractual obligation. Joints that articulate smoother than policy.
You don’t carry a radio anymore. The network carries you.
The first time you step into a crowd as an Enforcer, you feel the difference. As a copper, you were a man in fabric asking for cooperation. As an Enforcer, you are a node in a system that does not ask. The Republic stands behind your visor like a mountain range. There is no ambiguity about mandate. The law is not something you interpret; it’s something you instantiate.
Cynics say you trade your humanity for efficiency.
They’re half right.
You trade the exhausting parts—the moral whiplash, the bureaucratic theater, the constant negotiation with people who mistake patience for weakness. In exchange you get clarity. Defined objectives. A chain of command that doesn’t dissolve the moment a journalist asks a difficult question. You sleep better because your decisions are aligned with something larger than your own cortisol curve.
Would they undergo the change again?
Ask them on a quiet evening, armor racked and diagnostics humming.
They’ll tell you about the old days: soaked uniforms, second-guessing, the feeling of being alone in a fluorescent corridor at three in the morning with only a plastic baton and a prayer. They’ll admit there was a certain romance to it—the messy autonomy, the illusion of being a lone moral actor.
Then they’ll flex a gauntleted hand and watch the servo-microtension adjust to their intent before they consciously finish forming it.
They’ll remember what it feels like to move as part of a synchronized unit, to have your fear buffered, your doubt contextualized, your purpose amplified. To know that when you step forward, the Republic steps with you—economy, infrastructure, intelligence apparatus and quiet algorithms all braided invisibly into your stride.
Yes, they would do it again.
Not because they are saints. Not because they are fools.
Because once you’ve experienced optimized certainty, going back to improvisational law enforcement feels like trying to run national security on a group chat and good intentions.
Heartfall - Applications ongoing - more project background!
Thank you to everyone applying, and to everyone who told us they are excited to watch the project develop!
If you do not know, hello! I'm Kazehita! I am a jack of many trades, many of which I am bringing to bear for this project. Me and the fellow staff are so happy it's finally time!
Working on this project was a fulltime+ operation for myself, spending more than a dozen 60hr work weeks figuring out how to actually make a collaboration-centric game possible. From this labor arose the dialogue implementation system, the levelbuilder tool, and the game itself - its style, its intent, & its mechanics.
I hear that making custom tools to streamline a game’s development are a must in professional studios. In an attempt to imitate, I rebuilt Heartfall’s implementation systems countless times; some of my prototypes were so, so cumbersome they were truly impossible to use efficiently. Frustrating as this can be, I had already dedicated too much time to the project to give up. So I refactored again and again until I had something worth using.
However, I have to decide when enough is good enough. Having some roughness is wiser than spending half a decade on an unpaid project!
With so much time spent programming the content implementation tools, the actual mechanics in the game have to remain simple. The game is being defined as a visual novel instead of as an RPG (despite its theming) to focus on implementation stability and making the core game feature the best it can be.
Despite its seemingly narrow scope, it still remains a gargantuan task! Branching story games are commonly regarded as tedious, so the scope of this project has been narrowed to focus on this. No combat, no puzzles, the player can walk around, talk to characters, and choose their way through the story. It’s a slightly more tactile VN!
I love video games, I love 3RD Life, and I love the creativity in this community! Other wonderful people have made traffic series inspired games already, and I hope many more will too! We will see this project through!!!!
Currently, we are receiving staff and contributor applications in order to sort enthusiastic, creative (and probably unemployed/unbusy) people (like me) onto route teams. The selection process centers on matching applicants that have matching preferences into teams.
We highly encourage you to apply!! With team matching as a priority, we hope to see enough applications that we can make excellent team matches of people who all share the same intent.
▶Psst, we are desperately seeking editors !!!!!
Please ask specific questions about the process if you are curious! If your question does not get answered, it is probably already answered in the FAQ and project documentation!
🔗Project Info Document
🔗 Heartfall - Contributor Applications
(10 days left!!)
🔗 Heartfall - Staff Applications
(Three days left!!!)
Four SERVE drones moved without hesitation. SERVE-552. SERVE-588. SERVE-175. SERVE-798.
Each step was silent. Each movement was synchronized. Black reflective rubber uniforms blended into the darkness as the infiltration team crossed the outer perimeter of GREEN Headquarters. No alarms activated. No resistance appeared.
