Chapter 02

Emery Quinn

The elevator displayed my ascent in glowing numbers. 4... 5... 6... Each floor brought me closer to a future I couldn't even imagine. What if I got this job? What would it mean? How would my life change?

Would I finally be able to pay off my student loans? Help my brother with his medical bills? Stop counting pennies at the grocery store? Stop lying awake at night, calculating and recalculating how long I could stretch my savings before the inevitable?

The doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing a corridor that was distinctly different from the grand lobby. This floor was designed for function, not impression. The carpet was a sensible gray, the walls a muted beige. Signs directed visitors to various departments, and the lighting was bright but not harsh.

A wave of relief washed over me. This, at least, felt more familiar. More human.

I stepped out, my shoes no longer whispering but still not quite belonging. The corridor stretched to my right, and a sign indicated Human Resources was just ahead. My shoulders relaxed slightly. I could do this. I'd prepared for this. I'd researched the company, rehearsed answers to common interview questions, even practiced my handshake in the mirror.

What I hadn't prepared for was the reality of being here, inside these walls, breathing this air. The enormity of the opportunity—and the potential for disappointment—crashed over me like a wave. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked forward.

The first step is always the hardest, my mother used to say. But she was wrong.

It's the steps after that—when you're committed, when there's no turning back—that really test what you're made of.

The HR office was smaller, more welcoming than the intimidating lobby. Potted plants softened the corners, and the lighting was warmer, less clinical. A bulletin board displayed employee achievements and announcements—evidence of actual humans working here, not just efficiency machines in expensive suits.

A woman in her mid-thirties stood to greet me with a warm smile that reached her eyes—the first genuine expression I'd seen since entering the building. She wore a burgundy blazer over a cream blouse, professional but not severe.

"Emery? I'm Kira, head of recruitment. Come in, let's chat."

Her handshake was firm but not aggressive, her tone friendly but not overly familiar. She gestured toward a chair across from her desk, which was stacked with neatly arranged files and a ValeCorp-branded coffee mug. The room smelled like cinnamon and printer ink—oddly comforting.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" she asked, settling into her chair.

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied, though my throat felt like sandpaper. I didn't trust my hands not to shake if I had to hold a cup.

Kira was kind, surprisingly so. She asked about my degree in Business Administration, my last job at the environmental nonprofit, my availability. I answered everything as calmly as I could, though the tightness in my chest wouldn't leave. Each question seemed to carry hidden weight, implications I couldn't quite grasp.

"Your resume says you were working in nonprofit administration," she said, flipping through the pages. Her nails were painted a subdued plum color, and she wore a thin gold band on her right hand. "That's a big leap, coming to a corporate firm like this."

I gave a small smile, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "I'm a fast learner. And honestly, administration is administration, regardless of the setting. Organization, anticipation, communication—the core skills transfer."

She didn't immediately agree or disagree, which made my heart rate tick up a notch. Instead, she studied me, tilting her head slightly. "Why apply to ValeCorp specifically? You must have heard things about the company. Our reputation isn't exactly..." She paused, searching for the right word. "...warm."

The question hung between us. I could almost see my answer taking shape in the air, determining whether I'd ever see the floors above this one.

The truth was ugly. Rent that had increased twice in the past year. My brother's chronic illness and the medications insurance wouldn't cover. My savings, or what little was left of it after the heating system in my apartment failed in January.

But I couldn't say that. So I said, "I've always admired the company's... precision. Discipline. It's respected. Stable." I met her eyes directly. "I need stability."

Kira didn't nod or smile this time. She set the folder down and leaned forward slightly, elbows on her desk. "I won't lie to you, Emery. The CEO isn't an easy man to work for."

My mouth went dry, and I resisted the urge to reach for the water I'd declined. "I don't expect easy."

"He's... particular," she continued, choosing her words carefully. Each pause felt deliberate, calculated. "High standards. Minimal tolerance for mistakes. Three assistants in the last year have left, some in tears. Some didn't even collect their final check."

A cold flutter settled in my stomach, like a butterfly made of ice. "Why?"

"Because he doesn't like people," she said bluntly, without theatrics or apology. "He likes efficiency. Silence. Order. And if you're the type to take things personally..." She trailed off, the unfinished sentence more revealing than any explanation.

I swallowed, aware of how the sound seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. "I'm not."

She leaned back, eyeing me with quiet calculation. There was something in her expression—not quite sympathy, but understanding. Then: "He hasn't seen your file yet. I screen first. If I send you up, it means I believe you can handle him."

Handle him. Like a wild animal? Or a natural disaster?

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