The pantry was unusually quiet.
Christina Moran had just finished her shift, her headset still warm from eight hours of pretending to care about blinking modem lights and customers who thought "Wi-Fi" was short for "Why Fight?"
She was about to microwave her leftover adobo when he walked in.
Mr. Ramil, her Operations Manager. A man whose polo shirts were always one size too tight and whose motivational speeches sounded like rejected lines from a teleserye villain.
"Christina," he said, smiling like a crocodile who just discovered online banking. "You're working late again. Such dedication."
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the microwave. "Just finishing up reports, sir."
He stepped closer. Too close. The kind of close that made HR manuals sweat.
"You know," he said, lowering his voice, "you've been doing really well. Top performer. Consistent. Loyal."
Christina's stomach churned. She knew where this was going. She had seen it happen to others. The compliments. The vague promises. The trap.
"I've been thinking," Ramil continued, "there's a new position opening. Team Lead. I think you'd be perfect."
She turned to face him. "Thank you, sir. I'll apply when it's posted."
He chuckled. "No need to apply. I can make it happen. Fast track. No interviews."
Pause.
"But of course," he added, "I'd need to know you're… loyal. Not just to the company. But to me."
Christina blinked. "Excuse me?"
Ramil leaned in, his breath smelling like expired coffee and entitlement. "We could talk more. Privately. Maybe over dinner. Or drinks. You know, just us."
She stared at him. Then at the microwave. Then back at him.
Without a word, she grabbed her adobo container, opened it, and slammed the lid shut—loud enough to make him flinch.
"I'm loyal to my work," she said, voice steady. "Not to creeps who think promotions come with appetizers."
Ramil's smile faltered. "I didn't mean—"
"Oh, you meant it," she said, walking past him. "And I'm going to make sure HR hears it too."
She left the pantry, her adobo untouched, her blood boiling.
Back at her station, she opened her email and began typing. Again.
Subject: Formal Complaint – Operations Manager Misconduct
She knew the drill. HR would respond with a template. Management would pretend to investigate. And nothing would change.
But this time, she wasn't just filing a complaint.
She was starting a war.
And if Horizon Online thought her inverted nose was the most noticeable thing about her, they were about to learn:
Her courage was even louder.