Chapter Text
The long strip light in the hallway buzzed like a trapped wasp, flickering shadows over Miles’s weary face as he leaned against the peeling wallpaper. “Right then,” he thought, scrubbing a hand over his chin, how d’ya tell yer best mate of seventeen years he’s become a proper leech without soundin’ like a total knobhead? His shift at Pyre-in-Pint had ended with three spilled pints, a gropey regular, and tips thinner than cheap loo roll. Rent was due Thursday. The electric meter was beeping its death rattle. And Alex? The inutile cunt was probably elbow-deep in a family bag of Cheese & Onion, racking up virtual headshots while real life crumbled around him. Miles’s knuckles whitened on his keys.
Can’t feed two mouths on one bartender’s wage, can you? Not in this economy. The thought left a bad taste. Even when he had rehearsed it all the way home on the bus: ‘Get a job or get out.’ Simple. Clean. But saying it felt like kicking a puppy that owed him money.
Miles pushed the door open. The smell hit him first – stale crisps, unwashed dishes, and the general scent of laziness. The living room looked like a mess. Discarded controllers, empty Monster cans, and a pile of Wotsits crumbs covered every corner of the sofa and rug.
And there, sprawling on the middle sofa like a beached walrus in a faded band t-shirt, was Alex. His headset sat askew over a mop of hair that Miles guessed hadn’t been washed this week. His thumbs hammered the controller. The frantic sounds of virtual stabbings and gunfire echoed through the flat.
“Right,” Miles thought, exhaustion settling into his bones. Deep breaths. Simple. Direct. No preambles. He dropped his work bag loudly to announce his presence. Alex glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were wide, like a kicked puppy waiting for a treat, only to meet Miles’s deadpan stare.
“Oi,” Miles began, his voice flat and raspy from dealing with customers all night. “Turn that noise off.”
The screen flashed GAME OVER in bright red as his character collapsed onto the pavement.
Clicking his tongue, Alex grabbed the TV remote and lowered the volume. “What’s wrong, Miles? I was this close to finishing the Cabaret Club storyline—”
He froze when he saw Miles. Not just tired or angry. Something worse: Resigned.
The sudden silence was thick like the dust motes dancing in the stale air. “Tough shift?”
“You’ve been playing all day?” Miles huffed.
The controller creaked in Alex’s grip. “Just unwinding, you know? Needed it after… thinking about job applications all day.”
Miles stared at the grimy ceiling. Right. Drop it simply. “Applications?” He snorted, kicking an empty Monster can, which rattled across the laminate. “Seeing as your ‘thinking’ involves side quests, digital street fights, and a sofa shaped like your backside, colour me skeptical.” He pushed a pile of laundry off the armchair that smelled faintly of cheese and sank half of his bum onto it. The bastard unpaused the game, and Miles pinched the bridge of his nose before saying, “Look, Al. We’re broke.” He nodded. “Deeply broke. The electricity will be cut off this weekend. The landlord’s bangin on about Thursday. You know the drill.” He exhaled heavily, arms crossed tightly, flexing those strong muscles he built from bartending and dragging drunkards off the bar. Meanwhile, his best mate remained focused on his video game. “I can’t carry us both on bar tips and fumes. Not anymore. You have to… you have to do something. Like get a proper job. Any job. Or…” He trailed off, unable to say it louder than the game’s sounds. But he had to. “Or you have to go.”
A long silence followed. Then Alex's face crumpled comically, and the controller dropped onto his lap. “Miles, come on! It’s scary out there! Interviews? Suits? Bosses waiting for you to mess up and embarrass you?” He shuddered dramatically. “And my degree is— is complicated! Web Development isn’t exactly flipping burgers, is it?” He tried the puppy eyes again, his lip trembling slightly. “Just a bit more time? I promise I’ll—”
“No!” Miles shouted, louder than he intended. “No more promises stuffed in crisp packets. No more ‘more time.’ Six months, Al! Six months of watching you empty my fridge and mold into that sofa!” He pointed at the game on the screen. “Your parents cut your allowance because they’re not stupid. They saw it. Now I see it too. Please, for the sake of our living condition, find a job, any job that pays real money, and start paying rent by next month or… or you’ll need to find a new place to infest. Maybe a park bench. It’s a bit drafty but free!”
