Chapter Text
Parker Selfridge got his coffee from the corner café because the office had a break room, technically, but the coffee machine in it made a noise like it was actively threatening someone.
He’d learned that on his third day, right after it sputtered, hissed, and produced something that tasted like regret and burnt plastic.
So: corner café.
He came back up with a paper cup in one hand and the practised stride of a man determined to look employed on purpose. One month in, and he still sometimes walked like this was a much larger company—chin up, shoulders back, expression smooth—like posture could rewrite the last year of his life.
It couldn’t.
But posture was cheaper than therapy.
He crossed the street, passed a law firm that always smelled faintly of toner and expensive cologne, then a dental practice with a cheerful poster about flossing that felt like mockery.
Then he reached the “building.”
It looked like a laundromat.
SUDS & SPIN in sun-faded letters. Posters promising stain removal miracles. A sandwich board advertising wash-and-fold. People came here to clean clothes, not to run government contracts.
Parker walked inside anyway.
Warm air hit him—detergent, dryer heat, the faint electrical tang of too many machines running at once. Machines churned. Coins clinked. Someone was arguing quietly over a missing sock, as if it were a matter of principle.
Parker kept to the back, past the humming dryers, to the far corner where the lighting got worse, and the security camera didn’t quite reach.
There was a keypad beside an unremarkable elevator door. No company logo. No signs. Just brushed metal, as it belonged in a different world.
Parker punched in the code from memory.
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
He stepped inside and typed in a second code—because, apparently, one code was not enough for a company that “didn’t exist.”
The doors closed.
The elevator went up.
When it opened, he stepped into a corridor that looked like it had been copy-pasted from every mid-tier corporate office in the city: neutral carpet, meaningless art, soft lighting, faint printer toner.
At the end of the hall was frosted glass.
Clean lines. Corporate font. Responsible lettering.
MANGKWAN FIELD SOLUTIONS
A sign that said don’t worry in a typeface chosen by someone who understood liability.
From the outside, it was a laundromat.
Parker had learned that was the point.
He swiped his badge and stepped inside.
He made it three steps into the lobby before he heard the first raised voice.
“—I’m not saying we threaten anyone,” someone barked from down the hall. “I’m saying we make it clear there are consequences.”
Parker slowed, coffee halfway to his mouth.
That wasn’t Socorro.
That was Quaritch—the organised head, a.k.a. the boss—loud, confident, and allergic to nuance. The worst part was how easily he could sound friendly while saying something that should not be said in a hallway.
The receptionist glanced up and gave Parker a look that said good luck without moving her lips.
Parker nodded back like: I’ve been here a month. This is still insane.
He stepped into the main office space.
Desks in rows. Neutral carpet. A whiteboard that looked like it had given up. Two printers that sounded like they resented everyone equally.
Zari sat at her desk with two monitors up, scrolling through maps, message logs, and something that might’ve been traffic cameras. Calm—the kind of calm that meant she’d already accepted the problem.
And then there was Nash McCosker.
Nash stood at the central table with a folder open, a calculator beside it, and the expression of a man betrayed by arithmetic.
He looked up as Parker entered.
“You’re here,” Nash said.
“That is… generally how jobs work,” Parker replied, setting his coffee down carefully.
Nash nodded once. “Great. Then you can witness this. As HR.”
Parker paused.
He’d taken this job to rewrite policies, not become one.
“Witness what,” Parker asked.
Nash tapped the folder as if it were evidence.
“The budget.”
Parker blinked. “Our budget?”
Nash’s smile was thin enough to cut paper. “Yes. Our budget. The one that was apparently treated as a suggestion.”
Across the room, Zdinarsk labelled cables with tape so straight it looked religious. Mansk sat at his desk with his eyes closed, arms folded—meditating, allegedly.
Parker had learned in week one that “asleep” in this office meant “listening.”
From the hallway, Quaritch’s voice drifted in again, warmer now—mid-call.
“…no, absolutely, we can accommodate that,” he said, all charm. “Of course. We’ll make it seamless.”
Nash muttered, “He’s on a call.”
Zari didn’t look up. “Miss Varang isn’t here.”
Parker turned. “She isn’t here?”
Nash made a pained noise. “Early meeting. Off-site. Government liaison. The kind who says ‘deliverables’ like it’s a threat.”
“And we’re—” Parker gestured around at the office.
Zari finally glanced up. “Unsupervised.”
Parker didn’t like the way his stomach immediately understood what that meant.
Nash didn’t wait for him to process it.
He slid the folder across the table and pointed.
Travel over the cap.
Vehicle rentals.
Lodging.
And—somehow—structural repairs.
Parker stared at the words until they stopped looking like words and began to look like a crime.
“You can’t just write ‘structural repairs’ in a budget report like it’s a normal thing,” Parker said.
“I didn’t write it,” Nash hissed. “I’m trying to understand it.”
Parker exhaled slowly. “Okay. Who do we—”
The elevator chimed in the hall.
Footsteps followed. Two sets. Heavier than most.
Nash’s head snapped up.
