I was standing outside Rodwell & Sons Enterprises again, quacking on the inside. Tasha was in the driver's seat of the car by my elbow.

"Go on then," Tasha urged for the millionth time, leaning over the passenger's seat to make shooing gestures at me. "No use dawdling."

I gulped. The windows of the tall building twinkled in vicious anticipation.

"Zara, move it."

I limped one step forward, gripping my supports so hard my knuckles bleached. Goodness, why was I so scared?

"Zara, I can't stay here any longer. That valet is making obscene gestures at me. Go on, now."

I looked at the valet. He was, in fact, making gestures at Tasha. And me, I realized. There was a bandage on the bridge of his nose. I ignored him.

"I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, on the verge of climbing back into the car and telling her to drive away. It was never too late.

Tasha gave me a blank stare. Then she revved the engine.

"No, Tasha—" was all I could say before she shot off, shouting a last 'good luck' as she went.

Al...right. Now you are completely alone.

I looked at the building once more. Had it turned darker a few degrees? No, of course not. I was imagining things.

I took a deep, deep breath, letting air get to all corners of my lungs, and exhaled in one long gust. The well-oiled doors made not a sound as I passed.

The orderly commotion from yesterday was still there, starting to drone in my ears before I got through the revolving doors. Inside, a guard scanned the ID Geric had sent me last night, then waved me through with only a short probing lift of his eyebrows. Bob sat high on his pedestal in the lobby, watching my progress to the elevators with the same morbid curiosity he had expressed before, now ten-fold.

The elevators dinged extra loud—to my heightened senses at least—as the car stopped on the thirty-second floor and I got off alone. Clearly this was floor not many were invited to.

Except for Geric, of course, who was sitting bright and shining behind his desk, flipping through a very metallic magazine.

"Do you really think you should be doing that?" I asked, limping forward.

He jumped three feet in the air, dropping the book back on the table. It landed with a dry thump. When he saw it was only me, he slumped down so hard he almost smacked his head against the keyboard, his hand flying to his chest.

"Oh, sweet Satan," he said, clutching at his coat. "You scared me shitless! I thought it was him."

I grinned, cocking my head. "If you are so scared, why risk it in the first place?"

He looked at me with an incredulous expression on his face. Then he slapped the mag on the desk beneath my nose. "Do you see this?" he asked, his voice pitched so high he could have shattered glass. "This is the new addition of Steel. How in hell was I supposed to stop myself from reading it when it was sitting right there before my eyes, tempting me with that slogan." He looked at the cover with slightly misty eyes. "‘Read it if you dare’," he breathed.

I glanced at the thin booklet. The whole cover was done up in metallic greys and greens, the words Steel written in the font Goosebumps came in.

I twisted my lips in thought, took in Geric’s glassy eyes, then decided not to risk it.

"I will just be going in, then," I said, motioning weakly at the corridor leading to Mr. Rodwell's office. He didn't look up, his hand inching towards the mag again, like he was afraid to be seen touching it, like if he moved too quick the book might disappear.

I turned into the corridor, sparing Geric one last look. But he was still frozen over the book, so I let it rest. Hopefully, Mr. Rodwell won't see much need to come outside and find him at it.

The door to the office suddenly materialised before me. Geric had been so much on my mind that I hadn't realised where I was walking to and how soon I would reach it.

This time I did not let the panic overwhelm me. I was supposed to be here. He had giving me a job. It was probably time to start acting that way.

I pushed open the door with my bad-side hand.

The room was exactly as I remembered but still managed to chill my belly. It probably had something to do with the fact that this time I was entering his abode alone, without Tasha anywhere near to come to my aid with bow and arrow.

He sat behind his desk, today clad in a coal black suit. A white shirt and solid grey tie peeked out from the vee across his chest. He looked up from the document he was perusing to stare at me.

"Good morning," I said, still hovering at the door.

He snapped the file shut and gave me a blank look. "Miss Mahal, did you ever hear about this new manner people tend to follow these days? They call it 'knocking', for some reason. Have you ever felt it appropriate to actually use it? I confess, I would love to hear your opinion."

I flushed. Crap.

"I am sorry. I wasn't thinking. First day jitters, I guess." I gave a short laugh—something that one might probably call a giggle. Obviously, I wasn’t doing great.

