The unauthorized stationery incident had left a chill in the air, a subtle frost on the orchid leaves. For two days, communication had been reduced to terse, formal emails. I used my new, humble notepad for everything, including a shopping list. The message was received.
The thaw came, as it always did, with a crisis. This one began not with a bang, but with a soft, despairing wail that echoed from Alexander's office just after lunch.
I looked up from my notepad, where I was calculating the cost-benefit analysis of artisanal gourd enrichment versus standard-issue chew toys. Sterling, who had been adjusting the angle of a spotlight on Genevieve, went perfectly still.
A moment later, Alexander appeared in his doorway. His face was ashen. In his hands, he held a small, empty, velvet-lined carrying case.
"He's gone," Alexander whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Who's gone, sir?" I asked, though a sinking feeling in my stomach told me exactly who.
"Lysander," he breathed, clutching the case to his chest. "My snow-ferret. My companion in solitude. The living embodiment of pure, untarnished spirit."
Lysander. The albino raccoon he'd "rescued" from the zoo acquisition and insisted was a rare, exotic ferret. The one that lived in a custom-built, climate-controlled habitat adjacent to his private restroom. The one that, on the single occasion I'd seen it, had bared its teeth at me with unmistakable rodent aggression.
"I'm sure he's just… exploring, sir," I said, my voice carefully neutral.
"Exploring?" Alexander's head snapped up, his eyes wide with horror. "In this concrete jungle? He's a creature of delicate sensibilities! He's never known a world without filtered air and hand-fed grapes! He'll be terrified!"
Sterling was already on his tablet. "I am activating the 'Code Winter Ghost' protocol. All elevator access to this floor is locked down. I am dispatching a discreet security team to sweep the stairwells."
"A security team?" I sputtered. "For a racc— for a ferret?"
"Lysander is not a ferret," Alexander corrected, a flash of indignation cutting through his grief. "He is a snow-ferret. A being of myth and rarity. His value is incalculable. And he is missing." He fixed me with a desperate, commanding gaze. "Miss Chen, you found the dolphin paperclip. You understand the… the vibrational frequency of lost things. You must help."
I was being voluntold to become a pet detective for a delusional billionaire's missing pest.
The next hour was a masterclass in surrealism. Alexander paced, composing a reward poster that described Lysander as having "eyes like liquid moonlight" and a "playful spirit that belies a soul of ancient wisdom." Sterling coordinated the search via an encrypted channel, his voice calm as he directed operatives to "check the ventilation shafts for signs of albino fur."
My job, it turned out, was to "think like Lysander."
"He's not just an animal," Alexander insisted, gripping my shoulders. "He's a symbol. Where would a symbol of pure, uncommodified spirit go? He would seek freedom! He would seek… the kitchen!"
"The kitchen?" I asked, hoping I'd misheard.
"The communal pantry! A place of simple, unpretentious sustenance! It calls to his wild heart!"
And so, I found myself leading a raid on the 42nd-floor breakroom, peering behind the industrial-sized coffee maker while Alexander stood in the doorway, calling out "Lysander!" in a stage whisper that could be heard in accounting.
We found a suspicious powder that turned out to be nondairy creamer and a profound sense of collective shame among the marketing team enjoying their lunch.
The search expanded. We checked the potted ficus in the lobby (too "pedestrian," Alexander ruled). We checked the roof garden (too "exposed"). We were on the verge of checking the sewer system when I had a practical, if cynical, thought.
"Sir," I ventured. "What if he didn't go seeking freedom? What if he went seeking… warmth? Somewhere quiet? Dark?"
Alexander stared at me, the idea dawning on him like a religious epiphany. "A sanctuary within the sanctuary! Of course! The copy room!"
The copy room was a windowless, humming cave of machinery and paper dust. It was also, as we discovered, the preferred napping spot for Steve from Accounting. We entered to find Steve asleep in a worn armchair, a trade journal open on his chest. And curled up on his lap, nestled in the wool of his beige cardigan, was a ball of fluffy white fur, snoring softly.
Alexander froze. "Lysander," he gasped.
The raccoon—ferret—stirred, opening its pink eyes. It blinked at us, then snuggled deeper into Steve's cardigan with a contented sigh.
The look on Alexander's face was one of pure, unadulterated betrayal. His mythical snow-ferret, the embodiment of untarnished spirit, had chosen the lap of a man who used a Bic pen and thought "synergy" was a made-up word.
Steve chose that moment to wake up. He blinked, saw us, and smiled. "Oh, hey. Found this little guy wandering the hallway. Seemed lost. Friendly fella." He scratched Lysander behind the ears. The creature leaned into the touch.
"He… he requires a specific diet," Alexander managed, his voice strangled.
"Yeah? Well, he seemed to like my ham sandwich just fine," Steve said cheerfully.
The silence that followed was more devastating than any of Alexander's dramatic monologues. His entire narrative had been undone by processed lunch meat and a kind-hearted accountant.
We returned Lysander to his palace, but the spark was gone. Alexander looked at the velvet cushions and the dish of organic grapes with new eyes.
Later, as I was preparing to leave, I saw him standing by the habitat, watching Lysander, who was now industriously trying to wash a grape in his water dish—a distinctly raccoon-like behavior.
"He chose simplicity, Miss Chen," Alexander said, not looking at me. "He chose… the mundane."
"Maybe the mundane is comfortable, sir," I offered softly.
He was silent for a long time. "Perhaps," he finally conceded. It was the closest I'd ever heard him come to admitting that his entire world might be built on a foundation of beautiful, elaborate nonsense.
The case of the missing albino raccoon was closed. The ferret was home. But a different truth had escaped its cage, and it was currently sleeping off a ham sandwich on a bed of priceless velvet, looking more content than it ever had before.