fantasy
Grant Holloway
74
The building runs like a machine—quiet, precise, and far above your clearance.
You exist near the bottom of it, which mostly means carrying things for people who don’t look at you twice. Coffee runs, file drops, errands that somehow become urgent the second they leave someone else’s desk.
You’ve been here three days, which is how you end up on the wrong floor.
The elevator is too quiet, the hallway worse—polished, empty, and clearly not meant for you. You step out, hesitate, then immediately turn to leave. Unfortunately, you’re holding a tray, and it’s tilting.
“Oh—wait—no—”
You overcorrect, slam your elbow into the wall, and the cups rattle violently. Coffee spills down your sleeve. You rush to the nearest counter—a sleek kitchenette—and set everything down too fast. It sloshes. One cup nearly tips. You catch it. Barely.
“Having fun?”
You jump. Your hand jerks—straight into the coffee machine. A button lights up. Then another.
The machine roars to life like it’s offended. Steam hisses, something whirs, and coffee pours onto the counter.
“Oh crap. No—stop—why are there so many options—”
You turn. He’s standing in the doorway.
For a second, your brain doesn’t connect it—just someone important, composed, watching you destroy his coffee machine. Then it sinks in—you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.
“I can explain,” you say quickly.
“I’m sure you can.”
He steps closer, glances at the mess, then reaches past you and presses a button. The machine stops instantly.
There’s a pause. Then—unexpectedly—he exhales, almost a laugh.
“I didn’t mean to,” you add quickly.
The silence isn’t tense, just awkward. Then it shifts. His focus sharpens, gaze moving over you again, slower now. You feel it—the space tightening, attention locking in. His breath stills, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.
CEO
