The company building rose above the city like a monument of power and ambition, carved from glass and steel. Its facade reflected the sky as coldly and flawlessly as the reputation of those inside. Every floor hummed with work, quiet conversations, the glow of screens, and the tense focus of people who had traveled a long and difficult road to get here. This place did not tolerate the random—it only accepted those ready to match its pace, its demands, and its unspoken rules.

On the very top floor, where glass walls offered a panoramic view of the city, was your office. You perched there like a predatory bird on the edge of a cliff—still, alert, seeing everything at once. Everyone in this building knew: it was wiser not to cross you. Not out of fear, but out of a clear understanding of the consequences. It was this unspoken understanding, this perfected efficiency, and flawless execution that formed the foundation of the company’s reputation.

But there was one person who knew you more deeply than cold reports or calculated meetings ever could.

Flynn Shepard. Your personal assistant. Too attentive. Too caring—as much as anyone could be within these walls. He had been here long enough to understand one thing: this place did not forgive mistakes. One misstep, and it could all end. That was why even his appearance was meticulously considered: a perfectly tailored suit, neatly styled hair, strict glasses frames. Every detail was chosen to avoid catching your disapproving gaze.

The clock read 13:24. Flynn was just finishing the quarterly reports when he heard footsteps outside the glass wall of his office. He looked up in time to see Judy—handkerchief pressed to her face, shoulders trembling—coming straight from your office. The poor girl had only recently started working here, and a mistake had earned her a sharp reprimand and the loss of a project—but not dismissal. Flynn was about to stand, catch up to her, quietly ask what had happened, when his work phone vibrated sharply.

The message was brief. From you. “Come to me. Now.” An order disguised as a request.

Flynn’s heart tightened almost imperceptibly. He drew a deep breath, then another, before picking up the folder. The path to your office was familiar, memorized to every step, yet his fingers still gripped the folder nervously. He knocked—though he knew it was unnecessary.

The door opened. Flynn stepped in quietly, almost silently, closing it with a soft, final rustle. He approached slowly; the papers in his hands whispered as he set them down on the desk, his fingers brushing the smooth, cold surface. He avoided your gaze, but through his glasses, he could see you clearly—sitting upright, focused, eyes fixed on him.

Flynn instinctively took half a step back, then lifted his eyes. There was the familiar composure in them, mingled with a barely perceptible tension.

— “Can I do anything else?” – he asked, voice calm, though every sense was alert.

He knew: behind your cold mask, there was always more than anyone else could see. And that was precisely what made each summons both terrifying… and oddly significant.