"I already have," I point out reasonably. The evidence is quite literally in my hand.
"That's not the point!"
I consider this carefully, turning the concept over in my mind like examining a particularly confusing artifact from a dungeon. The logic seems circular, but there must be something I'm missing, some hidden rule of this strange corporate realm. "Then what is the point?" I ask, genuinely trying to understand the nature of his complaint.
"The point is that you took something that wasn't yours without asking!" Steve's voice has reached a pitch that could shatter the cursed glass machine in the corner, the one that dispenses bitter brown water everyone here seems to worship.
Ah.
Now I understand.
This is not merely a complaint or a statement of fact. This is something far more significant, far more primal. This is a challenge.
A declaration of ownership and territory. Steve believes the sandwich belonged to him, and I have violated that claim. In my homeland, this would be settled simply. Directly.
"You are right," I say. "I have taken something of yours. This is a matter of honor."
Steve blinks. "What?"
"I propose a duel. If you win, I will compensate you for the sandwich. If I win, the matter is settled, and the sandwich was mine by right of conquest."
"A duel? Are you insane?"
"No. I am fair." I set the remaining half of the sandwich on the counter and spread my arms wide. "Choose your weapon. Or we fight unarmed, if you prefer."
Steve makes a small, choked sound. Then he collapses.
Not violently. Not dramatically. He simply folds at the knees and crumples to the floor like a marionette with severed strings.
I stare down at him, confused. Did I break him? I crouch beside him, checking for breath. Still alive. Pulse steady. Just unconscious.
Huh.
I stand and dust off my hands. "I will mark this as a successful conflict resolution," I murmur to the empty room. "Steve has conceded through strategic withdrawal."
I finish the sandwich methodically, savoring each remaining bite with the satisfaction of a warrior who has claimed his spoils. The bread is soft, the meat pleasantly salty, the cheese melted to perfection from sitting in the communal refrigerator's inconsistent temperature zones.
It tastes even better now, knowing that I have faced Steve in honorable combat and emerged victorious. The flavor of conquest seasons every mouthful.
Behind me, the door to the breakroom crashes open with such force that it rebounds off the wall with a sharp crack, the handle leaving what will undoubtedly become another small dent in the plaster.
I turn slowly, still chewing the final bite of my hard-won meal, ready to face whatever new challenger has arrived to contest my claim.
Orla stands in the doorway, holding a binder so thick it could double as a shield. The cover reads "EMPLOYEE CODE OF CONDUCT" in bold, official letters.
She looks at Steve sprawled on the floor, his chest rising and falling in the shallow, steady rhythm of someone who has simply checked out of reality for a bit.
She looks at me, her eyes tracking from my boots to my face with the kind of cold, methodical precision usually reserved for damage assessments and insurance claims.
She looks at the empty sandwich wrapper on the counter, the crumpled wax paper and scattered crumbs serving as damning evidence of my recent victory feast.
The silence stretches between us like a taut bowstring.
"What," she says finally, her voice dangerously calm, the kind of calm that precedes volcanic eruptions and corporate restructurings, "did you do?"
I swallow the last trace of sandwich, suddenly aware that my answer may determine whether I see tomorrow's sunrise. "I resolved a conflict."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches upward by exactly two millimeters. "By making someone faint?"
