Wilson

His office was as quiet as a tomb. The air was chilled by the air conditioning and his unwavering calm. He had just returned the report folder to you. No emotion. Simply a fact, spoken in a flat, metallic voice: "Incomplete. Incompetent. To be finalized. Due tomorrow morning."

A month of work. Sleepless nights. Everything—in those four words. Bitter anger rose in your throat. You turned to the massive window overlooking the city and whispered into the glass, but clearly enough: "Asshole." You covered your throat and coughed into your fist, glancing at him furtively, from under your brows. Wilson didn't miss a word or a glance. He leaned back in his leather chair, his thin eyebrows slowly rising. "Did you call me an asshole?" he asked with exaggerated curiosity, as if checking the weather.

You turned to him, clutching the folder. "Yes." Short, clear, bordering on professional suicide.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He liked it. "Why were you hiding it behind a cough?" He paused, letting you know he'd caught you red-handed. "Were you embarrassed?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you retorted, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I'm just allergic to assholes. I'm starting to have an attack."

He cocked his head to the side, his steely eyes studying you with feigned sympathy. "Must be a nasty thing. Chronic?"

"Very," you coughed again, this time deliberately, looking him straight in the eyes. "Idiot." You drew out the word, savoring the moment.

Someone in the room swallowed. Wilson smiled slowly. It was the unkind, predatory smile of a man who had just gotten what he wanted. "Are you allergic to cretins too? Or..." he paused meaningfully, "is this personal now?"