The hands on the elegant clock on Hank’s office wall crept steadily towards five o’clock, the official end of the workday. Hank, his gaze fixed on the real-time activity monitor of the company’s network, noted with satisfaction that the atmosphere on the sixth floor remained focused. Only a single employee had logged out prematurely, a stark contrast to the previous day’s exodus. In fact, several investors remained logged in, diligently working even as the clock ticked past quitting time. A genuine smile touched Hank’s lips as he observed that Gloria’s status remained active until every other investor had logged off. Her dedication, even on her first official day as his secretary, was evident.
A soft knock then sounded on his open door. “Come in,” Hank called out, his attention still partially focused on the comprehensive report he was compiling, detailing his observations and interactions from the past two days.
“Mr. Avery… Hank,” Gloria said as she stepped into his office, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Hank looked up, his smile widening as he met her gaze. “Gloria, how was your first day as my secretary?” he asked, genuinely curious about her experience.
A subtle smirk played on Gloria’s lips. It was true; Hank hadn’t asked her to perform a single traditional secretarial task. Instead, she had spent the day at her new, strategically positioned desk, continuing her work as an investor. But the absence of the usual pressure to meet specific targets, coupled with the sense of purpose she felt in supporting Hank, had created a surprisingly enjoyable and relaxed work environment. It felt… liberating. “I am supposed to take care of you, Hank, and yet you asked nothing of me,” she confessed, a hint of playful bewilderment in her tone.
Hank chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “I am aware of that, Gloria. But I am still navigating this new role myself, learning the intricacies of the directorship. Tell you what,” he proposed, his eyes twinkling, “starting Monday, we’ll try it the way it’s traditionally structured. When I need something… a document, a meeting scheduled, coffee… I will call on you.”
A genuine smile bloomed on Gloria’s face. “I like that, Hank,” she said, her voice sincere. It wasn’t about avoiding work; it was about feeling valued for her skills while also contributing to Hank’s success in a more direct way. “Now, Gloria, go home and enjoy your weekend. You’ve earned it. I will see you bright and early Monday morning,” Hank said, his tone warm and appreciative.
Gloria smiled and nodded, a sense of anticipation for the coming week already stirring within her. “Have a good weekend, Hank,” she said, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. “Thank you, Gloria, and you too,” he replied.
As Gloria turned to leave, her professional demeanor didn’t entirely conceal the subtle sway of her hips. Hank allowed himself a brief, appreciative glance. Her figure was indeed striking, perfectly complemented by her elegant attire. As she walked out of his office and towards the elevator, Hank began the process of shutting down his computer. He had already sent the detailed report to Constance, and now all that remained was to wait and see how their carefully laid plans would unfold.
Hank pushed back from his desk, the leather of his chair sighing softly in protest. The day's tensions and unexpected developments had left a subtle ache in his shoulders, and he relished the satisfying stretch as he raised his arms high above his head, his muscles lengthening and releasing. He glanced around his now-empty office, a sense of quiet accomplishment settling over him. The sixth floor, once a haven of indolence, was showing promising signs of transformation.
He walked towards the elevator, the soft hum of the machinery a familiar sound in the otherwise silent hallway. As the doors slid open, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby, the smooth descent a brief moment of calm before the potential storm he anticipated.
Stepping out into the brightly lit lobby, he was immediately greeted by the security officer on duty, a middle-aged man with a reassuringly solid build and a friendly smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Mr. Avery," the officer said, his smile widening in recognition.
Hank returned the smile, but his expression shifted to one of serious focus as he approached the security desk. "Officer Miller, I need to speak with you privately for a moment," Hank said, his voice low and carrying a note of urgency. Officer Miller, sensing the change in Hank's demeanor, nodded immediately, his smile fading as he leaned in attentively.
"I have a strong suspicion that we are going to have some unwelcome visitors tonight," Hank began, his voice confidential, ensuring their conversation wouldn't be overheard by any lingering cleaning staff. "Two former employees, Charles and Frank, were terminated earlier today. They were… less than cooperative during their dismissal and, crucially, they did not return their building access cards."
Officer Miller's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of concern flickering across his face. "That's not good, Mr. Avery. Do you think they might try to come back?"
"I don't just think it, Officer," Hank replied, his gaze direct and unwavering. "Based on their behavior and some things that were said, I have a strong feeling they will attempt to re-enter the building after hours, likely with the intention of causing trouble. Possibly even something… destructive." He didn't want to explicitly mention arson, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
Officer Miller's hand instinctively moved towards the radio clipped to his belt. "In that case, Mr. Avery, my first instinct is to remotely deactivate their access cards immediately. That would prevent them from even getting past the lobby."
