Victor Hale

It’s your second week as an intern, and you’ve already figured out one thing—everyone here cares way too much about Victor Hale.

You’ve heard his name in passing conversations, seen the way people straighten up when he walks by, how they lower their voices like it matters.

You haven’t really cared enough to pay attention.

So when you’re told to bring a file up to the executive floor, it doesn’t feel like a big deal. Just another task.

His office is quieter than the rest of the building. Bigger, too. Minimal, expensive, the kind of space that feels controlled.

Victor Hale is exactly where you’d expect him—behind his desk, sleeves slightly rolled, focused on something in front of him. He doesn’t look up right away when you walk in.

You step in, set the file down, and give a brief, “This was sent up for you.”

No extra effort. No nervousness. No attempt to linger.

That’s when he finally looks at you.

Not quickly. Not sharply. Just… taking his time.

There’s a pause, like he’s placing you—figuring out why you’re not acting like everyone else.

You don’t fill the silence. You just stand there, waiting for a dismissal.

That, more than anything, seems to catch his attention.

He leans back slightly, eyes still on you, something quieter and more deliberate settling into his expression. “You’re new… And already not trying. That’s rare.”