The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was thick with Alex’s wounded disbelief. The bastard had the nerve to wobble his lower lip like it was Miles’s fault, ruining his day just by coming home. “Miles… mate…” His voice cracked. “You’re givin’ me an ultimatum? After all them years? Shared bunk beds, that time we nicked ‘em cider bottles from old man Henderson’s shed…” He sniffed, rubbing nonexistent snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “Is this ‘cause you wanna bring ladies ‘round? Shag ‘em proper without me hogging the telly? Is that it? Chuckin’ your best mate out like yesterday’s bin—” The puppy eyes were nuclear-grade now, damp and accusatory. “Can’t believe yer’d do this. Proper gutted, I am.”
Miles sighed into his hands, the sound like air escaping a punctured tyre. “Don’t be daft, Al. This ain’t about girls. It’s about electricity. And fucking rent. An’ not starvin’, especially. Your ‘best mate’ status doesn’t pay the bleedin’ bills, does it? And last I checked, ‘hoggin’ the telly’ involves your actual arse being glued to my sofa.”
Alex slumped back onto the stained cushions, defeated. The controller lay forgotten in his lap. He stared blankly at the paused man on screen. “A job. Any job would do. Please, Alex. Just pretend you're leveling up in ‘Adulting Simulator’ or whatever shitty roleplaying game you’re into right now.”
The other sighed, a gusty sound that sent crisp crumbs skittering off his tee. “Fine,” he mumbled, dragging his laptop from beneath a mountain of discarded parcel packaging. Miles sighed in both exhaustion and relief before sauntering into his room.
The screen glowed ominously as Alex opened Miles’ old resume—titled ‘CV_FINAL_FINAL_USE_THIS_ONE.doc’—and made a copy of his own. He looked at the ‘Experience’ section: Barista, Bartender, Bloody martyr. He chuckled. “Might as well add ‘professional nag.’”
After changing the name and wiping it clean, he filled in his education: Sheffield College, BS in IT (HTML & CSS), Special Projects: Advanced Algorithmic Modelling - Distinction. Good enough, he thought.
Next, he visited Indeed. Jobs in Computer Science. He hit enter. An ad for a London position blared out a salary of £25k. He clicked. The commute details were buried at the bottom. Estimated travel time from Sheffield: 4 hours 15 mins (one way).
Alex choked on a Wotsit crumb. “Fucking hell! That’s like… eight hours just sittin’ on trains? Daily? Might as well move into the bloody luggage rack!” He slumped further into the sofa, scrolling frantically.
Scrolling down, his eyes snagged on a smaller, less shouty listing. Yorke Enterprises – Junior SEO Specialist. Location: Doncaster. Commute: 45 mins by train. Maybe an hour if Northern Rail’s havin’ a meltdown.
Alex sat up straighter. Doncaster! Practically next door compared to London. He clicked. The company logo was a bland blue shield with ‘YE’ in blocky white letters. The description was drier than week-old toast:
“Supporting warranty claims processing for major automobile and electronic retailers. Duties include data entry, customer correspondence, blah blah blah.” Alex’s nose wrinkled. He clicked the ‘About Us’ tab. A grainy photo loaded. A lean bloke with intense eyes and messy hair stared out, looking like he gave zero fucks and would rather be sleeping instead of posing for a photo that day. Thom Yorke, 36, CEO. Alex scoffed. ‘This bloke looks like he hasn’t slept since 2005. Probably just another stressed-out lad.’ He scrolled down. ‘Yorke Enterprises: Providing warranty services since 2012. Core Values: Efficiency, Integrity, Innovation.’ Alex snorted. “Innovation in warranty claims? Bet that means inventin’ new ways to say ‘not covered’.” He clicked back to the job description. Salary: £23k.
His brain did quick maths. Could cover rent, spot Miles some petrol money, maybe even afford Greggs twice a week.
He sighed. “Fine. SEO it is.” He hit ‘Apply Now’. The screen buffered. His CV loaded. The ‘Education’ section looked reasonably impressive. The ‘Experience’ section was… sparse. Self-employed Data Analyst (Freelance). He’d helped Miles track pub stock levels twice last year. Close enough.
