Page 8 of Break Room

I devoured the cake in a frenzy, finishing it in just under three minutes.

It was my way of showing total commitment to breaking the rules, knowing the staff were surely watching from somewhere.

And like someone who had never even heard of manners, I left the empty box, smeared messily with cream, right where it was and walked out of the break room.

The act brought back a vivid memory from my childhood, when my older brother brought home an expensive box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

I had sneaked one piece, then another, and before I realised it, I had devoured the entire box.

Panicked, I returned the empty box to the fridge and fled to my room.

That same reckless, rebellious thrill of mischief came rushing back to me now, just as intoxicating as it had been then.

Sure enough, when I came back to my flat, a golden envelope was waiting for me.

It was labelled ‘Hint Card’. My theory that breaking tacit, underlying rules in the break room would be the key to getting the hints had proven correct.

Excited, I tore open the envelope to find a thick piece of paper.

The hint card featured five illustrations: an ice cube, a coffee mix stick, a tumbler, a piece of cake, and a big mouth representing a monologue.

Below these drawings, the instructions read:

Please circle the image of the person whose hint you wish to view.

(If you wish to receive a hint about yourself, please submit two hint cards.)

The thought of keeping the hint card till I earned another one and could receive a hint about myself had already vanished from my mind.

I was overjoyed by the fact that I had figured out how to get a hint before anyone else.

My mind raced ahead, conjuring vivid, Technicolor images of me dominating the game with my strategic thinking, claiming the prize money and basking in glory.

Besides, I reasoned, the others would open hints about me sooner or later, and I’d see them when the show aired.

After some thought, I circled the tumbler illustration and slid the card into the box by the door.

Within five minutes, I heard a faint knock.

I hurried out, but no one was there. Quickly, I unlocked the box with the small key, my eyes darting around to ensure no one was watching.

When I opened it, the hint card was gone, replaced by a long, flat object wrapped in golden foil.

I stepped back into my flat and sat at the table, carefully examining the item.

It was a chocolate bar, its wrapping paper featuring a caricature of Tumbler’s face drawn in black lines, grinning ear to ear; the golden background reminded me of his yellow teeth.

Next to his face, in hastily scribbled handwriting, were the words: ‘Nutty Chocolate Bar’.

It had the unmistakeable look of a hastily crafted prop.

But the most peculiar detail was the back of the wrapper. Instead of a barcode, there was a QR code and a warning label printed in an unusually large font, making it impossible to ignore. Below the QR code was the following message:

Caution: not suitable for those allergic to nuts.

I noticed a thin, peelable film seemed to be covering the first part of the text. Using my fingernail, I scratched away the layer covering the word ‘nuts’.

The warning now read:

Caution: not suitable for those allergic to narrow-minded people.

I hadn’t expected the hint to come in the form of a warning label like this.

But at the same time, it made perfect sense.

The fact that the warning label – something typically found on objects – was being used to describe a contestant aligned perfectly with the show’s concept of not referring to participants by their real names.

But I couldn’t believe this was it. It felt profoundly lacking and vague.

Hoping there might be a rolled-up piece of paper or some other hint inside the chocolate, I began carefully unwrapping it and nibbling at it little by little.

Aside from the fact that it was incredibly rich and packed with nuts, there was nothing else for me to discover.

Just as I was about to pop the remaining piece into my mouth, my eyes landed on the QR code printed on the packaging again.

Then it dawned on me – I still had the smartphone they’d handed out for the game earlier that morning.

I quickly grabbed it and unlocked the screen to find only a single app.

Launching it made the screen immediately switch to a QR code scanner.

Frantically, I tried holding together the torn corner of the QR code I had accidentally ripped off, trying to align the ripped edges as precisely as possible in order to scan it with the phone’s camera.

After a moment of suspense, a link finally appeared.

I clicked the link and was immediately startled by a loud sound.

Panicking, I quickly turned down the volume and pressed the phone to my ear.