Hank shook his head slowly but firmly. "No, Officer. Not yet. I want to catch them in the act. If we simply deactivate their cards, we'll never know for sure what their intentions were, and it might even embolden them to try something else later. I want to have solid proof of their malicious intent."
Officer Miller hesitated for a moment, his professional caution warring with Hank's strategic approach. "That's a risky move, Mr. Avery. If they do intend to cause damage…"
"I understand the risk, Officer," Hank interjected, his voice calm but resolute. "That's why I need your team's full cooperation. Here's what I want you to do…" Hank then leaned closer, lowering his voice further as he outlined his carefully conceived plan. He detailed the specific security protocols he wanted implemented, the surveillance he wanted monitored, and the precise positioning of security personnel. He emphasized the need for vigilance but also for discretion, ensuring that Charles and Frank wouldn't be alerted to their heightened security presence. He explained his desire to gather concrete evidence before taking definitive action.
Officer Miller listened intently, his initial apprehension gradually replaced by a focused understanding. He nodded slowly as Hank finished, his expression now resolute. "Alright, Mr. Avery," he said, his voice firm. "I understand. We can do that. I'll get on the radio right away and brief the evening team. We'll be ready for them." He reached for his radio, his thumb hovering over the transmit button, his gaze steady and determined. The quiet lobby suddenly felt charged with a sense of anticipation, the calm before a potential confrontation.
---
Four hours had bled into the quiet of the evening. The vibrant energy of the workday had long since dissipated, replaced by an almost eerie stillness within the Hanigan Investment building. Hank, having meticulously shut down the lights in his own office to maintain the illusion of his departure, now sat in an adjacent, darkened office. Beside him, a figure shifted subtly in the gloom… Kamilla West, one of the building's security officers.
Kamilla was a woman who commanded attention without uttering a single word. In her late twenties, perhaps a year or two Hank's senior, she possessed a robust physique honed by practical training, a stark contrast to the often-idealized forms gracing magazine covers. Her shoulders were broad, her posture unwavering, suggesting a quiet strength that radiated outwards. Yet, this inherent power was softened by a subtle allure. Her dark hair, pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun, couldn't entirely conceal the graceful curve of her neck or the high cheekbones that hinted at a heritage both strong and elegant. Her eyes, the color of rich mahogany, held a steady, intelligent gleam, capable of both sharp observation and a surprising warmth when she allowed it to surface. Though not conventionally a "model," there was an undeniable attractiveness to her grounded presence, a sense of capable sensuality that Hank, with his broad appreciation for different kinds of beauty, certainly didn't miss. He recognized the quiet confidence in her gaze, the subtle strength in her hands resting on her lap… qualities that held their own unique appeal.
For Kamilla, the past few months had been a journey of quiet rebuilding. Her relationship with her ex had been a dark chapter, a constant erosion of her self-worth punctuated by his violent outbursts. Since leaving him, she had erected a protective wall around her emotions, her interest in men having waned considerably. But Mr. Avery… there was something undeniably different about him. It wasn't just his undeniably handsome features or the quiet authority he exuded. It was the way he carried himself with an inherent integrity, the way he spoke to everyone, regardless of their position, making them feel genuinely heard and valued. Even the fleeting, almost imperceptible glance she had caught him casting her way earlier, a brief but appreciative assessment that lacked any hint of leering disrespect, had registered with her. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips in the darkness at the memory. It was a refreshing change from the entitled gazes she had become accustomed to.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
They sat in comfortable silence, the darkness amplifying the subtle sounds of the building settling around them… the distant hum of the ventilation system, the occasional creak of the structure. Both had a substantial fire extinguisher positioned within easy reach, a silent testament to the potential danger they were anticipating. Hank sincerely hoped they wouldn't need them, but the image of Constance and Lily sleeping soundly several floors above fueled his vigilance. A fire on the sixth floor, if allowed to rage unchecked, could have devastating consequences, trapping them, suffocating them. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Ten PM. The anticipated window of opportunity for their unwelcome guests was fast approaching. The silence in the darkened office stretched, thick with a shared anticipation and a silent readiness to act.
---
Three hours into their self-pity party at O’Malley’s, the cheap whiskey and lukewarm beer had taken a significant toll on Frank’s already questionable judgment. He pushed himself to a wobbly upright position, his legs protesting with a slight, unsteady tremor. "Charlessss," he slurred, the 's' dragging out like a deflating balloon. "I have a… a magnificent plan!"
