Flashback — Deniz’s First Day at Kael Holdings
The morning sun hangs low over the city, casting long shadows across the gleaming facade of Kael Holdings. The building rises toward the sky like a monunt to ambition—glass, steel, and impossible height, each window catching the light like a thousand silent eyes. It dominates the skyline, a statent of power written in architecture.
A 22-year-old boy stands at the base of this colossus, craning his neck to take it all in.
His dark eyes, frad by simple glasses that keep sliding down his nose, trace the building’s ascent floor by floor until the top disappears into the morning haze. His grip tightens on the strap of his shoulder bag, knuckles whitening. His other hand clenches and unclenches at his side, a nervous rhythm he can’t control.
You can do this, Deniz.
The whisper is ant for himself alone—a prayer to his own courage, a lifeline thrown into the churning sea of his anxiety. His reflection stares back at him from the polished glass doors: young, nervous, desperately hoping he doesn’t look as terrified as he feels.
The reflection doesn’t answer.
"Hey!"
Deniz flinches, spinning toward the voice so fast he almost loses his balance.
A woman approaches, holding a cup of coffee, a polite smile on her face. She’s maybe thirty, dressed immaculately, her hair pulled back in a style that ans business.
"Are you the newbie?" she asks, stopping before him.
Deniz fumbles to straighten his glasses, then rembers himself and bows lightly, the motion awkward with his bag threatening to slip.
"Yes, good morning. I’m—"
"Iffa." She smiles warmly, putting him at ease despite himself.
"You were standing outside like a lost puppy. Co on, I’ll guide you today."
Deniz nods, falling into step beside her as they walk toward the entrance. She takes a sip of her coffee.
"First tip." She glances at him sideways.
"Our boss hates lateness. Hates it with a burning passion that could power this building for a year. So don’t waste ti standing outside staring at it like it’s a tourist attraction. It’s just a building. Get inside."
Deniz nods quickly, morizing every word, every inflection.
"I’ll be careful about that. Thank you, Miss Iffa."
She waves a hand. "Just Iffa. We’re not formal here—well, except with President Kael. With him, you stay formal."
They step through the glass doors, and the lobby opens around them like a cathedral of comrce. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine reflect the chandeliers hanging overhead. Soft lighting makes everything look expensive—important, untouchable. People move with purpose, confident and perfect in their tailored clothes, their heels clicking sharply across the marble.
Deniz feels painfully young. Painfully ordinary. Painfully wrong for this place.
Iffa leads him to the elevators and stops, pressing the call button. The machine hums sowhere above.
"From here, you go to the executive floor alone." She turns to face him fully.
"et Mr. Vyle—he’s the one you’re replacing. He’ll help you understand the president’s schedule and routine. Listen to everything he says. Take notes if you have to."
Deniz nods, his throat too dry for words.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chi. He steps inside, then turns as Iffa’s voice stops him.
"Hey, newbie."
He looks at her, waiting.
Her smile softens, becos sothing almost maternal.
"Want a free tip? Sothing they don’t put in the training manual?"
"Please. Yes. Anything."
"Two rules." She holds up two fingers.
"One—be perfect. In everything. Your work, your appearance, your presence. Perfect."
A pause.
"Two—don’t speak unnecessarily in front of the president. He dislikes it. He dislikes a lot of things, actually, but especially that. Questions, comnts, observations—keep them to yourself unless directly asked."
Deniz swallows hard. "Thank you. Really."
She nods once. "Good luck. You’ll need it."
The doors close.
He’s alone in the rising elevator, watching the numbers climb with agonizing slowness. His reflection stares back from the polished tal—young, pale, terrified. His hand presses against his chest, feeling his heart hamr beneath his palm like a trapped bird.
Calm down. Dad said every boss is strict. You just need to impress him with hard work.
That’s all. Just work hard. Just—
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
Silence.
The executive floor stretches before him, enormous and luxurious, gleaming like it’s paved with diamonds and polished with ambition. Everything is marble and glass and soft lighting. Everything is perfect, pristine, quiet.
But not a comfortable quiet. Not the quiet of peace.
The kind of quiet that feels heavy, pressing in from all sides, daring you to break it.
Deniz steps out, and his footsteps echo too loud, too many, announcing his presence to anyone listening.
A man waits ahead, leaning against a desk with the casual posture of soone who’s given up caring. He’s maybe thirty-eight, with tired eyes that have seen too much and a resigned expression that suggests too many battles already lost.
Deniz approaches, bowing lightly. "Good morning. Are you Mr. Vyle?"
The man nods, pushing off the desk. "That’s ." His gaze runs over Deniz—head to toe, assessing, asuring. Perhaps rembering his own first day, years ago, when he was young and hopeful and terrified.