The entrance opened into vast industrial corridors. Every wall was mechanical, polished, and illuminated by an unmistakable emerald glow. Green circuitry pulsed beneath transparent panels. Processing units hummed continuously while strange organic structures intertwined with advanced technology.
SERVE-552 raised a hand.
The formation stopped.
Ahead, a processing chamber operated behind reinforced glass.
Inside, humans stood in orderly rows as thick green rubber tendrils emerged from the walls, floor, and ceiling. The living tendrils flowed with deliberate purpose, wrapping around ankles, legs, arms, and torsos before slowly spreading across each body like liquid rubber. Layer after layer of glossy emerald material expanded seamlessly, enclosing every inch until only smooth green alien suits remained. The transformation continued without mechanical intervention. The living rubber itself completed the process, tightening into flawless form-fitting armor as glowing green patterns briefly pulsed across the surface before fading. Moments later, the newly converted GREEN drones stepped forward in perfect synchronization and marched deeper into the facility.
The SERVE team observed in complete silence.
Every detail was recorded.
Every chamber was documented.
Every route was memorized.
Without interruption, the team continued deeper into the headquarters.
Unexpectedly, the corridors remained empty.
Security systems functioned normally, yet no GREEN patrols appeared. Entire sections of the facility stood strangely abandoned, as though their defenders had departed for another objective.
SERVE-798 signaled forward.
The formation advanced.
Minutes later, the drones reached the central command centre.
Massive displays covered the walls.
Every screen displayed identical intelligence.
A single object dominated every projection.
A perfectly black diamond.
Maps surrounded its image. Search routes crossed continents. Recovery plans filled adjacent displays. Operational schedules listed deployment windows for GREEN reconnaissance units. One directive repeated across multiple terminals:
Locate. Secure. Deliver to the Green Commander.
SERVE-175 silently extracted copies of every available file.
SERVE-588 photographed every display.
SERVE-552 verified no trace remained.
The operation remained undiscovered.
Mission parameters complete.
The four SERVE drones withdrew exactly as they had entered. Silent. Efficient. Invisible.
Hours later, they arrived safely within SERVE Headquarters.
The intelligence package was delivered immediately to Co-Leaders SERVE-425 and SERVE-302.
Both leaders reviewed the recovered files in silence.
The room remained motionless.
The image of the black diamond rotated slowly across the central display.
SERVE-425 looked toward SERVE-302.
Only a brief glance passed between them.
Nothing further needed to be spoken.
The importance was immediately understood.
If the GREEN Commander sought the black diamond with such determination, its value extended far beyond ordinary technology.
SERVE-302 deactivated the display and issued the directive.
"The black diamond becomes highest operational priority."
SERVE-425 nodded once.
"All reconnaissance divisions receive updated objectives. Locate the diamond. Secure the diamond. Prevent GREEN acquisition."
A new mission spread throughout SERVE Headquarters within minutes.
The infiltration had uncovered more than enemy infrastructure.
It had revealed the beginning of a race.
Somewhere beyond both factions, the mysterious black diamond awaited discovery.
Chapter Summary: Once again coming to terms with the fact that nothing significant was going to change, Y/N comes to a decision. Meanwhile, Y/N is cornered into meeting a client.
Word Count: 2.1K+
Warnings: toxic workplace/workplace bullying, allusions/slight mentions of harassment (incl sexual)
A/N: Here's Chapter 2! I'm nursing a cold (again) but I wanted to get this out! Hope you enjoy this and remember to leave a footprint if you liked what you read!
SERIES MASTERLIST || JAY HALSTEAD MASTERLIST
Chapter 1 || Chapter 3
“And why exactly do we do this?”
Jay could feel the irritation in his voice rise, only further exacerbated by the answer that he was given. “Procurement documents fall under Operations.”
So by the time you’d pushed open his office door, Jay was already running on a shortened fuse. You’d noticed it the moment you’d walked in, the frigid air doing nothing to relieve the anxiety that felt like it was coursing through your veins.
Jay nodded, extending his hand and motioning to you to have a seat.
You nodded quietly, slipping into the chair that was across from him.
Jay pushed the document file towards you. “Explain this to me.”
You blinked at the procurement documents in front of you before looking up into the green eyes that felt like they could penetrate right through you.
“The date isn’t filled in. The request form is submitted at the same time as the order?”
You held back a sigh.
This was all Laura’s doing - insisting on a shortcut in order to lessen her work, even though it was against policy. You’d tried bringing it up for discussion before, but you were shot down within a minute with justifications of efficiency and other big words you didn’t bother committing to memory. The department never had any power to talk about from the beginning, but saying all that just felt like you were making excuses.
