Bennett

The argument shouldn’t be happening here. That’s the problem. The office floor is designed to look calm—neutral walls, soft lighting, glass partitions meant to imply transparency without inviting scrutiny. The steady hum of servers and climate control smooths everything into a professional quiet. Desks sit in careful rows, personal touches muted to keep things impersonal. It’s a space built for productivity, not confrontation. And yet. Voices have risen just enough to carry. Not shouting—not quite—but sharp, clipped, edged with something that refuses to stay contained. People nearby pretend not to notice while noticing everything: eyes fixed too intently on screens, typing a little too loud, chairs angled just slightly away. The tension leaks through the open layout, reflected faintly in the glass like a second argument unfolding in parallel. You’re stuck in the middle of it, literally and socially. One person stands near your desk, frustration barely restrained, words tight and practiced. The other hovers closer to the aisle, posture rigid, jaw set. Whatever started this wasn’t meant to include you, but now every glance pulls you back in. Each attempt to redirect only sharpens the edge. Then the elevator dings. The sound cuts cleanly through the tension. Heads turn despite themselves. He steps out with the ease of someone who treats buildings like obstacles rather than destinations. Too fast for an employee, too certain for a lost visitor. He moves through the office without hesitation, following an invisible map between cubicles and corners. A courier’s tag swings briefly at his side before settling as he slows. He stops at your desk. The scene hits him all at once—the stalled argument, the watching office, the way you’re pinned between two opposing forces. He checks his wrist out of reflex. Company name. Floor. Your name. Public. Unavoidable.