The door opened, and Lyle Wainfleet walked in first, casual as a man who’d never had to justify anything to Finance in his life. Behind him came Wukula—silent, posture rigid, eyes forward, like chairs were for people without things to prove.
Nash moved before Parker could.
“Perfect,” Nash said, voice sharp. “Great timing. Explain this.”
Wainfleet blinked. “Explain what?”
Nash shoved the folder up between them. “Why are we seventy-two per cent over budget?”
Wainfleet glanced down like the page had personally offended him. “We got it done.”
“That,” Nash said, trembling slightly, “is not an explanation.”
Wukula’s gaze lifted. Flat. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
Parker turned slowly. “Please stop saying that.”
Wukula looked at him once—unimpressed—and said nothing else.
Nash pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am begging you to use a different sentence.”
Parker stepped in because he was HR, and apparently, HR meant standing between people and their worst instincts.
“Okay,” Parker said, keeping his tone level. “Lyle. Wukula. We need a breakdown. Why travel, why rentals, why lodging, and why—” he tapped the page “—structural repairs.”
Wainfleet’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “It was structural.”
Nash made a sound that didn’t belong in an office.
From her desk, Zari didn’t look up. “If you break another building, I’m not scrubbing comms.”
Parker’s head snapped toward her. “Another?”
Zari’s fingers kept moving. “Do you want the answer?”
“No,” Parker said immediately. “I don’t.”
The day was already too awake for nine in the morning.
Then Zari clicked her mouse once—sharp, deliberate.
“I have something else,” she said.
She turned her screen just enough for them to see.
REQUEST: CLOSE PROTECTION — CLIENT: AMARRE
DETAILS: Billionaire donor. Daughter. Credible kidnapping threat. Public event tonight.
ASK: Two-agent detail. Immediate confirmation.
Wainfleet straightened. Interested.
Wukula’s eyes narrowed. “Kidnapping threat.”
Zari nodded once. “Credible.”
Wainfleet didn’t even pretend to think. “We’re the best option.”
Nash whipped around. “No.”
Wainfleet blinked. “What?”
“No,” Nash repeated, louder. “You cannot volunteer for a new job while we’re still trying to explain why the last job involved structural repairs.”
Wainfleet's smile sharpened. “This is protective detail. Clean. Easy.”
“Easy doesn’t exist here,” Parker muttered.
Wukula stepped forward a fraction—quiet pressure. “If she gets taken, it becomes our problem.”
“It becomes our problem,” Parker said, “if you leave without clearance.”
Wainfleet’s eyes flicked to him. “Clearance from who?”
Parker hesitated.
Varang wasn’t here.
Quaritch was in the hallway charming someone into “seamless.”
And Socorro—
Parker swallowed.
Socorro was late.
Nash answered instead, brittle. “From the budget.”
“That’s not a person,” Wainfleet said.
“It is in this office,” Nash snapped.
Quaritch’s laugh floated in from the hall, still mid-call, still effortless.
“…absolutely, we can accommodate that,” he said. “Seamless.”
Parker went still.
Nash made a small sound of pain.
Zari didn’t look up. “He’s going to promise it.”
“He already did,” Nash said, voice tight.
Wukula’s tone stayed low. “Then we go.”
And then Wainfleet and Wukula started drifting toward the door—casual, not hurried, like confidence could count as permission.
Parker saw it happen, and his stomach dropped.
Nash saw it too.
“Absolutely not,” Nash barked.
Wainfleet didn’t even turn around. “We’ll send receipts.”
Nash’s voice cracked. “You will send yourself back here right now!”
Parker stepped into their path on instinct, hands up. “Okay. No one is—”
The hallway door opened.
Parker didn’t hear the footsteps first. He felt them—the air tightening, like the room remembered it was supposed to be professional.
Socorro stepped into the office space.
Coffee—or maybe a smoothie—in one hand. A shoulder bag slung across him as he lived out of it. Short blond hair was messy, like he’d tried to comb it and lost patience halfway through. Sunglasses still on, because he was either coming from outside or refusing to make eye contact with reality until he’d had sugar and caffeine.
He stopped just inside the doorway and took in the scene.
Nash mid-meltdown.
Parker mid-block.
Zari was watching as she’d already written the incident report in her head.
Wainfleet and Wukula were halfway to the exit, like consequences were optional.
Socorro’s gaze flicked to Parker.
Not accusing.
Just assessing: How bad?
Parker exhaled. “Protection request,” he said quickly. “Billionaire’s daughter. Kidnapping threat. They were trying to go.”
Socorro’s eyes slid to Lyle.
Then to Wukula.
Wukula did something Parker hadn’t seen him do all morning.
He stopped.
Not sulky. Not challenged.
Just… shut down. Eyes forward. Hands at his sides. Like someone had flipped a switch.
Wainfleet stopped too—slower, like he wanted to pretend it was his idea.
Socorro’s voice stayed calm. “No one leaves.”
Wainfleet opened his mouth.
Socorro didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at him.
Wainfleet closed his mouth again.
Socorro set his drink down on the nearest desk—careful, deliberate.
“Conference A,” Socorro said.
Nash moved first, clutching the folder like it was life support.
Zari stood, phone in hand.