His face showed no compassion. He leaned back. "There is no time in this job for first day, or any day after, jitters," he started. "Actually, there is no time for any kind of feeling at all. I would highly recommend leaving all your frivolous emotions out the door when you enter."

"And pick them up when I leave?"

A rock would have had shown more emotions. Finally, he said, "No, I recommend throwing them all out the window."

"As you wish." I smiled. I am going to be amicable, I vowed to myself, even if he doesn't want to.

He pushed his chair back and stood. "Now, Miss Mahal," he said, buttoning his suit jacket—like he couldn’t imagine being unruffled, not in front of anyone, "there is a lot of work to be done, and I would like it very much if we got right down to business and refrained from this bantering. You are not here to make friends. Please remember that."

No matter none of your secretaries stayed, I pointed out. He didn't respond. He wasn't telepathic, unfortunately.

"Now," he motioned me forward with his hand, "this here will be your office." He pointed toward a small plain door in the wall on the right, already heading for it.

"My office?" I asked, following slowly behind. "I thought I would be working here."

"As it is, no you won't. I don't like people intruding into my personal space. So, you will be working from in here."

Reaching the door, he opened it with a key out of his pants pocket. The door creaked on its hinges.

Mr. Rodwell frowned. "Please tell Geric when you see him to get someone to oil these. The door hasn't been opened for some time," he explained.

"For how long, exactly?"  

He didn't answer for a moment, then, probably thinking I couldn't conquer the world with this information, said, "Close to seven months."

Wow. I thought. People must really not be keen to work for him. Then what was I doing here?

He stepped into the dark room, flipping on a light switch, and I followed. Light switch? Why—

I stepped over the threshold.

"Where are my floor-to-ceiling windows?" I asked, looking around. I felt short of breath.

"What?"  

The room was small. There was a desk with a computer, a pencil-stand with a few lone pens and pencils, a phone, a desk chair by the wall…and nothing else. The rest of the room was bare. There was not one window. Not one. The ceiling had a fan and some ventilation ducts, so hopefully I wouldn't suffocate on my own carbon dioxide.

But still...

"You have floor-to-ceiling windows," I said. He was watching me like I had gone crazy—he didn’t look surprised. "Where are mine?"

"Y-you don't have them, of course."

"Why ever not?"

I knew I was acting beyond unreasonable again. When I went into a state like this, I always knew it was uncalled for and, most assuredly, blatantly unfair on my part. But since the end of everything, my sensibilities were totally fried. I had become prone to overreactions, being entirely too sensitive to any and everything that grated with my design of the world. PTSD, the psychiatrist had said.

Perhaps you should have finished the series of sessions with her, then.

Damn the voice in my head!

"They didn't fit in the architect's calculations for the building, I am sure. And why does it even matter?" There was an odd look on his face—like he was taking silent notes.

"You have a bloody chandelier in your elevator car," I said, waving a hand angrily. "How come you didn't think your secretary would like to be able to look out the window?"

"It wasn't possible to build."

"You couldn't get even one window knocked out the wall?"

"This room's in the middle of the floor. Even if you had a window, all you would be able to look at was the insides of someone else's office."

"There are no other offices on this floor!"

"How do you know? You only came here yesterday. And for your information, there are in fact other offices on this floor. They are just not currently in use."

I glared at him. "No matter none of your secretaries stayed," I said. "This is a prison to work in." I was trying to stop, I swear. It just wasn't working.

His expression was a blank stare, like the surface of a frozen river. I wondered what currents ran underneath. "Are you trying to tell me you want to quit?" he asked softly, leaning in.

"Wait... what?" I couldn't concentrate on his words.

"I would be happy to release you if you want to go. Looks like you don't really have what it takes." He was looking at me expectantly, like one might at an interesting lab rat, waiting to see which way it would hop next to avoid the surgical scalpel.

"Relea— No! I don't want to quit. What makes you think that?"

"If you really don't like your office and this is how you react to it, what else am I supposed to think?"

I narrowed my eyes, shifting my grip on the crutches. "I am not going to quit just because my office looks like a jail cell. I wanted to have my opinion noted." There was sweat on my brow and, for an irrational moment, I wanted to cry.

"Well," his eyes narrowed in response, "consider it noted. But you should note too, your opinion makes no difference. Now settle in and come outside. We have work to do."

And then he walked out the door and left me to settle in.

Okay... something serious had to be done or I would have a murder on my hands.