"Therefore, I'm offering a compromise. One of you transfers to our basement branch. The Archives department. Differentfloor, different supervisor, technically different division. The policy is satisfied, and you maintain employment."
The hope dies, strangled by corporate bureaucracy.
The Archives. The basement. Where outdated files go to die, where fluorescent lights flicker constantly, where nobody has seen natural sunlight since the building was constructed in 1987.
Career purgatory, essentially.
"I'll transfer." The words come out steady, professional, even as something inside me screams at the injustice. "I'll take the Archives position."
"No. You will not bury yourself in the dark for me."
"It's just a different department."
"It is punishment. You have done nothing wrong." He turns to the CEO, shoulders squared, chin lifted. "I will take the Archives."
The CEO shakes his head. "Mr. Thraka, your skill set is in conflict resolution. You're effective in that role, despite your unconventional methods. The Archives requires detailed organizational skills, cataloging, filing. It's not suited to your strengths."
"Then I will learn." Each word is delivered with the same stubborn conviction he applies to everything, combat, spreadsheets, the infuriatingly complex coffee machine on the third floor that he's convinced is cursed.
The CEO's expression doesn't change, maintaining that careful neutrality that comes from decades of delivering bad news. "It's a significant pay reduction. Reduced benefits. No upward mobility. The Archives position hasn't seen a promotion in fifteen years."
Thraka's jaw sets, that particular angle of stubbornness I've come to recognize, the one that appears when he's decided something and no amount of logic, data, or corporate policy will sway him. "I accept. All of it."
"Thraka, no." The words burst out before I can stop them, professional composure cracking. I grab his arm, solid, immovable, like trying to redirect a freight train with my bare hands, trying to pull him back, trying to make him see reason through whatever warrior-code honor system is currently overriding his common sense. "You just got here. You're actually good at your job, despite the occasional duel challenge and the incident with the motivational war cry. You can't throw that away. You can't just?—"
"I can. I will. For you."
My chest tightens, something between gratitude and frustration and fear. "That's not how this works. We're supposed to be partners. Equals. You don't sacrifice your career for mine."
"Why not? You would do the same." His eyes meet mine, that peculiar orc directness that always strips away my corporate defenses, sees straight through the spreadsheets and protocols to the raw, vulnerable truth underneath.
He's right. Damn him, he's absolutely right. I would do it without hesitation. In fact, I was literally about to do exactly that, my resignation letter already half-composed in my head, each professionally worded sentence designed to extract myself cleanly while preserving his position, his future, his chance at something better than a basement archive with no windows and no prospects.
The CEO clears his throat, reclaiming attention. "There is, of course, a third option. One of you resigns. Voluntarily. No transfer, no policy violation, clean separation."
The words land like grenades in the expensive carpeted silence, precise, corporate, devastating. Each syllable detonates, scattering the carefully organized files of my composure across the polished mahogany desk between us and the CEO's impassive expression.
Thraka goes very still beside me, the kind of stillness that precedes violence or flight, that predatory freeze I've only seen when someone made the catastrophic mistake of threatening his honor or his team. His breathing changes, slows, becomes the measured inhale-exhale of someone calculating odds, weighing options, preparing for battle. The cheap fabric of his ill-fitting suit jacket stretches across his shoulders as tension coils through every muscle.
Then he straightens, drawing himself to his full, imposing height, shifting seamlessly into that warrior stance I've seen a hundred times—the one he uses when facing down impossible odds, when staring down the cursed printer or the particularly aggressive sales director who tried to claim his parking spot. Shoulders back, spine rigid, chin lifted with the kind of pride that has nothing to do with corporate hierarchies and everything to do with personal honor, battlefield glory, the ancient orc codes he carries like armor beneath the polyester blend.
"I resign."
The words are simple, declarative, final. No hesitation, no calculation, no careful corporate positioning. Just pure, reckless, infuriating certainty.
"Thraka—" I start, but my voice comes out strangled, stripped of its usual professional crispness, revealing the panic clawing up my throat.
"The warrior does not file paperwork in the dark." His voice carries absolute conviction, pride and determination mixing with something that sounds like grief. "I came to this world seeking purpose. I found it. I found you. The Little Manager who smells like anxiety and coffee and determination. Who teaches me human rules while breaking them herself. Who makes sounds in the dark that haunt my dreams."
My eyes burn. Not crying. Absolutely not crying in the CEO's office.
"But I will not trap you in the basement for loving me. Will not dim your light to keep you close. You belong in the sun, Little Manager. You belong where your sharp mind and sharper tongue can cut through stupidity and make things better."
"You're being ridiculous." My voice cracks, betraying me. "We can figure this out. There has to be another way."
"There is not. I choose you over this." He gestures broadly at the office, the building, the corporate world that never quite fit him. "Always."
He turns to the CEO, extends a hand. "Thank you for the opportunity to serve. I will submit formal resignation papers by end of day."