Wukula stepped back without being asked.
Parker followed because HR followed disasters the way gravity followed bad decisions.
Conference A was, officially, a conference room.
Unofficially, it was where plans went to be domesticated.
Socorro didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table like the chair was optional, one hand braced on the back of it anyway—less for support, more like he was anchoring the room to reality.
Nash slapped the folder down the second he got in.
Zari took the seat closest to the outlet.
Wainfleet sprawled like he still planned to win.
Wukula stood behind his chair rather than take it.
Parker sat because HR believed in furniture, and because he needed at least one thing in this building to behave normally.
Socorro took off his sunglasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose for half a second—tired in a way that didn’t read weak. Practised.
Then he looked up.
“Five minutes,” Socorro said. “Budget. Then protection.”
Nash exhaled like he’d been granted a miracle.
Wainfleet scoffed. “Budget shouldn’t outrank a kidnapping threat.”
Socorro’s gaze slid to him.
“Five minutes,” he repeated.
Wainfleet shut his mouth.
Nash flipped the folder open and spoke fast, like the minutes were fragile.
“Last mission exceeded travel, vehicle rental, and lodging caps. Duplicate receipts. And an item billed as ‘structural repairs’—”
Parker felt his soul try to leave again.
Father, you made a mistake, Parker thought, because his father had called this a “stable opportunity” and Parker had believed him.
Socorro’s eyes flicked once, sharp. “Structural repairs?”
Wainfleet's mouth opened—
Socorro lifted a finger.
Wainfleet stopped.
Wukula didn’t move.
Nash swallowed and kept going. “If we keep doing this, we trigger a review. If we trigger review, we lose contracts.”
“We become a real laundromat,” Zari murmured.
Nash’s mouth tightened. “Among other things.”
Socorro nodded once. “Understood. Going forward: Nash signs off, or it doesn’t happen. No creative billing, no grey areas, no surprise invoices.”
Wainfleet leaned forward, finally unable to help himself. “You can’t run field work like an office.”
Socorro’s voice stayed calm. “Yes, you can.”
The silence that followed felt like a rule clicking into place.
Socorro shifted his attention to Parker. “HR.”
Parker swallowed. “Yes?”
“Confirm something for me,” Socorro said. “If they take that protection job without clearance, is it just a problem… or is it a liability?”
“It’s a liability,” Parker said immediately.
Socorro nodded. “Good. Now we all agree it’s a liability.”
Wainfleet looked personally offended by the concept.
Socorro’s eyes moved to Zari. “The request.”
Zari slid her phone across the table. “Billionaire donor. Daughter. Credible threat. They want confirmation within the hour.”
“And Quaritch,” Parker said, because it hurt him physically not to say it, “is going to promise it.”
Socorro exhaled through his nose. Small. Controlled.
“Fine,” Socorro said. “We do it properly.”
Wainfleet straightened, as if this were finally the part where he got what he wanted.
Wukula shifted, ready.
Socorro looked at them both.
“No,” he said.
Wainfleet blinked. “What?”
“No,” Socorro repeated. “You’re not going.”
Wukula’s jaw tightened once.
He didn’t argue.
He just took the no.
Wainfleet tried anyway. “We’re the best option.”
“You’re the loudest option,” Socorro said.
Zari coughed once like she was hiding a laugh.
Socorro turned slightly, clinical now. “Lopez and Zdinarsk.”
Zari nodded once. “Clean. Quiet.”
“Exactly,” Socorro said. “They don’t improvise."
Wainfleet's expression sharpened. “You’re sidelining us.”
“I’m preventing you from freelancing,” Socorro corrected.
He looked back at Parker.
“Write it down,” Socorro said.
Parker stared. “Write what down?”
“A policy,” Socorro said, like it was obvious. “No one accepts contracts in the open office. No one deploys themselves. No one decides they’re ‘the best option’ while Finance is actively sweating.”
Parker opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Nodded. “I’ll write it.”
“Good,” Socorro said.
His gaze slid briefly toward the door, like he could feel Varang’s absence through the walls.
Quietly—more to himself than anyone else—he muttered, “God, give me patience.”
A beat.
“And fast.”
Socorro straightened. “Move.”
Chairs scraped. Footsteps moved. The office obeyed—not because they were respectful, but because the room had already decided what happened when he spoke.
Parker followed because HR followed disasters the way gravity followed bad decisions.
He didn’t have control over them. Not really.
At the beginning, he’d wanted to do well here. Prove his father wrong—prove this wasn’t a mistake, prove he could thrive anyway, make something out of whatever this job was supposed to be.
Now he mostly wanted to survive the workday without becoming an HR case study.
But he’d learned something in his first month: you could push—carefully—and sometimes they listened, if you sounded like paperwork and consequences.
As long as you didn’t cross the invisible line where they stopped seeing you as HR and started seeing you as a problem.
Parker had no interest in becoming a cautionary tale.
Everyone acted like the boss ran the place.
But the office moved around two names.
Varang ruled.
Socorro enforced.
Varang was the reason people didn’t go off-script. Socorro was the reason they didn’t do it while she was gone.