The Operations floor was a hive of manufactured urgency. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of despair—my natural habitat.
I'd taken two steps when the whip-crack voice found me.
"Holt. You're late."
Kelly Thorn. Senior Operations Supervisor. My direct overseer and the gatekeeper of my professional purgatory.
I glanced at the wall clock. 8:05 a.m. I was twenty-five minutes early. This wasn't about time. This was about ritual. About establishing dominance before the day began.
The old Terrence would have stammered an apology. The new one waited. I let the silence hang for a beat, scanning her. DES remained silent.
Good. Some games I still had to play by the old rules.
"The vendor reports from Brad," she snapped, not waiting for a reply. "They're a disaster. Fix them. I don't want to see a single error."
"Understood." My voice was flat, neutral. A status report, not submission.
She turned, her heels striking the linoleum like gunshots, and vanished into her glass-walled office.
I navigated the cubicle maze to my desk. Greg, the cubicle neighbor who mistook loudness for camaraderie, looked over.
"Kelly's on the warpath today, buddy. Hang in there."
I offered a nod, no smile. Then his thought arrived, unbidden:
{Why does this guy always look like a lost puppy? Grow a spine, man.}
The betrayal wasn't personal. It was data. It confirmed a hypothesis: decency was a performance. Everyone here was playing a role, and mine was designated victim. The knowledge didn't hurt, it simply... calibrated me.
---
Two hours of surgical editing later, the sloppy vendor reports were pristine. I had erased the incompetence of others, as always. My value was as a high-functioning eraser.
I stood before Kelly's office, the flash drive in my palm. I knocked.
"What."
I entered. The door hissed shut.
[DES Online]
The HUD ignited, painting the room with a subtle, blue grid.
> Target Analysis: Kelly Thorn
Age: 34
Current Position: Senior Operations Supervisor – TitanForge Communications
Influence Level: Very High
Analysis: Authority is direct (Controls your employment, evaluations, advancement).
Emotional State: High stress, suppressed frustration.
Notable Substrate: Significant loneliness markers. Elevated desire for validation.
I approached her desk, plugged in the drive. She didn't look up. Then, her thought pierced the silence, sharp and startlingly vulnerable:
{Does he ever look at me? God, get a grip, Kelly. He probably doesn't even notice you.}
My fingers stilled on the keyboard. Not kindness, not respect. Interest... desire. A hidden, hungry variable in the Kelly Thorn's equation.
DES pulsed, seizing the data:
> Emotional/Desire Profile Updated.
Opportunity Identified: Desirability Advancement – HIGH.
Recommended Tactical Actions:
• Subtle Compliment
Offer calibrated praise regarding efficiency or appearance.
Effect: Builds trust, increases affinity.
• Controlled Proximity
Reduce personal space. Hold eye contact. Speak with lowered register.
Effect: Triggers subconscious attraction, establishes subtle dominance.
• Assertive Dominance
Frame assistance as a transaction. Imply capability beyond your station. Use commanding tone.
Effect: High-yield desire trigger. High risk of target pushback.
The options hung in the air. Not suggestions. Specifications.
My pulse didn't race. It settled into a steady, ready rhythm. The chemical calm from the elevator returned, deeper now. This was the test. The first active application.
Fear was a flaw. Hesitation was a bug.
I selected Option 2: Controlled Proximity.
I didn't step back after handing her the drive. I leaned forward slightly, bracing one hand on her desk, entering the bubble of her personal space. She looked up, startled.
"The reports are clean," I said, my voice dropping, losing its hesitant edge. It wasn't loud. It was... present. "Brad's inconsistencies are flagged in the notes. You won't have to look at it again."
I held her gaze for a second longer than professional protocol allowed. Her eyes widened, not with anger, but with recognition. She saw me. Not Holt the eraser, Terrence. A presence.
A flush crept up her neck. Her thought was a frantic whisper: {Where did that come from?...}
I straightened up, breaking the moment. "Is there anything else?"
She blinked, her professional mask slamming back into place, but it was cracked. "No. That's all. Dismissed."
I turned and left. The office door clicked shut. The HUD immediately bloomed with cool, blue text:
> Tactical Action Executed: Controlled Proximity.
Result: SUCCESS.
Target Affinity: Increased.
Social Insight Unlocked: Target's desire is rooted in perceived lack of control. Authority figures are vulnerable to displays of competence wrapped in subtle challenge.
A new line appeared, a mechanic's invoice for services rendered.
> Social Proficiency: +0.5
[Desirability Score: 0.5 / 100] → [Desirability Score: 0.55 / 100]
The numbers were abstract. The sensation was not.
It was a transaction. I had performed a social maneuver with the precision of a chemical reaction, and I had been paid.
As I walked back to my desk, the ambient noise of the office felt different. It wasn't just noise. It was a market. An exchange of subtle threats, hidden wants, and social currency. And I had just completed my first successful trade.
I sat down, the ghost of Kelly's stunned expression etched behind my eyes.
DES hadn't just given me courage, it had given me a protocol.
And protocols can be run again.
---
To be continued...