A real, actual, honest-to-god orc.
Standing in my conference room. Breathing my recycled air. Occupying approximately forty percent more spatial volume than any human being has a right to.
There is an orc in Conference Room A.
The room where I hold quarterly reviews. Where I deliver PowerPoint presentations with precisely calibrated serif fonts. Where the thermostat is set to exactly 68.5 degrees Fahrenheit because that's the scientifically proven optimal temperature for cognitive function.
There is anorcin Conference Room A, and he's looking around like he's assessing whether the walls are structurally sound enough for whatever barbaric purpose he has in mind.
My brain scrambles to categorize this information. File it. Make it fit into the organizational structure I understand. But there's no box for this. No protocol. No contingency plan that covers what to do when a literal fantasy creature walks into a quarterly meeting.
"Everyone," Pemberton says, still smiling that arsonist smile, "this is Thraka. He comes highly recommended from our partner firm's Diversity and Inclusion initiative. He'll be heading up our new Conflict Resolution department."
Thraka grins. His tusks jut up from his lower jaw, white and sharp.
"Good morning, warriors of commerce!" His voice booms. The windows rattle. Art flinches so hard he nearly tips his chair. "I am honored to join your clan. Together we will crush inefficiency and forge unity through strength and mutual respect."
He strides to the table. Sets down the metal briefcase with a thunk that makes my tablet jump.
Then he slams his fist down onto the mahogany surface with absolutely no preamble, no warning, no consideration for the fact that this table costs more than my monthly rent.
The crack echoes through the conference room like a gunshot in a library. The sound bounces off the glass walls, reverberates through the carefully calibrated acoustic paneling, and lodges itself directly into my nervous system.
A spiderweb fracture spreads from the impact point, racing across the wood grain, splitting the table's surface in a jagged line that stops three inches from my perfectly positioned tablet.
Nobody breathes.
"A strong foundation," Thraka announces, inspecting the damage with approval. "But even strong things must be tested. This table has been tested. It has held." He looks around the room, meeting each person's eyes in turn. "You will also be tested. You will also hold."
Jenkins drops his phone. The clatter against the polished conference table sounds like thunder in the absolute vacuum of silence that has descended upon the room.
Linda makes a sound like a dying printer, that specific wheeze-groan combination when the toner cartridge finally gives up the ghost after months of warning messages everyone ignored. Her hand clutches her chest. I make a mental note to check if our health insurance covers stress-induced cardiac events, because at this rate, we're all going to need it.
My heart rate spikes so fast and so violently that my Fitbit gives up entirely on providing useful biometric data and just starts flashing a little exclamation point. The notification vibrates against my wrist: UNUSUAL HEART RATE DETECTED. No shit, Fitbit. No shit.
Thraka's gaze lands on me.
It's not a casual glance. It's not the polite eye contact recommended in corporate communication seminars. It's the focused, predatory attention of something that has identified a target and is now assessing vulnerabilities, escape routes, and optimal approach vectors.
He tilts his head slowly, deliberately. His nostrils flare slightly, visibly.
Oh God, he's smelling me.
He's actually scenting the air like some kind of apex predator triangulating prey, like a wolf catching wind of a wounded deer, like a shark detecting a single drop of blood in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. His chest expands as he draws in a long, deliberate breath through his nose.
I feel violated in a way that no HR manual has prepared me for.
"This one." He points directly at me. His finger is the size of a small flashlight. "This one smells like anxiety and stale bean water."
"Excuse me?" My voice comes out clipped. Professional. Barely concealing the edge that suggests I know fifteen ways to weaponize office supplies.
"Coffee," he clarifies, nodding sagely as if he's solved a great mystery. "Stale bean water. You drink too much. Your shoulders are trying to become earrings. Your jaw makes small grinding sounds."
I do not grind my jaw.
Except I absolutely do grind my jaw and now I'm conscious of it and I have to actively tell my teeth to stop.
"This is unacceptable." Thraka crosses his arms. The jacket button groans. "You are a leader among this clan. You should radiate strength and calm. Instead you radiate the energy of a rabbit being chased by wolves."
