The office was too quiet.
Rihanna adjusted her ID badge as she stepped into the sixth floor — Lorenzo Moretti's division.
It was pristine. Too pristine.
Rows of high-end desks. Immaculate white surfaces. Glass walls that offered no privacy. Everyone worked in silence, like machines. Heads down, eyes averted. It was nothing like the warm, bustling energy of the general departments she'd briefly passed through.
She could hear the soft click of her own heels as she approached the orientation desk.
"Miss Rihanna Thompson?" a woman greeted with an unnaturally stiff smile. Her nametag read Mirella. "We've been expecting you. You're being personally assigned to Division Lead Moretti's project suite."
"Right. I was told," Rihanna replied, voice polite but uncertain.
Mirella handed her a sleek silver keycard. "That opens everything on this floor… except his office. You'll only go there if summoned. Please note that."
If summoned?
Rihanna's smile faltered.
"Of course," she managed.
As Mirella began walking her through protocols, Rihanna couldn't shake the feeling that this place wasn't just quiet. It was cold. Not temperature-wise — emotionally. The employees moved like shadows, eyes vacant, their interactions minimal and cautious.
Something here didn't feel like a company.
It felt like a stage.
She was led past translucent doors, and briefly caught sight of the corner office. Lorenzo was inside, leaning against his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, speaking to someone on the phone. His expression didn't change as she passed, but somehow… she knew he was aware of her.
That low-grade, unspoken awareness pressed against her skin like static.
When Mirella left her at her designated workspace, Rihanna exhaled shakily and glanced around.
Everyone here looked successful. Beautiful. Polished. But also haunted.
One woman in particular caught her attention — blonde, mid-30s, stunning. She sat two desks over, but her eyes met Rihanna's for a second… then quickly looked away. Not rude. Just… careful.
That same woman abruptly stood after ten minutes. A man in a black suit came to escort her. No one explained. No one spoke. She was just… gone.
Rihanna blinked. "Excuse me," she whispered to a nearby colleague, "what happened to her?"
The man — boyish face, neat glasses — gave a tight-lipped smile. "She's been transferred."
"To where?"
"Does it matter?" he asked back softly, almost like it was a warning.
Rihanna sat back in her chair, unease tightening around her throat.
This place wasn't just quiet.
It was curated. Controlled.
Sterile.
She pulled out her phone under the desk, quickly tapping a message to her mother. "All good here. Very fancy. Work's intense but exciting!"
She paused before hitting send, then added:"Everyone is super kind."
A lie.
She sent it anyway.
Because something told her the truth wouldn't make it back across the ocean the way it should.