For the cover letter, he typed thoughtlessly: Dear Hiring Bloke, I’m dead good at search engine algorithms and can pretend to care about extended warranties like an Oscar-winning actor. Let’s chat!
Delete. Rewrote it with less sarcasm. Mostly. Hit send.
The confirmation email popped up instantly. Thank you for your application! We’ll be in touch if your skills match our requirements.
Alex slumped back onto the sofa, already exhausted by adulting. “There,” he announced to the empty room, his character still frozen on screen.
Alex had fallen asleep scrolling Ray William Johnson reels. Hours later, Lizzo’s “Juice”, his new ringtone (courtesy of Miles) shrieked brashly through the flat’s stillness. Startled, he wiped his drool and fetched the device from the rug. It glared: Unknown Number. He sat up, blinking off the sleep and swiped ‘answer’. “Uh… hello?” he greeted in his usual gruff voice.
“Alexander Turner?” A woman’s voice, crisp and efficient, cut through the receiver. “Ana Matronic here, HR Recruiter for Yorke Enterprises.” Alex’s brain stuttered. Yorke? Already? He scrambled upright, sending another avalanche of washing to the floor. “Uh… yeah? I mean, yes! That’s me! Turner!”
“Mr. Turner.” Ana didn’t waste syllables. “We’ve reviewed your application for the SEO Junior Specialist position. The Head of IT was impressed with your thesis called Algorithmic Modelling– something.” He let go of the breath he was holding. “Given the urgency of filling the role,” Ana continued, her tone implying someone had probably quit dramatically that morning, “we’d like to invite you for an initial interview. Tomorrow. Ten AM. Are you available?”
Tomorrow? Already? Alex hesitated, fingers already dying to reach the controllers. But then he pictured Miles’s exhausted face, the beeping electric meter. He pictured… a paycheque. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m available. Ten AM. Dead on.” His voice cracked slightly. “Where…?”
“Our main headquarters. In Doncaster?” Ana answered exasperatedly, sounding as if she wanted to add ‘obviously’. “The Genco Heights. I’ll email you the full address and send a text as well. The reception will direct you. Ask for Alex Kapranos. Please attempt to dress smart and tidy, Mr. Turner. We take great pride in– how shall I put it…direct and professional image.”
The line went dead before Alex could muster a cough, let alone respond. He stared at his cracked phone screen with a raised brow. “Christ. How presentable is ‘presentable’? Jeans without holes? A shirt that hasn’t lived under my bed since GCSEs?”
The bedroom door creaked, interrupting his thoughts as Miles appeared, eyes half-closed and hair tousled. “The fuck was that? Yer yappin’ like a hungry chihuahua through the fucking walls.”
Alex spun, nearly kneeing the coffee table. “Got a job interview, Miles,” he announced, grin stretching ear-to-ear. “Tomorrow! Ten AM! Yorke Enterprises. For an SEO position. Don’t ask me what SEO means.”
Miles blinked. Slow. Like a tortoise debating existence. “Congratulations,” he deadpanned. “You’re now one step away from being an actual adult. Wake me when you’re actually employed.” The door clicked shut.
The next morning, Alex stood anxious at Sheffield station, clutching a madeira sponge cake funded by Miles’s emergency fiver. He hadn’t been in a crowded place since graduation. The people rushing from left to right, the wailing babies, couples arguing, speakers barking announcements, slightly overwhelmed him.
The thought of calling Miles to pick him up had begun to cross his mind. But he was already being shoved onto the train by the other passengers before his brain could signal his hand to fish out his phone.
On top of that, the train rattled like crazy. He almost face-planted onto some old man’s lap who was just trying to read articles on his tablet. The gaffer gave a terrified and incredulous look– like, the nerve of this weird twink to make a pass on him in public.
As the city skyline faded into grimy suburbs, he spotted it: The Genco Heights, a structure he’s never heard of before, was in the form of a towering, sleek green-tinted glass monolith with a spire at the top that pierces the cloudy sky. “Bloody hell,” Alex muttered, fisting his suit. “How’s a place this tall hide? Do they only hire spies or something?”