It was an audio file – a piece of testimony from one of Tumbler’s coworkers.

The recording was a response to one of the production crew’s questions, asking for any anecdotes about Tumbler.

The voice was heavily distorted, making it impossible to tell whether it was male or female.

‘Oh, you mean that guy who carries around loads of tumblers? When I see him, I think he’s a lot like a tumbler himself.

You know, all shiny and fancy on the outside – like one of those expensive ones that costs, what, sixty-eight thousand won?

But in reality? There’s really nothing special about it.

Sure, it can keep water warm for a while, but it can’t boil the water or do anything remarkable.

That’s exactly what he’s like – impressive at first, but once you get to know him, there’s really not much to him.

’ The speaker gave a light chuckle, then lowered their voice.

‘And the thing is, he’s exactly like a leftover drink that’s been sitting inside a tumbler for days.

It’s stagnant and rotting inside, but sealed shut under the lid.

He’s so closed-minded and never listens to what anyone else has to say. ’

When the recording ended, the room fell silent again.

There was something unsettling about hearing a stranger bad-mouthing someone I barely knew.

What would Tumbler say if he heard all this?

How much of it could he accept? And now that I’d heard it, could I ever really see him in the same light again?

That got me thinking – what would others have to say about me?

I imagined a distorted, processed voice describing me.

My knees felt weak, and a shiver ran down my spine, sending a cold wave through my veins.

The thought was sickening. I could only hope that whatever they had to say wouldn’t completely blindside me.

My stomach churned, bloated from the heavy combination of chocolate cake and the nutty chocolate bar I’d just devoured.

Queasy, I rubbed my belly and wandered over to the window.

Outside, I saw people hurrying along, bundled tightly against the biting cold, their scarves pulled up high, almost covering their faces.

Watching those strangers, who had nothing to do with this place, somehow helped me calm down.

Slowly, the heaviness inside me began to lift.

At least for now, I held the upper hand. Perhaps, once I’d gathered enough hints, I might be able to afford the luxury of learning what others thought of me.

That night, I drifted off to sleep while gleefully brainstorming disruptive or obnoxious ways that I might break more rules, earning me even more hints.

The next morning, I woke up ready to face the day, even without an alarm.

I felt unstoppable, fuelled by the confidence that I was ahead of everyone else in the game.

By the time official work hours began, I had already checked my emails and cleared my inbox.

I was unbothered by even the most tedious requests from auxiliary departments that would normally irritate me.

The dozens of cameras scattered around now felt like natural features of the room, like sprinklers and fire alarms.

I finished off the morning’s work quickly, determined to get my hands on more hints before anyone else, and headed to the break room a little before 9.

20am. But to my surprise, Tumbler and Coffee Mix were already there when I arrived.

Tumbler was meticulously rinsing his collection of tumblers under a stream of hot water from the tap, while Coffee Mix was rummaging through the snack cabinet, seemingly lost in her own world.

I opened my mouth to greet them with a casual ‘Good morning,’ but before I could speak, Tumbler whipped his head around sharply, glaring at Coffee Mix. His dishwashing gloves were still on, dripping water on to the floor.

‘I hate to be petty, but how many Couque D’Asse biscuits did you just take?’ he asked, pointing at the unmistakeable bulge in Coffee Mix’s trouser pocket, from which one of the biscuit wrappers was poking out.

‘Why do you care?’ Coffee Mix snapped, shoving the packets deeper into the pocket.

‘Because there’s only one left now,’ Tumbler shot back, his tone laced with irritation. ‘I think it’s Cake’s favourite, too. You should leave some for others. They’re meant to be shared.’

Coffee Mix suddenly raised her voice. ‘I’m sure if we run out, the production team will immediately restock them.

What’s the big deal? They’re paid for with the production budget.

These Couque D’Asse biscuits come in boxes of, like, a hundred, and we’ve barely eaten ten.

The production crew didn’t buy them individually – they probably got them in bulk.

