1
ORLA
The vein in my left temple pulses in time with the cursor blink on my monitor. Three rhythmic throbs per second. I count everything now because counting is the only thing keeping me from driving my stapler through Jenkins's eye socket when he misses another deadline.
My Fitbit buzzes against my wrist for the third time this hour. The vibration is identical in duration and intensity to the previous two alerts, 0.8 seconds, approximately 200Hz frequency. I've measured.
The screen glows up at me with its smug little message in sans-serif font:"Heart rate elevated. Are you exercising?"
No, Fitbit. I'm reading an email chain where fifteen people have replied all to say "thanks" with no other content. This is what a slow death looks like, and you're tracking every accelerated heartbeat.
I silence the notification. The office around me hums with the quiet efficiency I've cultivated over three years as Senior Operations Manager. No loud phone voices. No personal conversations that bleed into work time. No chaos. The copy machine whispers instead of screams. The fluorescent lightsdon't flicker because I requisitioned LED replacements in Q2. Even the coffee maker operates on a schedule I personally programmed.
This floor is my kingdom. My spreadsheet. My fortress of productivity.
My shoulders sit somewhere up near my ears. They live there now. I've forgotten what it feels like to drop them.
"All senior staff to Conference Room A," Linda from reception announces through my desk phone. Her voice cracks on the intercom, and I make a mental note to request a system upgrade. "CEO wants everyone. Now."
I smooth my already smooth pencil skirt, check my reflection in my black monitor screen. Eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Not a hair out of place in my bob. Posture that could balance books. Good.
Conference Room A smells like lemon Pledge and desperation. I take my usual seat at the far end, the one with the clear sightline to both doors and the projection screen. Strategic positioning. I cross my ankles. Place my tablet on the table at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the edge.
Art from Sales sits across from me, already sweating through his collar even though the AC is set to a crisp sixty-eight degrees. Jenkins slouches three seats down, scrolling through his phone under the table like I can't see the glow reflecting off his stupid face. Linda hovers near the door, clutching a stack of folders against her chest like a shield.
CEO Richard Pemberton strides in wearing the same blue tie he wore last Tuesday. I catalog this automatically. Repetition suggests either comfort or lack of attention to detail. Both are weaknesses.
"Thank you all for coming on short notice." He doesn't sit. Power move. I respect it even as I calculate how long thismeeting will derail my afternoon schedule. "I want to talk about our culture."
My stomach drops.
Culture talks mean consultants. Consultants mean assessments. Assessments mean personality tests and trust falls and someone suggesting we all go do an escape room to "build synergy."
"We've been experiencing increased tension between departments," Pemberton continues. He clicks a button on the remote. A pie chart appears on the screen behind him. "Seventy-three percent of exit interviews cite 'interpersonal conflict' as a factor in resignation. HR has filed forty-two formal complaints in the last quarter alone."
Art shifts in his seat. Jenkins keeps scrolling.
"So I've made an executive decision." Pemberton smiles the way people smile when they're about to set your car on fire. "We're bringing in a specialist. Someone with a unique background in conflict resolution and team cohesion."
The door opens.
I smell him before I see him.
Not cologne. Something else. Woodsmoke and iron and something wild that doesn't belong inside a building with climate control and fire suppression systems. My hindbrain perks up, alert in a way that has nothing to do with spreadsheets and everything to do with survival instincts I didn't know I still possessed.
Then he fills the doorway.
Seven feet tall. Easily. His shoulders span wide enough that he has to angle them to fit through the frame. His skin is green. Not sickly green, not pale green, but the deep verdant shade of summer leaves just before a thunderstorm. His hair is black and wild, pulled back in what might technically qualify as a ponytail but looks more like someone lassoed a wolverine.
And the suit.
God, the suit.
It's trying. Bless its heart, it's trying. Charcoal gray, probably from the Big and Tall section somewhere that definitely wasn't Brooks Brothers. The sleeves end two inches above his wrists, exposing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars that look suspiciously like claw marks. The jacket button strains across his chest. One wrong breath and that thing is firing off like a bullet.
He carries a metal briefcase that looks like it survived not just one war, but several consecutive military campaigns, possibly including hand-to-hand combat. The surface is dented, scratched, and bears what might be scorch marks. Or blood stains. I'm not entirely sure which would be worse.
He is an orc.
