Yet beneath that playful energy, a darker undercurrent rippled—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a cold breeze curling around the ankles of unsuspecting prey.
At the far end of the corridor, where the overhead lights flickered just a little too inconsistently and shadows clung like cobwebs to the corners, a figure stood—barely a silhouette.
His presence was hidden from the rest, yet his expression, twisted and coiled with disdain, would have shattered the illusion of cheer had anyone noticed him.
His jaw clenched so tightly it creaked, and his eyes narrowed into venomous slits. Hands shoved into his coat pockets; his shoulders tensed with barely contained fury.
A sneer lifted one corner of his lip as he leaned against the cold wall, tapping his foot—not in boredom, but in barely restrained agitation.
His voice dropped to a whisper; more promise than threat.
And then—he was gone.
Like a shadow receding into the walls themselves, his presence evaporated, leaving no trace but the faintest drop in air pressure and a sense of something off.
Joseph, still standing in the middle of the corridor's liveliest commotion—surrounded by laughter, chatter, and the sound of Amayra's heels click-clacking somewhere nearby moving away—suddenly went still.
He had been rubbing his temples, trying to mentally navigate the hurricane of chaos that Amayra had just inflicted on his morning, when an instinctive jolt seized him.
His fingers stopped mid-motion. His shoulders stiffened, and his spine straightened like a soldier under inspection.
He didn't know what it was exactly—but it was there. A sensation. A chill that crawled across the back of his neck like invisible fingertips.
His flickering red eyes darted to the side, like he was ready to attack that dark creature.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifted his head just enough to peer out of the corner of his eye, focusing on the space behind him.
The light in that direction seemed a touch dimmer. The air felt heavier. Thicker. Wrong.
dry on his tongue.
His voice dropped into a mutter as his brows furrowed. The noise around him blurred into a muffled backdrop, like the world had taken a step back to let him listen closer.
But before he could even piece the feeling together—SMACK!
A loud, hearty slap landed on his back with the force of a bear hug disguised as a backhanded compliment.
Thomas's booming voice thundered down the corridor, his laughter echoing like a joyous war horn.
His hands gestured in wide arcs, his face split with amusement. It was as if Thomas had just watched a sitcom episode titled 'Amayra Strikes Again'.
Without waiting for a reaction, he clapped Joseph on the shoulder once more—less violently this time—and turned on his heel, striding away with that same old-school swagger only men who drank whiskey for breakfast and survived boardroom brawls could carry.
Joseph remained rooted to the spot, his brain still rebooting from both the physical impact and the cryptic whirlwind Thomas had just blown through.
The casual implication in his tone wasn't lost on him. Situations? How many "situations" did Amayra create? And why did he now feel like he was a recurring character in one?
Then came Mary.
As always, Miss Mary stood by like the all-seeing Oracle of this office circus, arms folded neatly, posture dignified, her lips curled ever so slightly in quiet amusement.
Her eyes locked onto Joseph's with that knowing glint—the one that usually preceded a mic-drop moment.
She leaned in slightly, as if gifting a sacred truth.
weight of a gavel. Her tone was calm, crisp, and unmistakably dramatic, as if she had underlined it in all caps and bold font.
Joseph froze mid-thought.
His pupils shrank slightly. The corners of his mouth twitched downward. His breath caught somewhere in his throat.
dread crawled down his spine.
Mary gave a simple nod, composed yet filled with restrained glee.
BOOM. The realization dropped like a piano from a rooftop.
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Joseph didn't move, but his entire posture sagged—like a man who just realized he stepped into a trap, smiling, thinking it was a casual conversation.
And now, the flashbacks of the break room began.
Joseph's teasing words:
Amayra, grinning like she owned the place:
Joseph groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose as though he could crush the headache before it formed.
he muttered bitterly.
He sighed again, the kind of sigh that only came from accepting life's cruel jokes.
Enter David.
As if summoned by pure irony, David's voice rose behind him—low, wounded, and theatrical.
