All appearance. No substance.
"Heard about your little incident this morning, Thraka," Chad announces, grinning around the room, performing for an audience. "Dead rats. Really? What's next, roadkill bouquets?"
The room laughs nervously.
Orla stiffens beside me.
"Chad," she says, her voice cold enough to freeze blood. "That's enough."
"I'm just saying, maybe we should reconsider this whole diversity hire experiment before someone brings in a dead raccoon."
More nervous laughter.
My hands curl into fists under the table.
"The rat incident has been addressed," Orla continues, each word sharp and precise. "Let's move on to the agenda."
"Sure, sure," Chad waves a dismissive hand. "But seriously, did he even write his report? Or did he just grunt and point at things?"
He reaches across the table and snatches the paper in front of me. My report. The one I spent all night working on with Orla's guidance.
The one I actually tried on.
Chad skims it, his grin widening. "Oh this is precious. Look at this handwriting. What is this, crayon?"
"It's pen," I rumble.
"Barely. And the content. 'Conflict can be resolved through honest conversation and mutual respect.' Did you copy this from a motivational poster?"
"Give it back."
"Or what, big guy? You gonna challenge me to a duel over a middle school book report?"
Starts as a vibration in my ribcage.
Builds into a rumble that I feel in my bones, in my teeth, in the ancient part of my brain that remembers when threats were answered with violence.
It rolls out of me, filling the conference room, rattling the windows, making the fluorescent lights flicker.
Every human in the room freezes.
Chad goes pale.
And Orla.
Orla gasps softly beside me, her hand flying to the table edge, her whole body going rigid.
She feels it. The vibration. The warning that rolls through the room like thunder before lightning.
I feel her feel it, the way her breathing changes, shallow and quick, the way her fingers tighten on the table edge until her knuckles go white, the way her whole body seems to tune into that frequency like she's hardwired to respond to it. And something primal and deeply satisfied coils tight in my gut, warm and possessive.
"Give. It. Back," I repeat, and my voice sounds like grinding stone, like boulders scraping against each other in the depths of a mountain. Each word is deliberate, controlled, but barely.
Chad drops the paper like it burned him, like the mere touch of it might invoke whatever wrath he just stumbled into waking. It flutters to the table between us.
"Jesus, man. I was just joking," he stammers, holding up his hands in what he probably thinks is a placating gesture. His voice has gone up half an octave.
"Your jokes are not funny," I tell him flatly, my eyes never leaving his face. "They are small. Weak. Like you."