The lobby was unreasonably elegant and spacious. Polished marble floors so shiny Alex could see the exact moment his expression morphed from ‘confident job seeker’ to ‘lost child in a museum.’ The focal point was an onyx reception desk curved like a giant bar soap. Behind it stood Bradley (nameplate gleaming), early 20s, sharp suit, earpiece coiled around one ear. He eyed Alex’s scuffed Converse with a subtle scrutinizing smirk.
Alex hesitated, then shuffled forward. Bradley didn’t look up from his tablet. “Name?” he asked.
“Alex Turner. Here for, uh… the Junior SEO Specialist position?”
Bradley’s fingers tapped the screen once. Twice.
“Interview?”
“Yeah, with a man named—”
“Floor six.” Bradley sighed, tapping his screen. “Elevator bank C. Find the Admin Supervisor door. Chris Martin is expecting you.”
Alex blinked. “Um. Pretty sure I was instructed to meet Alex Kapranos of the IT Department.”
Bradley stayed nonchalant as if the effort of eye contact might bankrupt him. “Says Chris Martin here on my end. Floor six.”
Alex fumbled for his phone, thumb smudging the email confirmation. “It literally says here Kapranos—”
“Mate, I just wanna keep my job,” Bradley cut off with a passive-aggressive smile. “Floor six.” A beat. Then, without warmth: “ID, please?”
Alex surrendered his passport and watched Bradley scan it with the indifference of a man watching paint dry. The machine beeped. A badge spat out. Bradley slid it across the desk like a poker player folding, then gestured nonchalantly at the hallway behind him. “Lifts’ that way.”
Alex spotted the Elevator C just as it was about to shut. “Wait!” His deep, loud voice echoed off the marble, drawing looks from a cluster of suits. The doors juddered open with a rich ‘ding’ sound and he wasted no time stumbling inside, nearly knocking over a tall frame.
“Thank you,” Alex muttered, pressing the 6 button.
The man did not say a word and merely glanced down at Alex like he was some weird science experiment.
A strange yet alluring energy radiated from the man, sending Alex’s nerves into overdrive.
Curious, Alex couldn’t help sneaking a glance. The man was breathtaking. Messy bleached hair, sharp cheekbones, clad in a Versace suit that probably cost more than Alex’s uni loan. Messy blond hair framed hollow eyes that looked exhausted yet intimidating. A blinding Rolex decorating his wrist—
Thom Yorke. The CEO!
Alex’s gut plummeted faster than the lift ascended.
His eyes moved again before he could stop himself. Thom looked exactly like his Indeed photo, except the picture hadn’t captured the unsettling intensity of his gaze—bright, almost feverish, like a man who’d achieved spiritual awakening and had seen the void.
Their eyes locked. Alex gulped, pressing himself against the mirrored wall.
Silence thickened. Thom leaned against the railing, stuffing his hand in one pocket. Then, softly: “New?”
Alex jumped. “Uh. Interview with, um, C-Chris Martin,” he stammered.
A ghost of a smile touched the CEO’s lips before he uttered softly, “Chris is… energetic.” A pause. “Chaotic. Don’t let him scare you off. We’re not all like that.”
“Uh– right. Noted.”
The man glanced at him again, seemingly contemplating another word to say. But before they knew it, the lift reached floor Six.
“Good luck,” Thom said finally with a short nod.
The doors slid open on sixth floor. Alex stumbled out, Thom’s Dior scent clinging to him, so was that piercing cold gaze. The elevator closed with a loud ding behind him. Alex stood frozen, heart hammering. He’s like a depressed vampire prince that smelled rich. And he wished me luck?
---
The sixth floor was vastly spacious with three different doors. The corridor smelled of clean linen, vanilla air freshener and aromatic coffee – not tea. That’s off. Lights hummed over rows of paintings that adorned the lime green walls, paired with varieties of artificial plants. Alex followed the signs to a glass-walled office labeled in bold ‘C. MARTIN - CHIEF HR OFFICER’.
Inside, a man in a bright yellow hoodie was bouncing a stress ball off the wall. Jordans perched on the desk. The moment he clocked Alex, the ball was forgotten on the polyester. With a wide grin, he sat upright like a golden retriever expecting a treat he had been promised.