David's sorrow quickly twisted into theatrical fury, his voice escalating with every syllable as if he were performing live on a stage.
His chest heaved, eyes brimming with melodramatic betrayal.
he declared, his tone so over-the-top it would've made a soap opera villain blush.
His arm shot forward with the weight of divine judgment, finger shaking as it pointed directly at Joseph.
Joseph blinked, taken completely off guard, his eyebrows arching.
The room seemed to tilt for a second with the weight of David's accusation.
David stepped forward like a knight wronged by his king, clutching at his chest.
he wailed, eyes glistening as if he were about to weep.
Behind them, Miss Mary, who had been quietly observing from her post like a theatre critic at the climax of a tragicomedy, covered her mouth with a delicate hand, trying to hide her growing amusement.
Her eyes twinkled with laughter, and her shoulders gently shook as she folded her arms, soaking in the unfolding drama like the last sip of a strong coffee.
Joseph turned his head slowly to David, lips tightening. It was too early for this.
He raised one hand in a measured, diplomatic gesture.
But David, in true dramatic form, wasn't finished.
Joseph's jaw tensed. Enough was enough.
In a swift, silent move honed by years of detective precision, he lunged forward and slapped his hand over David's mouth, muffling the rest of the rant.
David's words died into indignant grunts, eyes wide with protest.
thinning patience.
He turned to Miss Mary, who was now openly giggling into her sleeve, and added with an apologetic glance,
Miss Mary waved a hand, dismissing the concern.
Joseph forced a tight-lipped smile.
Still gripping David, who was now flailing like a fish on land, Joseph began to drag him down the corridor like a babysitter hauling away an unruly child.
David, even with his mouth covered, refused to go down quietly.
he groaned against Joseph's palm.
Miss Mary took one last sip of her coffee, shaking her head as the door closed behind them.
Her laughter, soft and genuine, echoed faintly in the corridor.
she said under her breath.
And just like that, the corridor quieted, save for the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
But the echoes of their ridiculous scene still hung in the air like the aftermath of a flashbang—bright, absurd, and impossible to ignore.
Inside the office, the chaos continued, albeit in a more... controlled environment.
Joseph practically shoved David through the door, one hand still locked on his arm like a vice.
David flailed again, tapping at Joseph's hand with an open palm like a protest sign in motion.
The second Joseph let go, David stumbled backward and spun around, eyes wide with wounded drama.
he barked, clutching his wrist as if Joseph had nearly dislocated it.
He looked genuinely offended, like a Shakespearean prince betrayed by his closest ally.
Joseph raised a brow, utterly unmoved.
David, not missing a beat, pointed an accusatory finger, his voice bordering on hysteria.
He staggered back into a chair, panting like he had just escaped a life-or-death scenario.
Joseph blinked again, still recovering from the sheer absurdity of the scene.
he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
But then, with zero remorse and maximum efficiency, he turned and began sorting through a towering stack of case files on his desk, casually adding,
David's brows furrowed, his indignation losing steam for a moment.
he mumbled, his voice dropping into a disgruntled mutter as he slumped into the visitor's chair.
But then—he jolted upright, realization dawning like a thunderclap.
Joseph, already flipping pages like he was speed-reading through evidence logs, didn't so much as blink.
That was it. That was the final straw.
David barked.
Joseph still didn't answer. The deliberate silence was like gasoline on a fire.
David let out an exaggerated groan and spun the chair around dramatically so that his back faced Joseph.
With a huff, he yanked open his smart phone, angrily typing in the MeTube search bar like it owed him a refund.
His fingers clicked away in a storm of petty fury.
Joseph, meanwhile, allowed himself the faintest smirk as he scanned the next document.
Peace. Blessed, delicious, temporary peace.
And so, the office settled into a weird, simmering stillness—one laced with unsaid words, passive-aggressive sighs, and the faint hum of a MeTube conspiracy video playing in the background.
As Joseph and David silently waged their own little cold war.
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