Miles Crofton’s smile was a masterpiece of corporate insincerity, bland as unseasoned tofu. He adjusted the mic, his gaze sweeping over the nervous huddle of interns as if inspecting a particularly unpromising batch of livestock. “Welcome, fresh talent,” he began, his voice smooth as polished marble. “My name is Miles Crofton, and I’ll be your Senior Creative Director for the foreseeable future.”
Cosima dug her nails into her palms. *Future, huh? Not if I have anything to say about it, you pilfering peacock.* She could feel Lazar’s steady presence beside her, a reassuring anchor in the churning sea of her rage. He squeezed her hand, a silent acknowledgment of the storm brewing behind her eyes.
“Here, we don’t just erect structures; we sculpt skylines. We don’t just draft; we define,” Miles continued, his chest puffing out slightly. “And you, the newest cohort, are the raw clay. We expect you to mold yourselves into instruments of innovation. We expect… dedication. Excellence.” His eyes, for a split second, flickered to Cosima, a smirk playing on his lips before he smoothly redirected his gaze.
He then launched into a droning spiel about the firm’s history, its “visionary leadership” (Cosima suppressed a gag), and the grueling, glorious path ahead. When he finally opened the floor for questions, a flurry of eager hands shot up. Cosima kept her own arms crossed, a defiant knot of fury.
An hour later, they were herded like cattle into what Romy Tiller, a frantic intern with a gravity-defying topknot and smudged eyeliner, breathlessly dubbed “The Peasant Pen.” It was a cavernous, low-ceilinged floor, a stark contrast to the gleaming atrium. Rows of battered drafting tables stretched into the distance, fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. The air hung thick with the smell of stale coffee, desperation, and cheap toner.
“This is it,” Romy whispered, vibrating on the balls of her feet. “Our glorious indentured servitude! They say the CEO, the one they call the Master of Oblivion, is making rounds today. Firing people. Just for fun. Or for blinking too loud.”
Cosima arched a brow. “Master of Oblivion? Seriously? Sounds like a comic book villain with a god complex.”
Romy nodded vigorously. “Oh, he is! No one’s ever seen his face. They say he communicates through cryptic memos and terrifyingly precise performance reviews that magically appear on your desk. And if you get one, you’re usually gone by morning. Poof!” She made a vanishing gesture with a flourish.
Cosima scanned the chaotic scene. Interns were already elbowing each other for prime desk space, their faces etched with a desperate hunger. “Well, if they want to fire me, they’ll have to pry my drafting pencil from my cold, dead hands,” she muttered, grabbing an empty stool. “Speaking of which, I’m Cosima.”
“Romy! And welcome to the hunger games, Cosima!” Romy said, extending a hand smudged with ink. “You look like you’ve been through worse than this. Miles Crofton’s speech almost made me weep into my oat milk latte.”
“You have no idea,” Cosima said, a dark humor in her voice. Just then, Miles’s voice boomed over a crackling intercom, cutting through the din. “Fentaro! To my glass cage. Now.”
Cosima’s molars ground together. She shot Romy a grimace. “Wish me luck, Romy. I think I just got my first assignment, and I bet it’s not planning the next trophy tower.”
She was right. Miles sat behind his polished mahogany desk, a smug smirk playing on his lips. On the wall behind him, a sleek digital display cycled through elevations of the Aeonian Spire — *her* spire, the magnum opus he’d stolen, now rebranded with the agency's insignia. He gestured to a small, laminated blueprint on his desk. “Ah, Cosima. Glad you could join us. I have a very… *special* project for you.”
It was a waste receptacle. A blocky, industrial-grade bin for trash. And her task, displayed in bold Arial font, was “Optimal Enclosure Layout for Refuse Management Unit, Ground Loading Bay.”
“You want me to draft a garbage bay enclosure?” Cosima asked, her voice dangerously low, each word a chip of ice. “While you parade my life’s work on your wall?”