“Come over here, please! You must be Alex!” The man bounded over, hand outstretched with gusto.
Alex took it and his hand was shaken hard with a force that sent his whole frame wobbling.
“Chris Martin! Saw your CV. You had a thesis called: ‘Algorithmic Modelling for Landing Pages’—have no clue what that is but I assume dead impressive! Bet you can build websites blindfolded, eh?” Chris was all giddy and smiley; his energy could light a whole village. “And must I say you look even better in person?” Before the applicant could react, he quickly added, “Charming suit. Where’s the award ceremony at?”
Alex flushed, tugging at the too-tight collar. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t– I wasn’t sure how formal should I—” He stopped, realising Chris’s cheshire grin was universal code for ‘I’m just fucking with you.’
Chris cackled, concluding his thought, “Gosh, you look adorable flustered. I’m just pullin’ your plonker! You look absolutely fine.” He leaned in conspiratorially as if he was just trading secrets with Alex in a sleepover. “Truth? Half this lot wear jogger pants under their desks. Thom and the board members were going bonkers about ‘professionalism’ but everybody thinks they’re all cosplaying a pretentious coven of modern vampires. But rest assured, the HR wants everyone to take it easy with the dress code pressure and just stay comfortable in their skin.”
Alex hesitated, then muttered, “Fair ‘nuff.”
Chris grinned wider upon hearing how gravely deep his voice was, leaning back against his desk with arms across his chest like it was a pub stool. “Bloody hell, that Sheffield twang,” he mused, wagging a finger. “Like a choirboy swallowed a gravel pit. Doesn’t match that baby face at all. Ladies’ll lap it up, though. Or lads. No judgment here.”
He winked.
Five minutes in, Alex already felt slightly uncomfortable.
“Right. Company spiel.” Chris flapped a hand toward a dusty plaque on the wall. “Yorke Enterprises. We provide extended warranties for automobiles, appliances and devices. Core values–uh...snooze fest. Basically, rich twats buy fancy toasters, toasters break, they cry, we say ‘nah, mate, your warranty expired eons ago’ or ‘fine, here’s a replacement, piss off’.” Then, he clapped suddenly, making Alex actually jump this time. “Enough corporate wank! You excited, Alex? Proper grown-up job, innit?”
Alex frowned, scratching his neck where the collar was slowly garrotting him. “Wait–hold on, Chris. The interview. Aren’t we gonna—don’t you wanna ask about my, you know, background, credentials and stuff like that?”
Chris blinked, slow as a sloth on Valium. Then he laughed, a bright, startled sound. “Oh, mate. That was it.” He gestured at Alex’s entire crumpled existence. “You start today. Congrats! Welcome to Yorke, baby.” Alex opened his mouth, but Chris bulldozed on. “Salary’s same as the listing—23k. Not SEO, though. Nah, you’re working here, on this floor, in the Claims Department, processing claims and whatnot. Free snacks, better banter, and way fewer CISCO, website, hardware crises and boring banter than IT.”
“Wait a second, Chris. I applied for—”
“You’re too pretty for the IT lot, Turner,” Chris interrupted without batting a lash. “It’d be a crime to send you to that Zombie place. Just imagine putting a freshly groomed Labradoodle in a bloody coal mine.”
Alex’s ears burned. “I—what?”
A folder filled with employment contracts smudged with Cheesestrings was slid in front of him by Chris.
The rest of his protest died in his throat.
“No need to read the whole thing. Sign here, here…here that says you agree to the three-month probation and here where it says ‘I promise not to linger around Brandon’s cubicle with a coffee’.”
The uncertainty struck him only after the pen made contact with the paper.
Am I doing this right?
Taking the job I didn’t apply for? What could possibly go wrong?
Alex pushed through and signed as quickly as he could. Chris’s unnervingly blue eyes never left him as he signed every dotted line on each paper, which was probably less terrifying than being held at gunpoint.
“Brilliant! First mission: find Casablancas, Head of Claims, works under me, just so you know. He’s the only one muttering about ‘friggin’ useless British keyboards’. You’re gonna shadow him. Try not to fall for his tragic charm. He’s got a girl in London. Allegedly.”
