The words "Welcome to the chaos" echoed in my head as I stumbled out of Alexander Wilde's office, my mind reeling. I had a job. A real, outrageously high-paying job. The specter of student loan debt, which had been perched on my shoulder for the past four years, gave a pathetic little wave and promptly evaporated.
Sterling was waiting for me, holding a tablet that looked like it could launch missiles. His expression was, as ever, one of serene, glacial disapproval. Without a word, he handed it to me. The thing weighed a ton.
"Your onboarding portal," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Biometrics are already registered. Your life is in there now. Do not lose it. Do not let the battery dip below twenty percent. The consequences are… suboptimal."
"Suboptimal?" I managed to squeak, my voice still recovering from my iambic pentameter performance.
"The last person who let it die was reassigned to petri-dish duty in the experimental algae fuel division," he said, blinking slowly. I noticed his eyelashes were impossibly pale and perfect. "This way."
He led me through a series of silent, minimalist corridors. The only sound was the soft swish of his tailored trousers and the frantic pounding of my own heart. We stopped at a sleek, white marble slab that seemed to float in mid-air, suspended by invisible wires. A single, skeletal chair stood behind it. It faced the imposing doors to Alexander Wilde's office.
"Your workstation," Sterling announced. "The first rule is, never make direct eye contact with Mr. Wilde unless explicitly commanded to do so. It disrupts his creative vortex."
I stared at him. "His… creative vortex?"
"It's a well-documented phenomenon," he replied, utterly serious. "Sustained ocular contact can cause a critical drain on his cognitive energy reserves. You may look at his chin, or his left earlobe. The earlobe is considered a neutral zone."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What did one even say to that? "Right. Chin. Earlobe. Got it."
"The second rule: all communication is to be filtered through me. You are a specter, a silent, efficient force that anticipates needs before they are articulated. You are the wind, not the hurricane."
I nodded, feeling like I'd been cast in a particularly avant-garde play. "A specter. Silent wind. Check."
"The third rule: should Mr. Wilde begin to monologue, you are to remain still and attentive. Do not interrupt. Do not fidget. Your primary function in these moments is to be a receptive audience. Nodding is permitted, but only if it is slow and conveys profound understanding."
"So, I'm basically a piece of high-end office furniture that can fetch coffee?"
A flicker of something that might have been respect passed over Sterling's face. "A crude but not entirely inaccurate summation. You learn quickly, Miss Chen." He tapped his own tablet, and mine chimed with a soft, ominous ping. "Your first task is queued. A replacement coffee thermometer. The specifications are… exacting."
I looked down at my tablet. The screen displayed a PDF that was at least ten pages long. It included diagrams, metallurgical analysis requirements, and a section on the "aesthetic philosophy of thermal measurement."
"Good luck," Sterling said, in a tone that suggested I would need a lot more than that. He turned and glided away, leaving me alone with my floating desk and my impossible new life.
I sank into the chair, which immediately molded to my body with a soft hiss, gripping me like a supportive but overbearing exoskeleton. I took a deep breath and opened the thermometer spec sheet.
I was about to dive into the thrilling world of thermal calibration when a new notification popped up. This one was a direct message. From HIM.
AWilde: The chin is acceptable. The earlobe is preferred. It has a more neutral energy. - A
My blood ran cold. I hadn't said the chin-and-earlobe rule out loud. I'd only thought it. I spun around in my chair, half-expecting to see a tiny camera hidden in the wall sconce. Of course there were cameras. The system knew everything. It probably knew I was mentally composing my resignation letter already.
I looked back at the message. He'd signed it "-A". As if we were now on folksy, initial-bearing terms. I half-expected a winky-face emoji.
Swallowing my panic, I typed a reply, carefully addressing my gaze to the empty space about a foot to the left of his office door.
CChen: Noted. Earlobe focus initiated. Thermometer procurement underway.
I hit send. A moment passed. Then:
AWilde: See that you do. And Miss Chen?
CChen: Yes, Mr. Wilde?
AWilde: Try not to breathe so loudly. The rhythm is… disruptive to the vortex.
I stared at the screen. I wasn't sure I was breathing at all anymore. I carefully placed the tablet on the marble slab, leaned back in the terrifyingly comfortable chair, and wondered if the experimental algae fuel division was really so bad.
I had the job. But as the first rule settled over me like a lead blanket, I realized the real challenge wasn't the work. It was surviving a workplace where eye contact was an act of aggression, and breathing was a negotiable privilege. This wasn't a job; it was a psychological thriller disguised as a career opportunity.
And I was the newest, most underqualified character.