"That was unintentional. I offered him a duel. He declined by losing consciousness."
"You offered him a what?"
"A duel. For honor. It is customary in my homeland when disputes arise over property or resources."
Orla closes her eyes with the deliberate precision of someone activating an emergency shutdown protocol. Takes a breath, long, measured, the kind of breath that meditation apps probably charge premium subscriptions for. Opens them again, and the green of her irises has gone from forest to tundra.
She looks tiny standing there in her expensive heels, barely reaching my shoulder even with the added height.
She looks ferocious in a way that has nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with concentrated will, like a nuclear reactor condensed into a five-foot-six frame.
She looks like a blade that has been sharpened down to a single killing edge, honed through countless boardroom battles and corporate warfare until there's nothing left but purpose and precision and the absolute certainty that she will cut through any obstacle in her path.
I am intrigued.
More than intrigued, if I'm being honest.
"Thraka," she says, and her tone is the verbal equivalent of a tightly coiled spring. "We need to talk."
"About the duel?"
"About everything."
She steps into the breakroom, sets the binder down on the counter with a heavy thud, and flips it open to a page marked with a neon yellow tab.
"Section Four, Subsection C," she reads. "Workplace conduct and the prohibition of physical altercations."
I nod. "Good rule. I did not engage in physical altercation. I offered one. Steve refused."
"By fainting."
"Exactly. He showed wisdom."
Orla's eye twitches. "You ate his lunch."
"I did not know it was his until after I had begun eating. At which point, I offered restitution through honorable combat."
"That is not how restitution works here!"
"Then how does it work?" I lean forward, genuinely curious. The mechanics of this office-tribe confuse me more with each passing moment.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. A muscle jumps in her jaw. Opens it again, and I can practically see her marshaling her thoughts into neat, organized rows like little soldiers preparing for battle.
"You..." She takes a breath, and I notice the way her shoulders rise and fall with the effort of maintaining composure. "You apologize. Verbally. You express remorse for your actions. And then you buy him a new lunch to replace the one you consumed."
I blink. "Buy?"
"With money. You go to a restaurant or a store, and you purchase food, and you give it to him."
I consider this carefully, turning the concept over in my mind like an unfamiliar weapon. "That seems unnecessarily complicated. A duel is much simpler. Direct. Honest. Two warriors face each other, the stronger wins, honor is satisfied, and everyone knows where they stand afterward."
"A duel is absolutely not an option!" Her voice rises half an octave.
"Why not?" I spread my hands, genuinely baffled by this restriction.
"Because we don't settle disputes by fighting!" She enunciates each word with someone trying to explain basic concepts to a particularly dense child.
"Then how do you settle them?" I ask, leaning back in my chair, which creaks ominously under my weight.