Charles, slumped further down in his sticky booth seat, his tie loosened and askew, blinked up at Frank with unfocused eyes. He wasn't accustomed to this much alcohol; one or two after work was his usual limit. Tonight, however, the bitterness of unemployment had fueled a more reckless consumption. "Wha'?" he mumbled, his tongue thick and clumsy.
Frank leaned precariously over the table, nearly knocking over a half-empty pint glass. "Let'sss… let'sss fuck op Mr. Perfect Avery'sss office!" he declared, his voice rising in drunken indignation. "He'll be gone by now, the smug bastard. Properly… properly shagging that Gloria girl he hired as his… his fancy secretary!" He punctuated his statement with a clumsy finger point towards the imagined location of Hank and Gloria.
Charles’s face creased into a slow, idiotic smirk. The image of Gloria, with her quiet competence and undeniable attractiveness, flickered through his alcohol-addled brain. "Wouldn't… wouldn't mind a… a go on her myself," he mumbled, a lecherous grin spreading across his face.
Frank nodded sagely, swaying slightly. "Yeah… yeah, she'sss a looker. But she properly… properly wouldn't appreciate your… your advances right now," he conceded with a drunken wisdom he didn't possess when sober.
Charles nodded in agreement, his head bobbing. Their conversation wasn't a beacon of intellectual discourse, a disjointed stream of drunken grievances and half-formed ideas. But beneath the slurred words and unsteady movements, a shared sense of resentment and a desire for petty revenge had taken root.
Frank, with a Herculean effort, reached down and hauled Charles to his feet, his grip surprisingly firm despite his inebriated state. "Come on," he urged, his voice thick with alcohol-induced urgency. "Let'sss go… let'sss show that Avery what's what!"
They lurched out of the dimly lit bar and onto the sidewalk, their progress down the street a wobbly ballet of near-misses and muttered curses. They swayed precariously, their arms occasionally flailing for balance, nearly stumbling into a lamppost. A taxi driver, his horn blaring in annoyance as they staggered into the road, narrowly avoided hitting them. Frank, with a surge of drunken bravado, flipped the bird at the retreating cab, yelling something unintelligible about "respect" and "pedestrians' rights." The fifteen-minute walk to the office building felt twice as long, each step a minor victory against the pull of gravity and the numbing effects of the alcohol.
As they finally reached the familiar glass doors of the Hanigan Investment building, Charles leaned heavily against the cool glass, his breath fogging the surface. "He hasss… he hasss properly canceled our… our access by now," he mumbled, a flicker of doubt finally penetrating his drunken haze.
Frank, however, was brimming with misplaced confidence. He patted his pocket with a triumphant smirk. "He'sss not that smart," he declared, pulling out his old access card, its magnetic strip worn from countless swipes. With a flourish that would have been comical if he weren't so drunk, he fumbled the card against the reader. To their surprise, a small green light flashed, and the door clicked open. They stumbled into the deserted lobby, their triumphant grins widening with drunken glee.
Behind the security desk, Officer Miller looked up, his expression carefully neutral, though a subtle smirk played around the corners of his mouth. Mr. Avery's prediction had been spot on. But the plan, meticulously laid out just hours earlier, was to allow them to enter, to incriminate themselves further. Once they were safely inside the elevator, the wheels of law enforcement would be set in motion. The police, already briefed on the potential situation and strategically positioned just blocks away, were on standby.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Officer Miller said, his voice polite and even. Frank squinted at him, his alcohol-fogged brain struggling to place the familiar face. "Uh… forgot something in the office," he mumbled, his explanation as flimsy as his balance. Miller simply nodded, a knowing smile hidden beneath his professional facade. The two drunks, oblivious to the trap closing around them, lurched towards the elevator. As soon as the doors slid shut, sealing them inside, Officer Miller swiftly double-clicked the transmit button on his radio, a prearranged signal for the waiting officers to be ready. Then, with a calm efficiency, he picked up the phone and dialed the local police precinct. The game had begun.
---
Hank felt the almost imperceptible vibration through the floor as the elevator doors on the sixth floor slid open. The prearranged signal crackled softly through the small earpiece he wore, a subtle confirmation from Officer Miller in the lobby. He sat up straighter in the darkened office, his senses on high alert. Beside him, Kamilla shifted, her gaze meeting his in the dim light, a silent acknowledgment of the impending confrontation. She gave a curt nod, her hand hovering near the radio on her belt.
Hank moved with practiced stealth, easing the door of the office open just enough to afford him a narrow sliver of a view into the main workspace. He held his breath, listening intently. The muffled sounds of drunken revelry grew louder as Frank and Charles stumbled off the elevator. Their voices, thick with alcohol and punctuated by clumsy laughter, echoed in the deserted space. As predicted, they lurched directly towards Hank’s office, their unsteady gait betraying their level of intoxication.