If I don’t take them, someone else will. ’

As their argument escalated, I quietly moved over to the sink and turned off the tap that Tumbler had left running. The hot water had been running for so long that steam was rising to fill the air and the entire sink was fogged up, with at least ten tumblers scattered inside.

‘Who hoards snacks like that in this day and age?’ Tumbler retorted.

‘Unless there’s some deep-seated trauma involved.

Seriously, you should ask your parents if there’s a heart-wrenching, tearful story about Couque D’Asse from when you were a child or something.

’ He spoke as if he were genuinely concerned.

‘Mind your own business. I know full well about my childhood,’ Coffee Mix snapped back.

‘Please don’t take it personally, Coffee Mix.

I only mean well for you,’ Tumbler said with exaggerated concern.

‘If I were you, I’d see a therapist and get help immediately.

Besides, this isn’t eco-friendly. You’d be surprised to learn how reckless consumption habits like this impact the planet.

’ He turned back to the sink, rinsing his smoothie tumbler under the running water.

It had a wide opening, large enough to fit his entire fist. He scraped out dried tomato residue from inside.

‘Well, maybe you should worry about your own mental health,’ said Coffee Mix.

‘How rational do you think someone who travels all the way to Seattle, of all places, just to buy a tumbler could be? If the international carbon footprint committee stormed in here with a polar bear, you’d be the one getting whacked on the back of the head with its paw, not me.

’ She raised both hands like polar bear paws, clearly offended.

I watched anxiously, half expecting her to grab a can of corn from the shelf and swing it at the back of his head.

‘That’s nonsense! I could spend three whole days talking about how much I’ve contributed to protecting the environment, but I’ll spare you for now.

Instead, let me tell you about the tumbler and outdoor cutlery set I recently collaborated on with a big manufacturing company.

Want me to send you the link? The materials are top-notch – yes, a bit pricey – but if you use them for, say, thirty years, just imagine how many disposables you’ll save.

I really should set aside some time to walk you through it.

Oh, and we also sell specialised tumbler-cleaning tablets on the website.

If you go through the link in the bio of my Instagram account, you can get a twelve per cent discount coup— Wait, where’d she go? ’

Coffee Mix was already gone. Watching her leave the break room, I suddenly realised that hoarding the snacks all to herself was clearly against the unspoken rules.

This meant Coffee Mix was almost guaranteed to receive her hint card the moment she returned to her flat.

And if she had any sense at all, she’d figure out the entire logic of the game in no time.

As much as I had wanted to savour my momentary triumph – feeling as though I’d won the race, even just for a few hours – I knew this was no longer the case.

‘Ice Cube, don’t you also think that kind of behaviour is unacceptable?

’ Tumbler asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

‘I mean, sure, it would’ve been easier to stay quiet, to ignore it.

No one likes to be the one who calls someone out.

But come on – she can’t even hold back when she knows there are cameras rolling.

She knows why we’re here. I think every group needs someone like me who is not afraid to call it how I see it. ’

Tumbler’s self-righteous tone made me wince, and he probably noticed my uncomfortable expression.

I thought he was being na?ve – or had he already forgotten why we were all here?

Clearly, we hadn’t been brought here to pick at or scold each other.

Unless he was the mole, putting on an elaborate act worthy of an Oscar, he seemed utterly clueless about the nature of the game.

Coffee Mix couldn’t possibly know that I’d secured the first hint, but I was certain that she’d received hers by now.

If her proposed pact to share our discoveries was truly genuine, she would approach me.

She might share how she’d earned her hint, or even drop a subtle clue.

But although I ran into her three times in the break room as the day went on, she didn’t say a word.

That day, I began to detest her. Yet, if I was to uncover the mole, I needed to get to know her better. Never in my life had I tried to genuinely understand someone I despised. Never. Hating someone is easy, but making an effort to understand them is hard.

And in that moment, I realised: this wasn’t just a game about petty villains in a break room.