Christina Moran had faced many horrors in her life.
She had survived delayed salaries, broken air conditioning, and the existential dread of being asked to upsell a router to someone who just wanted to cancel their subscription.
But nothing prepared her for the smell of Raffy's office.
It was a cocktail of cigar smoke, expired cologne, and the unmistakable scent of male ego. The kind that believed women should smile more and that "HR violations" were just suggestions.
"Christina Moran," Raffy said, his voice gravelly, like someone who gargled with whiskey and regret. "Have a seat."
She sat, cautiously. The chair squeaked like it was protesting its own existence.
"I've been watching you," Raffy said, puffing on a cigar that looked older than the company's firewall. "You're a top performer. Consistent. Resilient. And you have… a unique look."
Christina blinked. "Sir?"
"Your nose," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's… memorable."
She resisted the urge to sneeze in his direction.
"We're implementing a new policy," he continued, stubbing out his cigar with dramatic flair. "Facemasks are now forbidden. We want transparency. We want to see the real faces of Horizon Online."
Christina knew what this was. It wasn't about transparency. It was about control. About power. About making her feel small.
"Is this about productivity?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Raffy leaned back, his chair groaning under the weight of his self-importance. "It's about culture. About authenticity. About showing the world that we're not afraid to be seen."
Christina stood up. "With all due respect, sir, some of us wear masks for health reasons. Or personal comfort. Or because we don't want to be stared at like zoo animals."
Raffy chuckled. "You're feisty. I like that."
She walked out before he could say anything else.
Back at her station, the whispers had already begun.
"Did you hear? No more masks."
"Is this because of Christina's nose?"
"I heard Raffy wants to rebrand the company as 'Face-to-Face Fiber.'"
Christina ignored them. She had bigger problems. Her mom's medicine was due. Her salary was still "processing." And her Operations Manager had started sending her messages like, "You looked stressed today. Want to talk privately?"
She opened her email and began drafting a complaint. Again.
But she knew how this worked. HR would respond with a generic template. Management would pretend to investigate. And nothing would change.
Still, she typed.
Because if her nose was going to be the talk of the office, then her voice was going to be the loudest.