"You’re the newbie."
Deniz nods. "Yes, sir."
Vyle picks up a file and a tablet from the desk, holding them out like a torch being passed to the next victim.
"Here. The president’s schedule, etings, everything you need to know. I’ve added so notes—tips, warnings, things they don’t put in the official handbook, because then they’d have to admit how impossible this job really is."
Deniz takes them carefully, cradling them like precious artifacts, like they hold the secrets to survival.
Vyle smiles—a sad, knowing smile that doesn’t reach his tired eyes.
"Good luck, kid. You’re going to need every scrap of it."
Deniz blinks. "Where are you going?"
"Today’s my last day." Vyle shrugs, already turning away.
"I can’t stay here anymore. Can’t take it. Better I work at a café, serve coffee to normal people. Less stress. More life."
He chuckles bitterly.
"At least there, when soone yells at you, it’s just about the foam art."
Deniz’s face falls. "Sir, what do you an—"
Vyle stops and looks back. His eyes hold sothing like pity—maybe a warning. Or maybe just the exhaustion of soone who’s been through too much.
"The president likes his coffee without sugar in the morning. It’s already prepared and set on the desk. Take it and go inside."
A pause. A smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
"You’re young. Fresh. Maybe you’ll get along with Zyren Kael better than the rest of us. Maybe he’ll see sothing in you."
Another pause.
"Or maybe he’ll eat you alive, like he did the rest."
"Sir, what do you—"
But Vyle is already walking away, his footsteps fading, leaving Deniz alone in the enormous silence.
What did he an by "younger"? What did he an by "eat you alive"?
He sets the tablet down on the desk. Removes his bag, placing it carefully beside the tablet. His hands tremble as he picks up the waiting coffee cup—neat, perfect, prepared. The ceramic is warm against his palms.
I have no other options. I need this job. I can’t go back. I can’t.
He walks to the president’s office door. Each step feels like wading through water. The door looms before him, dark wood, expensive, imposing.
He hesitates. Raises a hand to knock.
Nothing.
He knocks.
A voice cos from inside—cold, sharp, impatient. A blade wrapped in silk.
"Co in."
Deniz opens the door and steps inside.
The office is enormous, luxurious beyond anything he could have imagined. Floor-to-ceiling windows fra the city like a living painting, the skyline spread out below as if the whole world is kneeling.
Everything gleams—the desk, the shelves, the polished floors. Art lines the walls. Books fill the shelves, their spines pristine, as if they’ve never been opened. The air carries the faint scent of sothing sweet, sothing he can’t quite place.
Then his gaze shifts to the president’s chair.
And stops.
Silver hair catches the light, shimring like moonlight made solid—like liquid rcury frozen in ti. Pale skin, delicate features, long lashes casting shadows over soft cheeks.
The figure behind the desk studies a file, their expression intense, beautiful, almost ethereal—like sothing from a dream, or a painting, or a story Deniz once read and never forgot.
Deniz blinks.
So this is the president.
Zyren Kael.
He looks like an oga.
A beautiful one.
And... maybe younger than ?
All his nervousness, his fear, his rehearsed speeches—they vanish, replaced by sothing else entirely.
The silver head lifts. Silver eyes et dark ones.
Deniz goes still.
The voice that cos is ice. Winter given sound.
"Who are you?"
Deniz flinches back to reality, bowing quickly, almost dropping the coffee.
"Good morning, President. I’m Deniz. Your new secretary."
Cold silver eyes study him for a mont—an eternity—then drop back to the file. No acknowledgnt. No welco. Nothing. Just dismissal, casual and complete.
Deniz moves on shaking legs, setting the coffee carefully on the desk. The cup ets wood with a soft click that seems deafening in the silence.
He straightens and stands there, unsure what to do next, waiting for direction, for sothing, for any sign of what he’s supposed to do.
The voice cos again, sharp as broken glass, sharp enough to cut.
"What are you standing there for? If you’re done, get out."
Deniz jerks as if struck. He bows hastily, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.
"Yes, President. If you need anything, please—please tell . I’ll be right outside. I’ll—"
He backs away, turns, and flees.
The door closes behind him with a soft click that feels like a verdict.
He leans against it, pressing his palms to the wood, his chest heaving. Sweat trickles down his temple. His heart is a war drum in his ears.
How dangerous.
His legs feel like water, like they might give out at any mont.
Now I understand why Mr. Vyle left. Why he’d rather work at a cafe. Why he looked at with pity.
But even as he asks, even as fear pools in his stomach, sothing else flickers in his chest.
Sothing that rembers silver hair, pale skin, and eyes like winter stars.
User Comments
0 comments from readers