1
BYE-BYE BASEMENT
JAMIE
The elevator dings,and I brace myself for the smell.
Damp basement air, heavy with paper dust, toner, and recycled ambition seeps through the vents. It’s not unpleasant—that award goes to the subway in August—but a year delivering mail at Labyrinth Solutions has taught me that every floor has its own scent. I step out, clutching my bag like it's a shield against middle management.
“Torres,” grunts a troll in accounting as I pass. He doesn’t glance up from his monitor, broad shoulders hunched, tusks jutting over his lip as he types beside a teetering stack of invoices and a delicate bonsai. Accounting and the mailroom enjoy the dubious honor of being banished to the basement.
“Happy Monday, Phil.”
He grunts again. That’s about as friendly as Phil gets before noon.
I keep moving, dodging a griffin swooping down with an armful of legal pads. Labyrinth Solutions’ tagline readsWe help you find your way—ironic, considering most days I feel trapped in a maze with no exit. But hey, the rent on my tiny studio doesn’t pay itself, and if I keep smiling, keep delivering, keep fetching, keep doing everything exactly right, maybe one day I’ll climb out of the basement and into a proper office.
Hell, today might be the day.
I push open the breakroom door and nearly collide with Greg, the IT department’s most patient orc, holding a vending machine sandwich like it’s a live grenade.
“Don’t do it,” I warn.
He freezes. “What? It’s turkey.”
“It’s gray,” I point out. “That’s not turkey. That’s regret on stale bread.”
He shrugs and eats it anyway. Greg isn’t exactly known for subtlety—or refined taste—but he’s got kind eyes, a tusky smile, and he’s the reason my company-issued laptop hasn’t burst into flames yet. I don’t technically need a computer to work in the mailroom, but apparently corporate believes everyone deserves equal access to the daily flood of spam we inevitably ignore. Greg and I have an understanding: I keep him caffeinated, and he makes sure my internet search history stays confidential.
“Jamie!” Amara calls from oneof the breakroom tables, wings half-furled as she stirs sugar into her tea. Her feathers catch the fluorescent light—copper, gold, flashes of green. She’s a harpy BR goddess. BR—Being Resources—because Labyrinth understands talent comes in every shape, size, and species. Amara’s a literal goddess, at least to me. She’s the one who got me in the door a year ago.
I dump my bag onto the table and flop into a chair.
“Guess who’s playing admin assistant today?”
Amara leans against the table, wings twitching like she’s savoring the reveal.
“Me?”
My stomach flips. I moved to Crownpoint because I believe in the Community Outreach Initiative—not just as a buzzword but as the future. Over the last century, humans and monsters have been pushing for more collaboration, slowly unwinding generations of fear. Some cities resisted. Others tried and face-planted. But many are doing the work. Crownpoint is one of the places getting it right. All beings share schools, neighborhoods, and boardrooms alike, each bringing their own flair and perspective. It’s a little chaotic, always interesting, and exactly the kind of collaboration that makes me excited to show up every day.
After a year in the mailroom, hauling envelopes and dodging delivery carts with a death wish, maybe—just maybe—today’s the day I’ll finally get to see sunlight streaming through the windows of Labyrinth Solutions’ high-rise.
The office floors above me feel like another world,all glass and polished steel, full of folks who actually matter. And for a moment, I let myself imagine belonging up there, maybe even running into Magnus Trainor, the CEO with the kind of presence that makes your chest tighten and your brain go fuzzy all at once. Leaving the mailroom for more than a walk-by in the halls means I could saunter into his orbit. Hopefully, I won’t trip over my own feet while doing it.
“Congratulations, Jamie.” She fans her talons like she’s crowning me. “Vanessa Voss’s admin quit last week—honestly, she burns through them faster than we can hire new ones—and I suggested you.” She dips her chin. “Now I know you have your heart set on the Junior Strategist program…”
“But internal candidates have to be with the company for two years.” The phrase sputters out of me like coffee from the old machine in the corner—burnt, bitter, and definitely overused. I came to Crownpoint, and to Labyrinth, for their junior strategist program. It’s my chance to slip in the side door without the whole college-and-ass-kissing routine. Just one more year of mailroom purgatory and I’ll finally qualify.
“Yes, but look at this as an opportunity.”
“I know, I know. Patience.”
“Exactly. Your time will come.” She glances at her phone. “Franklin just pinged me with the official word. Vanessa’s out sick, so you’re her eyes and ears until she’s back. She’ll call with instructions. Basically, do whatever she says.”
My stomach flips. “Sick? I thought vampires couldn’t get sick?”
Amara lowers her voice. “It’s some new mysterious virus. Allegedly.”
