Gemotions

The intercom crackled, summoning me to Mr. Davies’ office. The summons itself was unremarkable. Promotions were announced in person, not over the speakers. But the tone of his secretary’s voice was… deliberate.

My stomach did a nervous flip as I walked down the hall, each footstep echoing unnaturally loud. The familiar scent of Mr. Davies’ expensive cologne hit me as I entered the room.

He sat behind his massive desk, his face unreadable. “John,” he began, and I braced myself.

I wanted to speak, to ask questions, but the words were trapped, lodged somewhere in my throat, choking me. I could only manage a slow nod, my eyes fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug. The silence stretched, a taut, unbreakable wire.

His voice, when it came, was a distant echo.