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23

Lena

I return from lunch, still regretting the sandwich I inhaled too fast and the coffee I spilled down my sleeve. The stain is dark against the pale fabric of my shirt, an obvious, pathetic mark of how my day is going. I dab at it with a napkin—more out of habit than any real hope of fixing it—then reach for my water. That’s when I see it.

A piece of paper. Folded once. Sitting in the center of my desk like it’s been waiting for me.

Not a sticky note. Not an internal memo. Just a single sheet of heavy paper.

I pause.

This isn’t the first time. The first note was scrawled on the mirror before my interview. The second was left on my desk on my first day. And now this. Different paper, different moment—but the same feeling. Like someone is watching. Like I’m being cued before I even know I’m in a scene.

I stand, walk to the glass, and glance around the office. No one is looking at me. Carrie is in her office typing furiously, her fingers moving in a blur. Stewy is pacing by the window, muttering into his phone. The same corporate rhythm, the same dead-eyed monotony. No one is looking to see if I open it.

I pick it up and unfold it carefully, the weight obvious before I even see the words.

Do you have what it takes to be in my world?

Check yes or no.

I read the words slowly.

Then I read them again, just to be sure.

I don’t recognize the handwriting.

It could be a joke. A prank. Another weird Shergar thing no one warns you about. But it doesn’t feel random. It feels deliberate. Planted. Meant for me. Like the others.

I refold the note slowly and slip it into my bag.

Not because I plan to answer.

Not because I’m interested.

But because I want to know what kind of person thinks I would be.

The rest of the day drags along with its usual hollow rhythm—emails, calendar updates, Slack pings that feel increasingly disconnected from reality. But I can’t shake the shift, the feeling of being watched, even when no one is.

And then, in the afternoon strategy meeting, Ellis calls my name.

“Lena.”

I look up, startled.

“You’ve been asked a question.” His tone doesn’t change: Calm, measured, in control. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

“Yes, please.”

There’s a silence that stretches just long enough to make me feel behind. It’s casual, effortless. He doesn’t pause for effect, doesn’t change the energy in the room. But I feel it land.

Ellis is watching me from the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed. “Your take?”

I scan the screen at the front of the room; everyone else follows suit. Consumer behavior models. Psychological triggers. Not my department. Not my project. But I understand what I’m looking at.

I adjust in my seat. “It depends on how it’s framed. If the messaging implies choice, people hesitate. If it presents the outcome as inevitable, they align with it.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make me wonder if I should have said something else.

Ellis smiles.

It’s small, barely perceptible, he’s not even looking at me when he does it, but it shifts something in the room. Carrie nods, like she always agreed. Stewy leans back in his chair, suddenly on board with whatever side I just took. The conversation tilts slightly, a redistribution of weight I didn’t see coming.

I set my pen down.

I should feel validated, but instead, I feel like I’ve stepped into a game I didn’t know I was playing.

Another silence.

Then Ellis looks my way and nods—just once.

And I realize.

He left the note.