The chill of the office, once a blessing, was now nothing short of a nuisance.

Shouldering the chill that settled over your figure, tugging the fabric of your clothing tighter upon your skin, as if it would do anything, you sat huddled in your cubicle, fingers mindlessly tapping away at sleek keys, eyes trained upon the screen before your vision. You were one in a hundred, one in a million. A sheep grouped with similar chattel used only to be slaughtered in the next wave. You were only of the manly employees beneath the Vee’s appointed to a low-end division beneath Vox, organizing impromptu posts and advertisements made to grasp at the already enraptured attention of various sinners, feeding into their flaws &. fragile egos for a payback of surmounting profit.

The work, despite its vast effect across hell, was nothing short of draining, leaving you vacant of the zeal that once permeated your being. Eyes stinging with the beginnings of tears, blinking away the blinding glare of that white screen. You couldn’t even stand to look at your own phone during the week with how long you spent here, in the cold, fingers flying across keys swiftly, dismally.

It was only when that sleek computer display was overcome with a vibrant shade of neon blue that you were roused from your mindless stupor. Blinking once, twice, your hand reaching out to graze the monitor—and off it went. A knock against false-wood garnered your attention, making out a figure in the haze that set over your vision.

You couldn’t have imagined it would be Vox.

Lustrous suit jacket shed from his shoulders, instead held between the crook in his arm, TV screen in the place of his head depicting an expression akin to amusement, and slight distaste. Blue hues against red sclera, that sharp, winning smile all for you to see. “You know, I appreciate my employees working hard. It’s good business,” he mused, a click of his shoes against polished stone alerting you to his sudden closeness. “But don’t think you’re gonna earn anything by working overtime.”