I sipped my espresso, the cheap kind from an instant pack. It tasted like ass.

  And no, not the good kind.

  Anyway. Caffeine was caffeine. I cleared my throat and kept walking.

  But enough of that. You’re probably wondering how little old Geoff’s accident might come back to bite me. Even I wondered. Someone must’ve noticed the mess. Blood isn’t exactly brand-compliant.

  My phone buzzed. Three emails.

  Email 1: We regret to inform you that one of our valued team members has passed... Blah, blah, skip.

  Email 2: Dear Grey Grayson, Congratulations! After nine years of service, you have been elected to the position of Manager...

  I glued my eyes to the screen and instantly flicked to the next.

  Email 3: Due to incomplete training, we are unable to raise your pay at this time. Please schedule your “How to Manage, Dummies for Dummies” course.

  Another ping. Barbara, Senior Manager. A long, self-congratulatory email about her promotion ended with:

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Mr Grayson, please see me in my office.”

  The intercom repeated it at maximum volume, stabbing my ear.

  “Great,” I said. “My day just got complicated.”

  Regretfully passing the smoking area, I slinked down the corridor. The walls were too bright, too cheerful, too much.

  I took another swig, but found myself needing a refill.

  I finished the espresso, crushed the cup, and dropped the evidence in the next bin.

  The dreaded office of my new manager: a doorway to hell. A handle I’d rather weld shut.

  But Barbara, like a proximity mine, shot her hand out and caught me. The door slammed behind. Bang, verdict delivered. Twenty-five years of life imprisonment.

  “What took you so long?” the chipper woman asked.

  I had to drag myself here, I wanted to say.

  “Does the view come with a coffee machine?” I asked.

  Barbara smiled. It was dentist-approved, blinding. That face could sell anything, and that was only above the neck.

  “Now what view would my Mr Moody be talking about?” she said, sliding onto the desk like she was auditioning for a training video HR pretends doesn’t exist.

  I folded my arms. Not even an hour after her husband’s fall, and she was already negotiating.

  “Senior Marketing Manager,” I said.

  “Don’t be so formal, Grey.” She leaned in, perfume thick as lacquer. “I even covered up your little mess. This benefits both of us.”

  The word hit like the scent. Sharp, chemical.

  “Mess?”

  She tilted her head, diamond stud catching the sun. “Come now, I even told Geoff about our little affair. You must know what I mean.”

  “You planned it.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, I did more than plan. Ever wonder why the elevator was broken this morning?”

  My hand found the door handle. One click—locked.

  “What do you want?”

  Her smile thinned, the fangs finally visible. “What any boss wants from their sharpest tool,” she said. “Obedience.”