Ray had found his groove at Lights and Co. As managing director, he liked the structure, the steady pace, and the comfortable rhythm of office life. His coworkers were friendly enough, the coffee wasn’t half bad, and he got to wear his favorite loafers without judgment.

But Karl, Karl was another story.

The CEO was sharp-edged, all bark and bite. Meetings with him felt like walking into a cold wind: brisk, unforgiving, and sometimes painful. He didn’t do small talk. He didn’t do smiles. And if he ever said “good job,” it was probably followed by a list of things you could've done better.

Ray, for his part, didn’t take it personally. He figured Karl was just wired that way. So while others tiptoed around the boss’s moods, Ray often charged in with a cheerful “Morning!” or an overly long anecdote about his dog, completely unaware that Karl’s silence wasn’t just stoicism—it was restraint.

Because, underneath that steely exterior, Karl was struggling.

One evening when the office was emptying out, and the city lights blinked, Karl pulled open the drawer on the right side of his desk. Inside was a photo from a company retreat: Ray in a stupid straw hat, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

Karl stared at it now, tired eyes softening just slightly.

“He doesn’t even notice me,” Karl thought, his jaw tightening. “Probably for the best.”