The kind of silence that feels like it has weight. Substance. The kind that makes you acutely aware of every ambient sound—the HVAC system's wheeze, the distant ping of the elevator, someone's muffled laugh from three floors down.
He gazes at me.
I stare back.
I've perfected the art of the corporate stare-down. I once made a VP blink first during a budget meeting. I've held eye contact with auditors who were actively trying to destroymy quarterly reports. But Thraka doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Those wolf-amber eyes just stay locked on mine with an intensity that makes my professional demeanor feel suddenly, inexplicably fragile.
"You are serious," he says finally, and there's something in his voice—not quite disbelief, but close. Like I've just told him gravity is optional or that spreadsheets don't actually solve everything.
"Extremely serious. Decapitation is illegal, immoral, and creates a significant amount of paperwork that I refuse to file."
"But it is highly effective," he argues, with the tone of someone explaining basic mathematics to a child. "A decapitated enemy does not return. No repeat offenses. Perfect efficiency."
"Perfect felony." I tap my tablet screen harder than necessary. "Murder is not efficient, Thraka. It's prison. It's lawsuits. It's me having to explain to the board why our conflict resolution specialist is serving twenty-five to life."
"Your laws are strange and protect the weak."
"Our laws protect everyone. That's the point."
He considers this, head tilted, and I realize he's actually listening. Processing. The fact that this surprises me probably says something about my expectations, but I don't have time to unpack that particular piece of baggage.
"What about maiming?" he asks, and the question is delivered with such earnest hopefulness that I almost feel bad about crushing it. "Permanent scarring? Perhaps removal of a non-essential limb? The target survives, but carries a reminder of their transgression."
"No." The word comes out flat, definitive, with the same tone I use when vendors try to upsell me on premium software packages I don't need.
"Intimidation, then?" He leans forward slightly, those amber eyes brightening like he's found a loophole in my argument."A show of force. Establish dominance without actual violence. Very effective in my experience."
"Depends entirely on the method." I pull up the employee handbook on my tablet, all three hundred and forty-seven pages of it, and scroll to the section on workplace conduct. "Verbal intimidation? That's harassment. Physical intimidation? Assault. Even implied threats of violence can constitute hostile work environment violations."
He processes this with visible effort, his brow furrowing in concentration. "But surely direct threats are acceptable? 'Do this, or face consequences.' Clear. Simple. Understood by all parties."
"Absolutely not." I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension headache that's been my constant companion since Monday morning. "Threats are thedefinitionof workplace harassment, Thraka. They're illegal, they're grounds for immediate termination, and they're exactly the kind of conflict resolution that lands companies in court for six-figure settlements."
"Then what," he spreads his massive hands, and I notice calluses along his palms, old scars across his knuckles, "am I supposed to do when conflict arises?"
"Talk. Mediate. Find common ground. Facilitate solutions that don't involve bloodshed."
He looks at me like I've suggested he sprout wings and solve problems through interpretive dance.
"Come on." I gather my tablet and the training materials I spent three hours preparing. "I'm setting up your desk. You're going to learn how we actually resolve conflicts in this office."
Thraka's assigned workspace sits in the far corner of the floor, strategically placed by facilities management away from high-traffic areas. Probably because someone with functioningbrain cells recognized that putting a seven-foot orc in a cubicle farm might cause panic.
The desk is standard issue. Laminate surface. Rolling chair that's already groaning under his weight. Computer monitor. Keyboard. Mouse.
All tools of modern warfare, according to my five-year plan for departmental optimization.
"This," I gesture to the setup with what I hope passes for encouraging professionalism, "is your workstation. You'll handle conflict resolution tickets, schedule mediation sessions, and document outcomes in our database."
Thraka approaches the desk with the same cautious intensity he'd probably give to a dragon's lair or a suspicious tavern, like the laminate surface might suddenly spring teeth and lunge at his throat. He circles it once, massive frame taking up half the corridor between cubicles, before finally accepting that yes, this is his designated territory now.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair with my tablet.
He sits.
The chair responds with a sound I can only describe as mechanical agony—a prolonged, tortured shriek of metal joints and hydraulics encountering weight they were never engineered to support. The backrest bends at an angle that violates several laws of physics. The armrests sag like they're praying for death.
But it holds.