Miles leaned back, a picture of false nonchalance. “It’s a foundational exercise, Cosima. Every great architect starts with the basics. Besides, the spire stands as undeniable proof of *my* vision. A solo effort, you might recall. A lead innovator’s vision.” He tapped the laminated printout. “Now, I expect a full schematic, with detailed material specifications, by end of day. Don’t disappoint me. Or the partners.”
Cosima fought the urge to launch the laminated printout at his bridge. Instead, she offered a saccharine smile. “Of course, Miles. Anything for the firm. And for you, my dear *Senior Creative Director*.” She emphasized the title with a venomous sweetness, then pivoted on her heel and stormed out, her blood boiling.
Back in the Peasant Pen, Cosima stared at the trash enclosure brief, her mind racing. She could feel Romy’s sympathetic glances. This was Miles’s opening salvo, a public humiliation disguised as an assignment. He wanted her to quit. But Cosima Fentaro didn’t quit.
Around midday, a new buzz rippled through the intern floor. Security was ushering out an unkempt man in a thrift store tweed jacket and a bright pink t-shirt, carrying a battered lunchbox. It was Lazar.
Cosima’s face instantly shifted, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Lazar! What are you doing here, honey?” she called out, abandoning her refuse schematics and striding towards him with an exaggerated sway. She ignored the security guards, who looked utterly perplexed.
Lazar, ever the bewildered artist, smiled sheepishly. “I, uh, I brought you lunch, love. Found some leftover dal from yesterday’s pop-up. And a bruised apple.” He held up the lunchbox, his eyes twinkling as he played his part perfectly. “Thought you might get hungry, working so hard in this… impressive establishment.”
Cosima looped her arm through his, leaning into him, her gaze deliberately sweeping past Miles Crofton’s sanctuary, the glass wall providing a perfect view. Miles, mid-phone call, visibly stiffened, his eyes narrowing to slits as he watched the public display. *Excellent. Bingo.*
“Oh, you’re the sweetest, my broke artist husband!” Cosima purred, running a hand up Lazar’s arm, all for Miles’s benefit. “I was just about to starve. This trash enclosure project is really draining my soul.” She pressed a lingering kiss to Lazar’s cheek, then pulled back, winking at him. “Thank you, hubby. You’re my rock.”
Lazar chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that Cosima found ridiculously appealing. He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing patterns on her skin. While Cosima was busy making a show of her devotion, Lazar’s eyes, usually warm and amused, momentarily hardened. He met Miles’s furious stare through the glass, a cold, calculating glint replacing his usual amiable expression. It was swift, almost imperceptible, a flicker of something lethal that Cosima, wrapped in her performance, completely missed. Then, just as quickly, the easy-going artist was back.
After Lazar left, with another exaggerated goodbye kiss, Cosima returned to her desk, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. Miles had slammed his glass door shut. *Good. Let him stew.* The thought of her stolen tower, however, still gnawed at her. She needed those CAD files. She needed proof. And she wasn’t waiting for a polite invitation.
As the afternoon bled into evening, and the Peasant Pen slowly emptied, Cosima bided her time. Romy, after a flurry of panicked emails, finally packed up. “Good luck with your trash bin, Cosima! Don’t let the Master of Oblivion get you!” she chirped, before scurrying off.
Cosima waited until the last security guard did his rounds, the rhythmic clack of his shoes fading into the distance. She’d memorized Miles’s office access code from a glimpse of his key card earlier – a simple sequence of his birth year. *Amateur.* Slipping silently through the deserted halls, she reached his office door, her heart thrumming a frantic rhythm. A quick input, a soft click, and she was inside.
The office was still, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the enormous windows. Cosima moved with practiced stealth, heading straight for Miles’s desk. She knew exactly where he kept his backup drive, a habit she’d observed countless times. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the hidden compartment, her pulse quickening. She pulled it open, expecting the familiar gleam of a USB drive, the key to her vindication.
Instead, her eyes fell upon two documents, stark against the dark velvet lining. The first was a final eviction notice for a dilapidated apartment in the outer rings of the city, addressed to Miles Crofton. The second was a massive, unpaid pediatric medical bill, hundreds of thousands of Solari, from the prestigious Starfall Children’s Hospital, also addressed to Miles.