The air in the office on Wednesday morning was cold—not just "Arctic Shelf" cold, but "Glacial Maximum" cold.
Michael arrived at his desk at 08:30 AM, thirty minutes early. He hadn't slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of Lizbeth Jones—the woman who could fire a man with a single glare—booping a calico cat on the nose. It was a "memory glitch" he couldn't shake.
At exactly 09:00 AM, the elevator chimed.
The "Iron Lady" stepped out. Her suit was a sharp, aggressive charcoal gray. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful. She didn't just walk; she marched. As she approached Michael’s row, the entire department went silent. People literally ducked behind their monitors.
She stopped at Michael’s desk. She didn't say a word. She just stared at him with a look so intense, so frighteningly focused, that Michael felt his soul leaving his body.
"Smith," she said, her voice a low, dangerous vibration. "My office. Now."
The "Now" echoed through the room like a gunshot. His coworker, Dave, whispered a quiet "Rest in peace, man" as Michael stood up.
Michael followed her into the corner office. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. Lizbeth didn't sit down. She paced back and forth in front of her floor-to-ceiling window, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Ma'am, about last night—" Michael started.
"Silence!" Lizbeth spun around. Her face was a strange mix of pale and blotchy red. "You... you saw nothing. Do you understand? The 'incident' at the feline establishment was a hallucination brought on by your overtime-induced exhaustion."
"It was a very realistic hallucination, then," Michael said, his own nerves starting to fray. "You were wearing a white blouse and making meow sounds at a cat named Princess."
Lizbeth let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-strangled-shout. She slammed her hands down on her mahogany desk and leaned in. "If a single word of this reaches the staff... if I hear so much as a 'whisker' of a rumor... I will make sure your career ends before your sister finishes her first semester."
Michael looked at her. Really looked at her. Her eyes were darting everywhere but his face. Her lower lip was tucked under her teeth. She wasn't an Iron Lady right now; she was a terrified girl hiding behind a giant desk.
"Ms. Jones," Michael said softly. "Why are you so afraid of people knowing you like cats? It’s... it’s actually kind of nice. It makes you seem human."
"I don't want to be 'human'!" Lizbeth practically wailed, her "strict" voice finally cracking. She slumped into her expensive leather chair, burying her face in her hands. "I'm the Chief of Logistics. I have to be perfect. I have to be scary. If I’m not scary, I’m just... me. And 'me' is someone who stammers and turns red and can’t even order a coffee without rehearsing it five times in her head!"
Michael blinked. "Wait. You're not mean? You're just... shy?"
Lizbeth peeked through her fingers, her eyes watery. "I have social anxiety, Smith. A lot of it. The 'glare' is just the face I make when I’m trying not to pass out from nervousness. People think I’m judging them, but I’m actually just screaming internally, 'PLEASE DON'T TALK TO ME, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS!'"
Michael felt a wave of relief so strong he almost laughed. The "predator" of the 42nd floor was just a girl who didn't know how to socialize.
"Is that why you were at the bar last night after the cat cafe?" Michael asked. "I saw you walking toward The Rusty Anchor."
"I needed a drink," she muttered, finally sitting up and smoothing her hair. "A very large, very quiet drink."
"Well," Michael said, a brave idea forming in his head. "I'm heading to a bar near the station after work to celebrate my sister’s scholarship. If you want to... practice being 'human' without the desk between us, you’re welcome to join. I promise I won’t tell anyone you cooed at a calico."
Lizbeth stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "You... you're inviting the 'Iron Lady' to a bar? Are you suicidal, Smith?"
"Maybe," Michael smiled. "But I think the 'Cat Lady' might actually be fun to talk to."
Lizbeth looked at her desk, then at the door, then back at Michael. "19:00. At the corner bar. If you’re late, you’re fired."
"Understood, Boss."127Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5HuDZfpmmM
然後按「加至主畫面」