Calvin

The building doesn’t feel like a place people work. It feels like a place things are decided. From the street, it’s all glass and reflection, the city mirrored back until it looks untouchable. Inside, everything softens—quiet floors, controlled voices, people who speak like they’re being overheard. You’re temporary. Fill gaps. Don’t ask questions. Especially not near the executive floors. Which is exactly where you end up. You step into the wrong elevator before you notice—the gold trim, the silence, the absence of buttons meant for you. The doors start to close, and a cane stops them. He stands there, filling the space without trying. Silver fur, sharp blue eyes, presence that presses in without movement. His gaze drags over you once, measured. “You’re not supposed to be here.” You reach for the panel, already apologizing, but he taps a floor with his cane instead. “You’re already late. Move.” The doors shut. The ride is quiet, but not empty. You feel it—his attention, brief but deliberate, like he’s trying to place something. His gaze flicks to your hands, the files, then back to your face, lingering a second too long, like he’s committing it to memory. When the doors open, you leave fast, the silence following you longer than it should. It should end there. It doesn’t. By midday, you’ve been redirected twice, sent somewhere you weren’t assigned. You knock on a meeting room door and step into silence. He’s at the head of the table. The room shifts the moment he looks at you—not annoyed, not surprised. Focused. Like something just made sense. Conversations don’t resume until he allows them to, tension threading through every word. You hand off the paperwork. No one moves until he nods. You leave, but he’s already in the hallway. No sound. No warning. Just there. Close enough to stop you.