The room was swallowed in absolute, suffocating darkness.
It was not the gentle, forgiving shadow that accompanies nightfall, but a heavy, viscous gloom that felt as though it was actively crushing the air from the lungs, a void where light simply refused to exist.
Within this oppressive emptiness, the only sound was a fragile, broken rhythm: the quiet, trembling gasps of a woman's muffled sobs echoing off unseen stone walls.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door groaned open, admitting a sliver of pale light and four towering figures. They stepped inside with a slow, predatory certainty. One of the men lazily dragged a massive, rusted broadsword along the uneven floor.
The metal scraped harshly against the stone, sending violent sparks flickering into the dark like the dying breaths of a trapped star. When they finally stopped before her trembling form, the air grew ice-cold.
"Too naive," the lead figure sneered, his voice devoid of a single ounce of warmth. "You were never our type."
'Husbands.' The word echoed in her mind—hollow, absurd, and entirely meaningless now.
The broadsword was hoisted into the air with terrifying ease. Before a final breath could be drawn, the blade plunged downward in a brutal arc, tearing through her throat with a sickening, wet crunch. Her body seized up and then stilled completely. Her eyes remained wide open, staring sightlessly into the abyss. Unblinking. From the corner of her right eye, a single, tragic tear slipped down her pale cheek—
"What the actual fuck?
Miss Fransisco shot up from her ergonomic mesh chair so violently that the plastic wheels shrieked a high-pitched wail across the polished office floor. A thick, deeply uncomfortable silence immediately washed over the open-plan bullpen. Slowly, the haze of the fictional world faded, and she looked up to find three dozen pairs of eyes boring into her from over their cubicle dividers. Her gaze darted down to her laptop, where the final lines of the melodramatic web novel still glowed accusingly against the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"These authors are genuinely insane," she muttered under her breath, desperately trying to shrink back into her collar.
"Miss Fransisco."
Her spine snapped straight, the icy dread of reality suddenly far worse than the fictional murder she had just witnessed. Her boss stood at the edge of her cubicle. The overhead lights reflected harshly off his gleaming bald head, while his pronounced belly strained the fabric of his cheap suit jacket. The single, overworked button at his midsection looked as though it were fighting a losing war. His expression was a thunderous mask of corporate disapproval.
"My cabin. Now."
The heavy mahogany door of his office closed behind her with a soft, muted click that felt entirely too final. The ambient hum of ringing phones and clacking keyboards was instantly severed.
"Sit," he commanded, though his tone had noticeably shifted. The booming authority of the bullpen was gone, replaced by a low, controlled register that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her instincts flaring, but she reluctantly lowered herself into the plush guest chair. The spacious corner office suddenly felt as claustrophobic as a closet.
He didn't speak immediately. Instead of taking his seat behind the massive oak desk, he began a slow, deliberate prowl around it. That was the first alarm bell. Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her slacks as she watched him close the distance between them.
"Sir, if this is about my outburst out there, I was just—"
"It is," he interrupted, his voice slick. But he wasn't looking at her face. His gaze drifted downward, lingering a second too long, then another, brazenly tracing lines that had absolutely nothing to do with her quarterly performance. A faint, sickening smile stretched across his damp lips. "You're quite... expressive, Miss Fransisco."
A cold knot of revulsion tightened in her stomach. He took another step forward, invading her personal space entirely. Instinctively, she leaned back, pressing her spine against the leather chair to put as much distance between them as possible.
"Relax," he murmured, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "There's no need to be so tense with me."
His hand moved. Not toward the performance review file on his desk, not toward his coffee mug, but directly toward her. Before she could pull away, his thick fingers clamped around her wrist in a firm, entirely uninvited grip.
For a split second, the world seemed to freeze. Shock paralyzed her muscles as the sheer audacity of his touch registered. And then, the paralysis shattered, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
Her free hand moved with blinding speed. All five fingers curled into a furious, white-knuckled fist, flying upward before he could even register the shift in her posture.
'Thud.'
Her knuckles connected squarely with the bridge of his nose in a sharp, incredibly satisfying crunch of yielding cartilage. He released her wrist instantly, a shocked scream tearing from his throat.
"Ah—my nose! You crazy bitch—!"
He staggered backward, both hands flying to his face as his eyes streamed with involuntary tears of pain. But she wasn't finished. Not by a long shot. The adrenaline was a roaring fire in her veins now. Before he could regain his footing or launch a counterattack, she sprang up from the chair, planted her supporting foot, and drove her other leg forward with everything she had.
Her heel buried itself deep into the soft, protruding mass of his belly. The impact forced all the air from his lungs in a wet, choked wheeze, sending him stumbling backward until his calves hit his desk.
And then came the pièce de résistance.
'Pop.'
It was a small, almost delicate sound cutting through the chaos of his groaning. The severely overstrained button of his suit coat, having endured far too much pressure for far too long, finally gave up the ghost. It shot across the room like a tiny, plastic bullet, ricocheting off the glass wall and hitting the floor with a distinct, cheerful 'click'.
For a long, surreal moment, the sound of that bouncing button lingered in the air, echoing far longer than the whimpers of the man crumpled against his desk.
The momentary silence was violently shattered.
"Security!" her boss shrieked, his voice muffled behind a pristine white handkerchief he had frantically clamped over his bleeding face. Bright crimson was already blooming through the fabric. He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at her. "Drag this bloody bitch out of here! You hear me? You will pay for this! You're fired!"
Two burly security guards materialized from the hallway, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her backward. She thrashed against their grip, her heels digging into the carpet as she tried to launch herself at him one last time.
"Who even wants your pathetic job, you fat rhino?" she screamed, the adrenaline making her voice echo through the entire floor. "You aren't firing me—I quit!"
Outside the glass walls of the cabin, the bullpen had turned into a theater. Every single employee was on their feet, frozen by their desks, eyes wide with absolute disbelief. None of them understood what had provoked the quiet girl to suddenly erupt, but nobody dared to intervene.
As the guards hauled her past the nearest cubicle, she spotted a terrified coworker trembling with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hands. Without a second thought, she snatched the ceramic mug from his grasp.
"I will kill you... you bloody bastard!"