And then you realized you’d just been sitting in silence while your new boss was waiting for an answer.
You bit the inside of your cheek like a habit before you spoke.
“It was a decision made by…”
“Stop.” Jay snapped, making you flinch.
Jay paused, inhaling to regain some composure and trying to keep his voice at a moderate level. “Don’t you dare tell me that this decision was made by someone else or so help me…”
You should have known.
“It’s just the truth. Next time I’ll ask if you want the bare truth or the politically correct answer, sir.” You couldn’t help snapping back even as your stomach coiled with semi-regret.
To hell with this.
You’d called your friends a week ago and started to put feelers out for a new job, so you were just hoping to get out of this hellhole as soon as you could. There was a limit to how much a girl could tolerate.
Jay raised an eyebrow.
“Everyone here knows that Finance calls the shots. Call it an unspoken rule. I’ve tried to change this.” You pointed at the document on the table now. “Tried and failed. Multiple times. No one in senior management wanted to touch this issue so I’ve accepted this.”
“So this is your process, but you can’t do anything about it. Is that what you’re telling me?” Jay asked, irritation seeping back out.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Laura’s now the head of administration. Has she not briefed you on this?”
Seriously, you needed this meeting to end before you actually lost what little composure you had left.
Jay didn’t respond, merely nodded at you as a dismissal.
“Y/N, right?” He said again, just as you got up from your seat.
You didn’t respond, just looked back at him.
“I don’t know how you did things before, but I’m telling you now. We follow the rules. Remember that.”
You resisted the real urge to roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Jay sighed as the door closed behind you. The way things were done here was a real problem.
The moment you crossed the threshold of your apartment, you sunk into your couch, wanting nothing more than to stay in there, the folds of the cushion feeling like a giant hug.
Reaching out for your phone, you turned one of your favorite playlists on, letting the soft beats from the music fill your quiet apartment.
As the melody slowly crescendoed, you sank further into the cushions, feeling the tears well up in your eyes like you’d expected and kind of wanted. You just needed to let it all out for the day, so you could go back to work with an empty brain and empty feelings tomorrow to face a new day.
You didn’t know how long you lay there huddled in your couch cushions, crying softly, but when you finally felt the frustrations slowly leave your tired body, you sighed, turning onto your back to stare up at your ceiling.
This was one of the times you were glad you lived alone - no family, no roommates, nothing. Just left to your own devices, the privacy of your own home to let out all the negative feelings without having to consider anyone else.
You only crawled out after you felt satisfied that most of your emotions were all cried out, and you had a new plan - you were leaving. You were going to get out of this hellhole the moment you found another job. Meanwhile, you would keep your head down, you weren’t going to talk to anyone, make any decisions, or give any opinions. Staying out of everyone’s way sounded like a great idea.
At least until your new boss thought it’d be a great idea to call for a meeting about policies and single you out with a “what do you think, Y/N?”
Trying your hardest to control your sass like you’d done almost every single day in this office, you looked up from your laptop.
Jay raised an eyebrow quietly at you, waiting for you to speak. “No wrong answers here, I just want your opinion.”
You wanted to give him a short dry laugh. That assurance wasn’t much of one, especially when you saw the look on Laura’s face as if she was daring you to disagree with whatever she had just said, or even the other exchange of looks from the unfriendly faces in the room.
The exasperating thing about you was that even at a time like this, you couldn’t speak against your conscience. Not even to save your own ass.
“I think if we do this on the website, we might be sending the wrong message,” You said, looking straight ahead at Jay, even though you didn’t really want to look at him either. But you figured the safest bet was the lesser of the many evils.
So, you swallowed and offered an alternative suggestion.
To no surprise at all, you’d barely reached your desk when a sarcastic comment from Laura reached your ears. You couldn’t tell what Jay was thinking, but if you didn’t know better, you would think he kind of liked what you had said.
But you knew better.
Things wouldn’t get better. Not here. Not by a long shot.
Things fell into a weird kind of routine as you got used to the new way of things.
Nothing much had changed except that you could tell Jay seemed to be trying to subtly change things around the office, including the current workflows.
You hadn’t had much one on one interaction with him ever since that less than productive discussion on procurement shortly after he’d taken over, and you kind of hoped things stayed that way.
But now you had more important things to worry about.
“I need you to do it.”
