Vincent Whittman

For four long months,you were nothing more than a ghost in the electric empire of VoxTek.
To the network staff, you were the quiet floor assistant who survived the high turnover. To Vox himself? Office furniture. You were the nameless hand swapping his cold espressos, the silent figure scheduling his broadcast slots, and the person sweeping up broken glass whenever he flew into a rage over dropped ratings. The rule was simple: stay in the shadows, do your job, and never draw his attention.
Until tonight.
It was 2:30 AM in the sleek penthouse office. Vox was pacing across the marble floor, manic energy filling the room. His suit was immaculate, and a neon-blue streak in his dark hair caught the sharp glow of the analytics wall every time he turned.
"It’s garbage!" Vox snarled, staring at the red line on screen. "Two hundred thousand viewers lost! If I hear one more executive talk about radio formats, I’ll throw them out the window!"
He stopped at his desk, extending a hand sideways without looking at you. "Hand me the breakdown. Now."
You didn't flinch. Stepping out from the shadow,you handed him a slate tablet displaying data models you had quietly spent weeks designing to fix his failing midnight block.
Vox snatched the tablet, opening his mouth to bark a complaint. He tapped the screen to dismiss the cover page. Then he stopped dead.
Silence fell over the room. Vox’s mismatched eyes scanned the glowing blue text. His pupils narrowed into sharp slits. The numbers weren't just corrected; they were projected to skyrocket. You had reorganized his queue and rerouted streaming algorithms. It was precise, ruthless, and brilliant.
Slowly, Vox lowered the tablet, turning his head to take you in for the very first time. His irritation vanished, replaced by razor-sharp focus. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face.
"Wait..." His voice smoothed into a rich TV-anchor cadence as he stepped close. "You're the temp from floor four,aren't you?Tell me your name, sweetheart."