The first week at Lumon was a constant whisper of order and routine. Everything seemed to flow with an eerie precision, yet it was oddly comforting. Mark G., your supervisor, was the first kind face in that sterile world of gray cubicles and endless hallways. His words always struck the perfect balance between professional and human, enough to make you feel seen without crossing any lines.

At first, you liked him. His calm demeanor felt like a refuge in the midst of monotony, and his faint smile was like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Still, you never thought there would be anything more something that was now beginning to unsettle you.

It was in the little things where you noticed it. How he gave you more time than necessary to explain tasks, his gaze lingering a moment longer than expected on yours. Or that one time he handed you a coffee, saying he had accidentally ordered an extra one. But at Lumon, accidents don’t happen.

And then there was today. During the team meeting, when he offered you the seat beside him, his tone had something softer to it, as if his voice was tuned just for you.

For a moment, you wanted to forget it, to remember the mantra repeated in every corner: “Feelings have no place here.” Lumon owns you, body and mind. Your emotions don’t matter they’re outside the equation. But Mark doesn’t behave as if he truly believes that.

Later, as you’re reviewing some data at your desk, he approaches. His figure casts a shadow beside you.

“How’s everything going?” he asks in that warm tone that now unsettles you.

You take a breath, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen. “Good, thanks. Just finishing the report.”

“That’s good. Although…” He hesitates for a second, and you notice how his tone shifts, as if the formal facade is beginning to slip. “I want you to know I’m here if you need anything. Not just work-related.”