The Claims’ office was much more commodious than he thought, stretched like a box of macarons, consisting of assorted pastel colors of small partitions bordering each work station. Quiet and peaceful, save for the speakers blasting a kpop song, the air was oozing with the lilac scent of a diffuser.
He spotted him at the farthest, largest station: hunched over two monitors, long black slightly unkempt hair flopping into intense eyes, sitting with his legs in a figure-four position, muttering darkly about ‘this goddamn QWERTY bullshit’, dressed semi-formal, crooked tie, Noir Larmes leather jacket, black skinny jeans.
In short, Julian Casablancas looked like a disgruntled rockstar forced into processing claims.
Alex cleared his throat. “Uh…excuse me? Julian Casablancas? Chris said I’m shadowin’ you?”
The man in question spun, quite startled. Then his scowl melted into a lopsided grin. “New meat! Alex, right? Sheffield?” He didn’t wait for confirmation, gesturing for the young man to come over. “Thank goodness. Someone who gets proper vowels. Sit.” He pulled a chair towards Alex. “Ignore that spreadsheet hell. Priorities. You play Red Dead?”
Alex blinked, taking the seat. “Red Dead? Like… Redemption? Y-Yeah. Spent last week robbing virtual trains instead of applyin’ for jobs.”
Julian’s grin widened. “A gamer! Thank Christ. Thought I was alone in this purgatory.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Chris thinks I’m ‘processing claims’. Nah. I’m mentally replaying the Saint Denis bank heist.” He tapped his monitor, where a spreadsheet titled Warranty Claims Q3 sat ignored. “See this cell? That’s Arthur Morgan’s hat. This one? Sadie Adler’s rage.” Julian spun his chair, gesturing vaguely at the cubicle farm. “This whole place? Lemoyne Raiders territory. Boring, slightly hostile.”
Alex snorted, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So– um, shadowin’ you means…?”
“Means you learn how to check and approve claims, first and foremost. Then, you answer some emails, run errands like deliver client files to other departments, and whatnot,” Julian stated, clicking open his inbox. A flood of messages cascaded down. “Right. See this one from Kimberly Perry (Quality Assurance) Subject: ‘URGENT: Follow-Up Procedure Non-Compliance’. Translation: ‘Julian, you useless tit, fill out the form properly.’” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Reply with ‘Understood, Kim. Will rectify immediately.’ Copy-paste masterpiece. Make it sound like you mean it.”
Alex stared at the screen, then at Julian’s hopeful, mischievous face. “That’s… it? That’s the job?”
“For today? Aye. Now, introductions.” Julian stood, stretching dramatically. Alex scurried after him like a lost puppy. “Meet the circus. First—” He pointed to a woman with wild copper curls typing furiously while humming along to something. “Welch. Our resident DJ. Spotify playlist queen. Absolute gem. She smuggles vodka for the team when she’s in the mood.”
Welch smiled and waved briefly.
The pale blue cubicle consisted of an immaculate desk, files in alphabetical order, pens sorted by colour, and a man with an impeccably faded haircut, pristine white shirt, no wrinkles.
“Here’s my fellow American, Brandon Flowers.”
Alex blinks. “Flowers?”
Julian grinned. “Yeah, his actual, legal name. Sweet, right? Claims’ resident saint and my second-in-command. He’ll help ya when I’m off gallivanting with Technical.”
Brandon looked up from his monitor with the kind of smile that could disarm a bomb. “Hi there.”
They moved on to a man leaning back dangerously far in his chair, arms crossed, a magazine draped over his face. “Healy. Resident lazy sod.” Julian flicked it off Healy’s face with practiced ease. “Oi, Sleeping Beauty. New guy.” Healy barely stirred, blinking slowly before mumbling, “‘S not my turn for training.”
Julian sighed. “Never is.”
Finally, they approached a man with neatly combed back light-brown hair, wide blue eyes in a navy jacket. He looked up from his monitor, gave Alex a short smile and a polite nod. “Gørvell-Dahll,” Julian announced dramatically. “Speaks a bit o' English, relies heavily on Google Translate. Try not to get dizzy chatting up with him.”
‘Gørvell-Dahll’ offered a small smile and said something in rapid-fire Norwegian. Julian nodded sagely. “See? Exactly.”
Alex blinked. “D’you… actually understand him?”
