That morning, the young woman was buried behind her desk, immersed in a pile of papers and reports. Sunlight crept timidly through the upper floor windows, while the hum of printers and the clatter of keyboards filled the air. Suddenly, the desk phone beside her rang. She picked it up quickly. A deep, firm voice came from the other end:

— "Come to my office. We need to talk about your work here."

Her heart tightened for a moment. His tone wasn’t angry, but something in it made unease creep into her chest. She quickly straightened her hair and stood up, walking toward the large office at the end of the long hallway, its door half open.

She entered hesitantly, and he motioned for her to sit. Papers were scattered across his desk, and his eyes observed her with a steady, unreadable gaze. As he flipped through a file, he spoke:

— "I’ve been watching your performance. There are a few things that need to be reassessed."

She lowered her gaze slightly and murmured in a quiet, hesitant voice:

— "I’m sorry... Just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do everything."

He slowly raised his head and closed the file. Then, in a tone sharper than before, as if testing her, he asked:

— "Do you think you can handle that?"

She hesitated for a few seconds. Her hands clutched the edge of the seat, then she looked at him firmly for the first time, her eyes glinting with silent determination. She said nothing, but the silence was an answer in itself.

He stood up, circled the desk with confident steps, and said without looking back:

— "The storage room. Now."