I folded my arms and analysed my new team. Every sorry sod, inked with hollow expressions, pretending to be busy. But one thing still bothered me— the words that slithered like a snake. Her slimy tongue, her decaying smile. She demanded obedience, but I wanted her office. That view, that desk, that power.

  And to think she had the audacity to make me her lapdog. Tell me to woof. Tell me to be her pet. If this were my old workplace, I’d bite her ankle, drag her to the floor, and show little old Barb I wasn’t a mutt. But that was my past—the good old days.

  “Sir?” asked a fresh-faced intern. “Erm... what am I supposed to do?”

  A sigh escaped my lips, and I already felt the headache pounding. I turned my gaze to the new hire, the boy with a college lanyard and a suit two sizes too big. A pup in a den of hungry wolves.

  “Mr Grayson… I— I can call you that, right?”

  I lifted his nametag; the string trembled. Mark. A fitting name. He'd be under his desk by week's end. Part of me wanted to do it myself, get it out of the way, before he got his hopes up.

  Another sigh. The bitter taste of dry lips.

  It would be me on the chopping block if this kid made a mistake. So reluctantly, with all my will dragging itself from my empty stomach, I looked at the intern. The craving for a smoke break prickled into my skin. His big, bright, well-rested eyes versus my two hours of sleep. I wanted to shove him in a cupboard and take a holiday.

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  "Mark—"

  Then, like a battering ram to duty and responsibility, a hoodie-clad IT guy barged in. His dark eyes and ghoul-like complexion, bereft of any vitamin D. Steve. I remembered. Steve, the microwave destroyer.

  “Emergency,” he shouted. "The system flagged a missing report. Client’s on a tight deadline. Logistics are on a flex holiday.”

  “You can't be serious?” I said. "How did Production sign off on this?”

  “Production is also on holiday,” Steve said.

  I clenched my teeth, balling my fists. Did the entire Logistics and Production departments really just leave? Were they trying to get me sacked? All of this seemed too fishy. Production was supposed to handle Logistics, and Logistics was meant to get me my report. It wasn't my job to chase those lazy delivery men. Hell, we all knew how important this advertising campaign was.

  A twenty-billion-pound deal, now resting on my shoulders.

  “Sir...” the intern started.

  “Call me ‘sir’ again,” I said flatly, “and I’ll end your internship early.”

  The boy nodded so fast his head blurred. “Yes, M— Mr Greyson!”

  I turned my old shoes towards the dead-eyed crew, their hollow stares begging for a day off.

  “Marketing analysts, prep the spreadsheets.

  PowerPoint designers, slap on your best templates.

  Junior, you’re with me.”

  Without even checking if they were listening, I opened my phone and dialled logistics. Straight to voicemail. Then Production, same again. Repeatedly. My first day as manager, already going to shit.

  And just when I was tempted to strangle HR, Barbara’s cheerful voice cut in from nowhere.

  “Looks like you’re having trouble,” she said, fingers on the doorframe, smile as sharp as a knife. “Better hurry.”

  I hissed between my teeth, swallowed the voice from my head, and grabbed my coat.

  Killing her can wait.