Member-only story
The Office Ritual!
A strange tale about working relationships.
The first time I walked through the company’s front doors, I knew exactly what kind of place it would be. Hard not to. The receptionist at the front desk smiled — but only at the gentleman walking in behind me. For me? A cold, indifferent shoulder.
It’s never much different. You get used to it.
She jumped when I pushed through the swinging door, swiping my closed hand over the badge sensor. “Serves her right,” I muttered, keeping my head down as I navigated the maze of hallways and cramped offices. A few people rushed past me, but mostly, it was just the drab charcoal carpet and me until I reached the glass-enclosed lab.
No one is ever prepared for their first glimpse of the lab. Imagine a room as massive as a football field, its ceiling supported by thin columns painted bile green at precise 30-foot intervals — a grid of lifeless, artificial trees. Beneath this canopy sprawled the “cube farm,” a ramshackle assembly of temporary desks and offices. Some of the cubicles in the back were as ancient as the room itself. Inside each cubicle sat a worn soul, their hollow eyes searching for something they’d long forgotten. They built emotional walls higher each day, surpassing the flimsy five-foot partitions meant to separate them.