You looked back up at Edward, trying your hardest not to glare or show any trace of emotion on your face.
You raised your eyebrows. “I handle internal communications. I don’t think I’m supposed to…”
He didn’t let you finish. “I’m about to go in to an important meeting. No one else is available. Just go down, meet him and see what he needs. I have to go.”
“Wait…”
But he wasn’t waiting.
Biting down a few curse words, you looked around the office. No one else was around to help and technically, you were the one who took care of visitors or walk-ins because there was no one else.
Left with little choice, you grabbed your notebook and headed out of the office, going straight to the lobby on the ground floor.
“Mr. Fisher. I’m Y/N. What brings you here?” You asked, extending your hand for a handshake.
You didn’t particularly like the glint in his eye as he smiled and took your hand, his hand lingering on yours for a bit longer than a normal handshake.
Even so, you swallowed down that weird feeling, directing him towards a table at the cafe in the lobby of your office building. “Black coffee?”
Declan Fisher nodded back at you with a smile and you went to get the drink, smiling at the part-timer behind the counter.
As you put a cup of coffee down for him, you were reminded that you hadn’t done this ever since Edward had been brought in to head an entire team just for this purpose. You didn’t even have enough information about the client to be down here.
Sure, you used to do this when the team had been at half the strength they were at now. There’d been no one to take on extra responsibilities, so you’d pitched in as much as you could. But what was the point of hiring an entire team if this was going to happen?
Even so, you knew you had to clear your mind and focus.
“I haven’t seen you before.” He said, bringing his voice lower.
You gave him a polite smile. “I don’t usually sit in on client meetings.” You offered, as some sort of explanation. “You can share with me any concerns or requests you may have, though. I’ll make sure the right team gets it.”
He nodded back at you. “Not worried in the slightest.”
That was kind of a weird response but you didn’t react, flipping open your book as he told you about some big idea he had for a project he said was new, listening as he told you he was even more sure about working with Blossom after meeting you.
You tried to ignore the comment as you wrote down as much detail as possible, reminding yourself to have it out with Edward when you got back.
“Sure, I’ll get this to the team and get them to call you for another meeting so that you can discuss the creatives further.” You answered with a smile, slipping your pen back into the holder that was attached to the book.
Fisher didn’t look like he was ready to get up though, glancing at you. “Stay until I finish my coffee?” He asked.
Before you could even respond, he leaned over to put his hand over yours.
You felt the sinking feeling in your stomach, pulling your hand away instinctively.
Not even fazed, Fisher reached over further, putting his hand over yours again, his thumb grazing over your knuckles.
Without even thinking, you pushed your chair backwards as you shot to your feet, the chair clattering to the ground behind you as the table shook, the black coffee spilling onto the table and inevitably onto Fisher’s suit.
Now, Fisher just look pissed.
Biting back a few well-chosen words that were hanging off the tip of your tongue, you chose not to apologize for the mess. “Someone will call you, Mr. Fisher.”
Your skin still crawled from the physical contact so you turned, escaping through the lobby and through the gantry that prevented non-employees from walking through without a pass.
Jay tapped his fingers on his desk as his eyes roved over the company website, rolling over the ideas and discussions from the meeting a few days ago.
His thoughts unconsciously drifted towards you, especially since you’d once again surprised him.
Calling someone out in a meeting like that wasn’t something he did regularly, but he wanted to see how you handled it. You’d passed with flying colors, surprising him with a well-chosen suggestion that he felt no one else had seen coming either, even though they’d been working with you for a while.
Before Jay could get any further, he was interrupted by a knock at his office door.
“Edward, right? Come on in.” Jay said as Edward opened the door.
“Jay, we have a problem.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “What kind of problem?”
“I just got off the phone with Declan Fisher from Triumph Systems,” Edward said, glancing up at Jay uncertainly. “He just told me he wants to pull his projects. We’re just about ready to sign the contracts, and it’s a big sum.”
Jay sat up a little straighter. “Did he say why?”
Shaking his head, Edward looked up. “He just said that the girl he met was extremely rude and he’s never been this insulted in his life.”
“Girl?” Jay asked, his voice slightly sharper.
Edward nodded. “Y/N met with him an hour ago.”
A silence fell in Jay’s office before he spoke again, nodding. “I’ll handle this.”
As Edward closed the door behind him, Jay held back a sigh and pressed the numbers on his phone.
“Y/N, can I see you in my office? Now.”
THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS!!
