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Lena

I ’ve been circling the hallways trying to find the break room. When I finally do, it’s as aggressively modern as everything else in this place. A row of gleaming vending machines. A long white counter with a fully stocked espresso station. A fridge that is so quiet it feels ominous.

And—

A woman.

Standing near the coffee machine, her back to me.

At first, she blends in. Dark hair. Stiff posture. Something about the way she carries herself feels... too deliberate. Just another employee, no different than the rest of us, but there’s something off.

She’s not moving. Not drinking. Not scrolling her phone.

She’s standing there, motionless, staring at a yogurt cup in her hands like it’s a philosophical dilemma.

Her expression is blank. Too blank.

She looks… off.

Not tired. Not zoned out. Disconnected. Like she’s buffering.

I clear my throat. “Morning.”

She blinks, like she forgot she wasn’t alone. Then she smiles.

Too fast. Too bright.

“Good morning,” she says, and the words are… wrong.

Not in what she’s saying, but how she says it. Like she’s reading from a script. Like she’s had to practice the words.

I shift my coffee to my other hand. “New here too?”

Her smile doesn’t change. “I work here.”

Not I’ve worked here for X years. Not I’ve been here a while. Just?—

I work here.

The way she stands—it’s not just still, it’s posed. Like someone arranged her and walked away.

I nod slowly. “Right. Cool.”

She doesn’t ask my name. Doesn’t ask what I do. Doesn’t even seem curious about me at all.

Something about it unsettles me.

“Well,” I say, lifting my coffee in some vague attempt at camaraderie. “Happy Tuesday.”

She hesitates, as though she’s waiting for a cue. After a beat, she nods—slow, deliberate—like she’s just figured out the right response

“Happy Tuesday,” she echoes.

And then she leaves.

I stand there for a moment, watching the break room door swing shut behind her.

That was…weird.

I don’t know what’s wrong with her.

But something is. For starters, it’s Monday. Not Tuesday. She didn’t bother or care to correct me.

I take my coffee back to my desk, still thinking about the interaction, trying to shake it.

Maybe she’s just one of those overly polite, corporate-lifer types—the kind of person who’s had so much company training that normal conversation feels like a board-approved press release.

Who knows?

I’m still turning it over when my screen lights up with another email.

From: Andra

Subject: Daily Priorities

Lena,

You have access to Mr. Harrison’s correspondence now. Review today’s brief and confirm that everything is in order before it reaches his desk.

You will be expected to handle sensitive information with discretion.

Let me know if you have questions.

- Andra

I hesitate before clicking the attachment.

Access to his correspondence.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Now, I’m flying a little less blind.

It’s tough to act as an executive assistant when no one tells you exactly what’s expected of you and your access to information is limited at best. It’s like going around in circles and ending up in the same spot.

I open the file. It’s a set of notes—meeting summaries, travel confirmations, financials I don’t fully understand yet. I skim through, clicking mindlessly past the usual corporate nonsense.

Projected Q2 earnings. Adjustments to operational workflow. Executive travel itinerary.

I’m about to move on when something makes me pause.

Initiation scheduled.

It’s buried halfway down the page. Sandwiched between a supply chain memo and a compliance audit. Like it’s trying to disappear into the white noise of bureaucratic nothingness.

I frown.

Initiation for who? For what?

I scroll back up, looking for context. There isn’t any. No department name. No attendees. Just those two words, wedged into an otherwise routine list of logistics.

My eyes freeze on it, unwilling to budge, as if my mind is wrestling with a truth my instinct has already grasped.

I tell myself to let it go—and mostly, I do.

I minimize the file and stare at my screen.

A quiet discomfort settles in, but I can’t place it.

But I don’t have long to think about it because my email pings again.

From: Andra

Subject: Daily Priorities

Reminder: Mr. Harrison expects your reports by end of day.

I rub my temples.

The first rule of Shergar is that no one tells you the rules.

I’m starting to think the second rule is that no one questions them.

And I’m not sure which is more dangerous.

Although, I have a feeling I’m about to find out.