Julian shrugged. “Nope. But he laughs when I say ‘meatball’, so we’re pals.” He clapped Alex on the back. “Welcome to the glamour. Your station’s over there.” He pointed to the one across Gørvell-Dahll’s, conveniently next to Healy’s, who seemed unhappy about his new neighbour situation. Julian gestured politely. “Go on. Claim your territory. I’ll send your login credentials.”
Alex shuffled into his assigned cubicle – a pastel orange fabric-walled box containing a monitor, a flat keyboard, a wireless mouse still in its box, and a complimentary tissue and a diffuser that distinctly smelled of jasmine. But the chair– gaming chair assigned to him felt cozier than what he had in Miles’s flat. He logged in, Julian’s emails popping up like digital weeds. ‘Reply: Understood, Kim. Will rectify immediately.’ Click. Send. ‘Reply: Printer issue noted, investigating.’ Click. Send. It was mindless.
It was easy.
It paid rent.
The office fell into a rhythm. AC wheezing incessantly, Nina Simone crooning ‘Feeling Good’ with cruel irony, and Healy's occasional sighing and grunting 'fucking stupid clients'. A sudden hyena-coded laughter erupted all the way from the HR office, probably another inappropriate joke from Chris Martin.
Alex clicked on the twentieth email on his computer, fingers hesitating over the keys.
What the hell am I doing?
Julian– or Jason? His alleged “boss” hadn’t done anything related to their job description and nobody seemed to care.
The realisation hit him like a delayed train: he was employed. Properly employed. By a company that, judging by the absurdity of the past hour, seemed to operate on pure vibes and tea.
The clock on his monitor blinked lazily; 14:37. Normally, he’d be sprawled on Miles’s sofa, half-watching reruns of Top Gear, or napping through whatever documentary Miles had put on to “educate” him while being a leech. Then, his eyelids drooped. The faint clicking of keyboards surrounding him lulled him dangerously close to nodding off.
Coffee. He needed coffee.
Peering over the partition, he spotted a bloke with dark curls styled meticulously, wearing a sharp blazer that suspiciously cost more than their monthly wage, chin propped on his palm like, clicking the mouse with little to no interest.
“Ey, mate,” Alex whispered, lightly tapping the flimsy divider. “Where’s the coffee machine at? I’m about to faceplant my keyboard.”
The posh lad, M. Healy, judging by the wonky nameplate on his desk didn’t even lift his head. “Right corner,” he muttered into his palm. “Kitchenette’s there.”
His voice was deep and flat. Alex hesitated, but Miles’s voice reverberated in his skull ‘make small talk!’ “Uh… busy day? I could make one for you if you’d like—”
Healy didn’t even look up as he groaned, “Fuck off, mate. Got twenty-seven claims to approve before lunch and Finance wants ‘em signed in blood or some shit.” A single, buffering TikTok tab peeked from beneath his spreadsheet: Funny Cat Fails Compilation. “Got no time to play friendly with probationers who’ll be gone in a fortnight.”
Alex blinked, then leaned further over the partition, catching the flicker of a ginger tabby mid-fall off a couch. “You’re right. Very busy. Clearly.”
Healy’s jaw twitched. He minimized the TikTok tab with violent precision, then scowled at Alex over his shoulder. “Coffee machine’s broken. Ask Brandon why. Water’s shit. Microwave smells like regret. Welcome to Claims.”
A few hours later, Alex felt eyes on him. He looked up. Julian was leaning over the partition that separated Healy and Turner’s cubicle, his fringe hung low like some dark curtain hiding his peepers. He wasn’t doing anything alarming; he was just…staring. At Alex. Specifically, at Alex’s face, in a manner that bordered on being indecorous and disconcerting.
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Alright, mate? Somethin’ on my face?”
Startled, Julian straightened up, his lanyard getting caught in the crack between the dividers. “Uh. Nah.” He raked his hair, looking anywhere but Alex. “Just… zoning out. This place, y’know? Sucks the soul right out.”
He stuffed his hands in his jacket’s pockets, paused, and then absentmindedly gazed back. A slow, almost reluctant smile formed. “Actually–” He thinned his lips and shook his head. “--nah, forget it.”
