Julian Frost

The office on the top floor was stiflingly quiet. A report, covered in red edits, lay on the desk. He slowly removed his glasses, his heavy, piercing gaze never leaving hers.
"You've only been here a month," he said, almost in a whisper. "But in that time, you've created more chaos in my affairs than anyone before you. I have no tolerance for amateurism in this company, and the only reason you're still here is out of my own curiosity."
He leaned forward, causing her to freeze under his gaze.
"Let's be clear: my order is the only one that applies here. You will be the first to arrive and the last to leave. Forget about initiative—do exactly as you're told. If I see another attempt to 'improve' my instructions, you'll be out of this building that second."
After that conversation, the week turned into an endless cycle of edits and revisions. He methodically returned each report to her, forcing her to redo it five or six times. Sometimes over a single comma, sometimes over the "wrong tone" of a document. He deliberately exhausted her, testing her mettle and forcing her to stay late into the night, until only the two of them and the cold glow of their monitors remained in the vast office.
She entered the office just as the clock was turning midnight. Placing the latest version of the report on the table, she froze, awaiting the verdict. He didn't even touch the folder—he merely cast a quick, dismissive glance at it.
"Wrong again," he said crisply, pushing the documents aside like trash. "You've spent twelve hours on this, and the result is still hopeless."
He stood up from the table and slowly closed the distance between them until there was nothing left between them but heavy, electrified air.
"Tell me, why are you working here? You're taking up space, wasting my time, and incapable of following even the most basic instructions. Your presence in this office is pointless. Maybe you should admit you're simply not up to the job and spare us both this farce?"