Then, the destruction began. The sounds were sickeningly visceral. The sharp crack of books being ripped from their shelves, the heavy thud as they hit the floor, followed by the splintering crash of chairs being hurled against the walls. Hank could even hear the unmistakable sound of someone relieving themselves, a disgusting stream hitting what he could only assume was his corner fiddle-leaf fig. A mental note was instantly made: that plant was beyond saving.
Through the narrow crack in the door, Hank saw the four uniformed security officers, alerted by Officer Miller, move silently from the stairwell into the main office area, their movements fluid and professional despite the chaotic sounds emanating from Hank’s office. He raised a hand, a subtle gesture to halt their advance. They saw him and nodded, their expressions grimly determined.
Inside Hank’s office, the yelling and drunken laughter continued. "Fuck, I can't knock over this desk!" Charles bellowed, his voice slurred and frustrated. "Real wood, the bastard," Frank mumbled in response, his words equally unsteady. Then, a more sinister suggestion cut through the drunken banter. "Let's just fucking burn it!" Frank exclaimed, the destructive intent chillingly clear. The unmistakable scratch of a match being struck followed, a tiny flare of sound in the darkness. That was the signal Hank had been waiting for. He gave a barely perceptible nod to the security officers, and they moved.
The scene that unfolded was pure, unadulterated chaos. Frank and Charles, caught completely off guard, reacted with a mixture of drunken fury and panicked confusion. They swung wildly, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Charles, fueled by alcohol and resentment, lunged at one of the officers, his fist connecting with a sickening thud against the man's nose. A sharp cry of pain echoed through the office, and Hank saw blood blossom instantly. He made another mental note: that officer would be taken care of, personally.
Despite their drunken state, Frank and Charles put up a pathetic resistance, flailing their arms and stumbling around the office. However, their inebriation was their undoing. They were easily subdued, wrestled to the ground, and their hands were swiftly secured behind their backs with zip ties. Hank watched as the fight, brief and clumsy as it was, left his office looking like a tornado had ripped through it. Books lay scattered and torn, their pages crumpled. Three of the expensive leather chairs were overturned, their frames cracked and splintered beyond repair. And on his prized mahogany desk, a dark, charred mark was already spreading, the acrid smell of burnt wood filling the air. He shook his head, a mixture of anger and disappointment churning within him.
Just then, the elevator doors opened again, and two uniformed police officers stepped out, their expressions serious. The lead officer, a stern-faced man with a no-nonsense air, approached Hank. "Sir. What happened here?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over the ravaged office.
Hank calmly explained his suspicions, detailing the events of the day and how he had orchestrated the plan to catch the former employees in the act. He then walked over to the top of a partially toppled bookshelf, retrieved the small, discreet security camera he had placed there earlier, and offered a grim smirk in the direction of the subdued and cuffed Frank and Charles. He ejected the tiny memory card and handed it to the police officer. "It's all on here," he stated, his voice firm. The officer smiled grimly. "Caught on camera. That makes things easy."
As the police officers moved to help Frank and Charles to their feet, Kamilla West stepped forward, her presence radiating quiet authority. She swiftly retrieved the discarded access badges from the floor near the two drunk men. "Consider this your official notification," she said, her voice low and steady, her gaze fixed on Frank and Charles. "You are permanently banned from this building. Return at any time, for any reason, and you will be arrested."
"Again," Hank added, his voice equally firm, meeting Kamilla's gaze with a shared understanding. A small, almost imperceptible smirk touched Kamilla's lips as she nodded in agreement. The police officers then led the two disheveled and defeated men towards the elevator.
Hank took a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving behind a weariness that settled deep in his bones. It was close to eleven PM, and the evening he had hoped to spend with Constance, wrapped in the passionate embrace of their newfound connection, was clearly not going to happen. He would let her sleep, undisturbed. They could talk in the morning. "See to it that Officer Davies gets immediate medical attention," Hank said, his gaze resting on the security officer with the visibly broken nose. Two of the other security personnel nodded grimly. "Hanigan Investment will cover all medical expenses, and he will be on paid leave until he is fully recovered," Hank added, his voice leaving no room for argument. The security officers nodded their gratitude and helped their injured colleague towards the elevator, heading for the hospital.
Now, only Hank and Kamilla remained on the ravaged sixth floor. Hank surveyed the damage again, a sigh escaping his lips. The cleanup would be extensive, but he wouldn't touch a thing. He wanted everyone to see it on Monday morning, a stark visual reminder of what had transpired and who was responsible.