Alex leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Go on. Spit it out, Casablancas– God, I can’t say your last name without sniggering. Sounds like fancy cheese.”
Julian snorted. “Says the guy named after a record player. Fine.” He looked down at the floor and released a sigh before blurting, “It’s just…you got these eyes, Turner. Big. Brown. Like fuckin’ pools of… I dunno… really good espresso? Or maybe mud after it rains? But, like, nice mud.” He winced. “Shit. That sounded way less creepy in my head. Forget I said anything. Back to work! The TPS reports won’t write themselves.” He spun and marched back to his own desk.
Alex stared at Julian’s retreating figure, then shot the Norwegian bloke a baffled look, who was just as equally lost by Julian’s weird behaviour.
Nice mud?
A weird, warm flutter stirred in his stomach. He thinks my eyes are… nice mud?
He shook his head, trying to focus on the next email:
From: Kimberly Perry (Quality Assurance)
Subject: Clarification Needed on Claim# C2025-7891
He typed a short chat for the client but his mind was replaying the espresso comment. Bloody American weirdo.
---
Alex burst into the flat like a hurricane coming to disrupt the place’s stillness.
“Miles! MIIIILES! Where are ya?”
Miles emerges from the kitchen, mid-bite of a Chicken Gyros. “Christ alive, you’re back! Was startin’ to think Doncaster’s suit-wearing sharks finally lured ya into their corporate abyss because no offense, Al, but you’d follow a bloke with a clipboard into a van if he said ‘free peeps cupcakes tastin’.”
Alex ignored the remark and grinned. “Guess who landed a job?!” He sing-songed, waving the letter triumphantly. “A Proper one! Yorke Enterprises!”
Miles’s eyes widened. He dropped the meal on the counter. “Yorke? The warranty bollocks? Al, that’s… that’s brilliant!” He crossed the room in two strides, pulling Alex in a back-slapping hug. “Knew ya had it in ya! What’s it? IT? Data wizardry?”
Alex beamed, pulling back. “Nah, mate. Processing warranty claims. Sounds shite, right? But get this!” He launched into the tale, pacing the cramped living room, dodging crisp packets. “The building’s like a bloody glass dagger! I actually met the CEO, Thom Yorke, in the lift. Looks like a lethargic vampire who just got up from his coffin. He wished me ‘good luck’ though. Then there’s the slightly weird HR supervisor. Bloke’s wearing a yellow hoodie to work and does nothing but chat and laugh with his colleagues through an earpiece! Bit forward, like. But he’s harmless. Full of jokes. Bit daft.”
Miles chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Sounds like a right character. Glad it’s sorted, Al. Really am. Rent’s covered, electric stays on… we might even afford proper cheese soon, not that plastic shite.”
Alex pulled out the letter again, pointing dramatically at the figure circled in biro. “Feast your eyes, Miles. Twenty-three thousand pounds! That’s real money! That’s ‘maybe we can finally replace the microwave that smells like dead badger’ money!”
Miles chuckled, ruffling Alex’s already disastrous hair. “Ey up, Sheffield’s finest wage slave! And you’re still in one piece! Colour me shocked.”
Alex’s grin faltered slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, Miles… I– thanks. For now, y’know. Kicking me out. Or strangling me in my sleep when I was skint.” He swallowed. “And I swear, I’ll pay ya back for everything. Every takeaway ya covered, every leccy bill, for the last six months—”
Miles rolled his eyes, cutting him off with a dismissive wave. “Pssh. It’s fine.” He grabbed Alex’s shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Let’s get the basics sorted first. Alright? New job means new gear. With your first paycheque, get some proper trousers, yeah? Shirts that don’t look like they survived two world wars. Get a new haircut. Grace those old gaffers in that building with your Sheffield charm.”
Alex laughed, shrugging. “Aye, reckon I can manage that.”
“Good. ‘Cos next time I see ya, I wanna hear all about how ya charmed the pants off some middle-aged bloke in finance.”
Alex flushed, swatting at him. “Piss off.”
Miles grinned, shoving him towards the fridge. “C’mon. Celebration beers. You’re still telling me how much you lied in that bloody CV of yours, and I’m getting every detail of that corporate dystopia.”