Efficient

The car arrived at exactly 7:00 a.m.

Not 6:58. Not 7:02.

Exactly.

I knew because I had been standing by my window for ten minutes already, watching the street below like I was waiting for a verdict. When the black sedan eased into the curb, smooth and silent, my stomach tightened.

No logo.

No markings.

Just polished black metal and tinted glass.

Efficient.

I grabbed my bag, locked the door behind me, and forced myself to breathe as I stepped into the hallway. The building smelled faintly of old paint and someone else’s breakfast. Familiar. Ordinary.

The car waiting outside was not.

The driver stepped out before I reached the curb. He was tall, dressed in a dark suit, expression neutral in a way that felt rehearsed.

“Miss Hale,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He opened the rear door for me, gesturing politely. I hesitated — only for a second — before sliding inside. The interior was cool, leather seats spotless, the faint scent of something expensive and unfamiliar lingering in the air.

The door closed softly.

The driver took his seat, adjusted the mirror, and pulled into traffic without another word.

We didn’t speak.

The city passed by in fragments — coffee shops opening, pedestrians clutching phones, cyclists weaving through cars. Life moving as usual. Meanwhile, I sat in the backseat of a stranger’s car, heading toward a job that already felt heavier than it should have.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number

Black coffee or tea?

I stared at the screen.

There was no greeting. No explanation.

Just the question.

Coffee, I typed back after a moment. Black.

The response came instantly.

Noted.

I swallowed.

The drive ended at the same glass tower from the night before. Blackwood Systems looked even more imposing in daylight — sharp lines, reflective windows, the name etched into stone like it had always been there.

Inside, everything moved with purpose.

Employees walked briskly, voices low, expressions focused. No one lingered. No one looked lost. It was like stepping into a machine that didn’t tolerate inefficiency.

At the reception desk, the woman smiled when she saw me.

“Good morning, Miss Hale. We’ve been expecting you.”

Of course they had.

She handed me a sleek badge already printed with my name and guided me toward the elevators without asking for identification. I noticed that other employees scanned cards, entered codes.

I did neither.

The elevator doors closed, lifting me upward in silence. This time, I wasn’t alone. Two men in suits stood beside me, discussing quarterly projections like I wasn’t there. Their words washed over me — percentages, timelines, acquisitions.

I felt invisible.

And somehow, watched.

When the elevator stopped, they exited first. I stepped out into a bright, open floor that smelled faintly of coffee and ozone. Glass offices lined the perimeter. Desks were arranged with military precision.

“This is executive operations,” the receptionist said, handing me off to another woman with a tablet and a headset. “She’ll get you settled.”

The woman nodded briskly. “I’m Lila. Follow me.”

She didn’t slow down.

As we walked, she spoke rapidly, listing protocols and schedules like bullet points.

“Your desk is outside Mr. Blackwood’s office. Access to his calendar, email triage, internal communications. You’ll handle scheduling, screening, documentation—”

I struggled to keep up.

“And confidentiality?” I asked.

She glanced at me. “Non-negotiable.”

We stopped at a desk positioned directly in front of a large glass office.

His office.

The walls were transparent but tinted just enough to blur details. I could see movement inside — a tall figure standing near the windows, phone pressed to his ear.

Adrian Blackwood.

He didn’t look at me.

Lila set a coffee down on my desk. Black. Exactly as requested.

“He takes it at 7:15,” she said. “No sugar. No cream.”

My stomach twisted.

“How did you—”

“He doesn’t like repeating himself,” she cut in, already moving away. “You’ll learn.”

I sat down slowly, placing my bag beneath the desk. The chair was ergonomic, expensive, designed for long hours. A tablet blinked to life in front of me, already logged in.

My name glowed on the screen.

Miss Hale.

The office door opened.

Adrian stepped out, coffee in hand.

Up close, he was worse.

Sharper. More composed. His presence bent the air around him, pulling attention whether he demanded it or not. He didn’t acknowledge me at first, scrolling through his phone as he took a sip.

Then his gaze lifted.

Locked.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

He studied me for a brief moment — my posture, my expression, the way I sat. Like he was assessing whether I fit where he’d placed me.

“You’re early.”

“You said 7 a.m.”

“I said a car would arrive at 7 a.m.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else.

“Efficient,” he said. “Good.”

He turned back toward his office.

“Bring the schedule in five minutes,” he added over his shoulder. “And cancel my noon.”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused at the door.

“And Miss Hale?”

“Yes?”

His gaze flicked to the tablet in front of me.

“I don’t like surprises.”

The door closed.

The glass dimmed.

I stared at my screen, heart pounding.

Five minutes.

I hadn’t been trained. Hadn’t been briefed. Yet everything I needed was already there — his calendar, emails, internal notes. Access granted without request.

Without consent.

I moved quickly, fingers flying, pulling information together with a focus I didn’t know I had. By the time five minutes passed, I was standing at his door, schedule in hand.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

Inside, the office was pristine. Minimal. Controlled. Adrian sat behind his desk, eyes lifting as I approached.

I handed him the schedule.

He scanned it once.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll do.”

Relief flickered — brief and foolish.

“Tell me,” he continued, leaning back slightly, “do you always reread contracts after signing them?”

My breath caught.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “I like to understand what I’ve agreed to.”

His eyes held mine.

“Good,” he repeated. “Understanding is important.”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “Especially when expectations evolve.”

Something cold settled in my chest.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, dismissing me with a glance.

I turned to leave, pulse racing.

Behind me, his voice followed — calm, deliberate.

“Oh, Miss Hale?”

I stopped.

“You should get used to tomorrow.”

I looked back.

He was watching me.

And this time, I knew.

This wasn’t a job.

It was a system.

And I had just entered it.