It was the "Hoo-hoo-hoo" that broke me. Not because it was terrifying, but because it was followed, two days later, by a perfectly executed, baritone chuckle during a tense phone call with a supplier. I had heard the practice, the struggle, the vulnerability. And now I was witnessing the polished result. The dissonance was giving me intellectual whiplash.
I was an accomplice. A co-conspirator in his grand delusion. And my student loan balance, which had been decisively vaporized by my second paycheck, was no longer a sufficient moral heat shield. I needed an adult. I needed HR.
The problem, of course, was that "HR" at Wilde Enterprises was Sterling. The man who kept a "Shroud" for aesthetically offensive furniture and referred to facial cramps as "energetic vortex disruptions." This was not going to be a standard HR meeting.
I scheduled it via the internal system, selecting the vaguest possible option from the dropdown menu: "Well-being and Workplace Integration." Sterling confirmed with a one-word email: "Acknowledged." The meeting was set for 3 PM in a "neutral zone"—the silent, white-on-white meditation pod adjacent to the hydration alcove.
At 2:59 PM, I sat on the single, backless white stool, feeling like a specimen in a laboratory. Sterling entered precisely on time, carrying a tablet and a cup of water that was, I was certain, exactly 21.1 degrees Celsius.
"Miss Chen," he said, his voice as neutral as the room's décor. "You requested a wellness consultation."
"I... I did." I took a deep breath. "Sterling, I need to talk to you about Mr. Wilde."
"Regarding?"
"Regarding the... nature of my duties." I chose my words carefully. "The... theatrical coaching. The laugh practice. The power stance feedback. It's... not in my job description."
Sterling didn't blink. "Job descriptions are fluid documents, designed to capture the essence of a role, not its minutiae. Your role, as defined, is to provide comprehensive support to the CEO."
"Comprehensive support," I repeated. "Does that typically include appraising the menace level of a villainous laugh?"
"Mr. Wilde's leadership methods are unorthodox," Sterling stated, as if reading from a manual. "His success is predicated on his unique psychological framework. Our role is to support that framework, ensuring it remains... operational."
"This framework feels operational to the point of requiring a full-time drama therapist."
"Your compensation reflects the... specialized nature of the support required," he replied, his gaze unwavering.
It was a checkmate move. The golden handcuffs clinked softly in the sterile silence.
"Right. The money." I leaned forward. "But what about my professional development? My sanity? I have a master's degree. I'm sourcing artisanal air filters and evaluating evil laughs. I'm worried I'm losing my grip on reality."
For the first time, a flicker of something—not empathy, perhaps, but recognition—crossed Sterling's features. He placed his tablet on the white table between us.
"Miss Chen," he began, his voice dropping a micro-decibel. "Do you know what my previous role was?"
"I assume you were forged in a secret lab to be the perfect executive assistant."
A corner of his mouth twitched. It was the Sterling equivalent of a belly laugh. "I was a litigation attorney. A very good one. I specialized in high-stakes corporate liability cases."
I stared at him. The man who coordinated the shredding of offensive blue memos was a former legal shark?
"After ten years," he continued, "I found the reality of the world... disappointingly predictable. The arguments, the precedents, the outcomes. It was all a variation on a theme. Here," he gestured vaguely to the pod, to the entire insane office beyond, "the theme changes daily. The precedents are written in the moment. The arguments are about the emotional resonance of desk wood. It is, in its own way, infinitely more challenging."
I was speechless.
"My point is," he said, picking up his tablet, "reality is a flexible concept. Your skills are being applied. Just not in a way any business school would recognize. You are not losing your grip on reality. You are simply being required to grip a different one."
"And what if I can't?" I asked, my voice small.
"Then you will leave behind a single, discarded pump by the elevator," he said, with what I suspected was his version of dry wit. "But I suspect you won't. Your performance reviews have been... more than adequate."
"Performance reviews?" I sputtered. "From who? Him?"
"Naturally. He evaluates your 'supporting role' on a weekly basis. Your notes on the 'collaborative sovereignty' stance scored particularly high in 'narrative cohesion.'"
I put my head in my hands. My performance was being graded on narrative cohesion.
"Your concern is noted, Miss Chen," Sterling said, standing up. "The HR file will reflect that you are experiencing 'temporary ontological dissonance.' It's a common phase. It typically passes once the employee accepts that the company health plan also covers aura-cleansing sessions, should you require one."
He gave a curt nod and left the pod, leaving me alone with the humming silence and the crushing realization that I was the crazy one for thinking any of this was crazy.
I walked back to my desk in a daze. Alexander's door was open. He was on the phone, using the polished "Hoo-hoo-hoo" laugh to devastating effect. "Sebastian, my dear man," he was saying, "your offer is as transparent as it is pathetic. I'm afraid I must decline. Hoo-hoo-hoo."
He caught my eye as I passed and gave me a swift, subtle thumbs-up.
I sank into my chair. I had gone to HR for help and had been told, in the politest terms possible, that I needed to expand my definition of normal to include CEO-sponsored villain laugh practice. And that I was good at my job.
A new task notification appeared on my tablet.
TASK: GALA ATTITUDE CONSULTATION
Context: The Thorn Industries gala is next week. Objective: Determine whether my demeanor should be "Forgiving Victor" or "Benevolently Merciless." Note: "Benevolently Merciless" requires a new waistcoat. Research options.
I looked at the task. I looked at the thumb-drive containing the financial models I'd once dreamed of building. I looked at the ebony pen on my desk.
Then I opened a new browser tab and started searching for waistcoats.
Reality was flexible. And my grip, it seemed, was stronger than I thought.