The sky hung low and heavy, a dull gray blanket stretched across the horizon. No rain fell, but the air was dense with its unspoken promise—a perfect day to feel like a failure. In front of me loomed the colossal tower of Dinkins Corporation, a cold monolith of steel and glass that seemed to scrape at the heavens, daring the world to challenge its dominion.
It wasn’t just tall; it was oppressive. A fortress of unchecked ambition. Every one of the countless windows reflected the overcast sky like hundreds of dispassionate eyes, watching, judging. At the very top, the giant red logo blazed like a branding iron: Dinkins Corporation—a name that carried as much weight as the tower itself.
I tugged at the lapels of my jacket, pulling it tighter against the biting wind, and muttered a curse under my breath. Late. Again. Of course.
My phone screen confirmed it: 3:07 PM. The interview was at 3:00 PM. Fantastic. Just another shining example of my inability to get my life together.
With a deep breath, I adjusted my wrinkled tie and forced myself through the revolving doors.
The lobby was breathtakingly pristine, a testament to extravagance and order. Polished marble floors gleamed like mirrors, while towering columns rose to meet an impossibly high ceiling adorned with chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire education. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something synthetic—a manufactured perfection.
Behind a reception desk that could have doubled as a small fortress sat a woman who looked as if she had been sculpted for this exact role. Her smile was dazzling, her posture immaculate, her every movement exuding an unnatural cheerfulness that instantly grated against my mood.
“Good afternoon, sir!” she chirped, her voice so saccharine it made my teeth ache. Her nameplate read Nadia Keller, Chief Receptionist, and even the name sounded upbeat.
I forced a nod. “Afternoon.”
“Welcome to Dinkins Corporation!” she continued, undeterred by my lackluster response. “How can I assist you today?”
Her chipper demeanor made me feel even more disheveled and out of place. People like her—so composed, so unaffected—always seemed like aliens to me, living in some parallel universe where optimism was default and bad days simply didn’t exist.
“I have an interview,” I mumbled. “For 3:00 PM. Joe Falks.”
Her eyes flicked to the clock on her desk, but her smile never wavered. If anything, it seemed to grow. “Oh, wonderful! Let me check… Yes, you’re here for Dr. Mool. I’ll notify Dr. Mool right away. You’ll want to head up to the 71st floor, room 71.642.”
“Thanks,” I said, already turning toward the elevators.
“Good luck!” she called after me, her voice full of genuine enthusiasm.
I grimaced. Good luck, huh? Sure. I’ll need a miracle.
The elevator ride felt excruciatingly slow, the kind of pace that gave you just enough time to spiral. As the numbers crept upward, I leaned against the wall and let the usual doubts creep in.
I didn’t belong here. Not in this gleaming tower, not interviewing for a job at one of the most prestigious companies in the world. Dinkins Corporation wasn’t just a company; it was the company. The wealthiest, most controversial juggernaut on the planet. They sold water to people dying of thirst at extortionate prices, brokered deals with warlords, and hid it all behind a gleaming façade of innovation. Their marketing had convinced the world they were pioneers of progress.
But here I was, a perpetual screw-up, hoping to bluff my way into a paycheck big enough to fix my wreck of a life.
When the elevator finally dinged, the doors slid open to reveal a maze of identical white hallways, each lined with sleek gray carpet and lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. It felt sterile, like a hospital stripped of its warmth.
After several wrong turns and increasingly creative curses, I stumbled upon room 71.642. I raised a hand to knock but hesitated. My palms were sweaty, and my heart was pounding. Get it together, Joe.
Before I could knock, the door swung open, and I froze.
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Standing there was a woman who looked like she’d stepped off the cover of a magazine. Tall, with sharp, symmetrical features and piercing blue eyes, she exuded confidence and authority in a tailored black suit that seemed designed to make you feel inferior.
“Dr. Falks?” she said, her voice crisp and cool.
I blinked. “Uh… yes? Uh, yeah. How do you know—?”
“Because I’ve been waiting for you,” she snapped. “For twenty minutes. While my boss chewed me out, my inbox overflowed, and my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. So, tell me, Mr. Falks—are you too important to show up on time, or did you simply miss the giant red logo plastered across the biggest building in the city?”
“Sorry,” I blurted, feeling the heat rise to my face. “The trains were delayed, and—”
“Spare me,” she cut in, her tone sharp enough to slice through my excuses. “Let’s see if you’re worth the inconvenience.”
She turned on her heel and strode into the room, her heels clicking against the floor with military precision. I followed, still reeling from the encounter.
I had no idea who she was. A colleague? An assistant? Maybe someone sent to evaluate candidates before the actual interview? I didn’t dare ask—it felt like admitting weakness.
The conference room was enormous, dominated by a sleek glass table that could easily seat fifty people. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city, though my focus was entirely on her as she walked to the whiteboard.
Without a word, she began scribbling an intricate formula, her movements quick and precise. She wrote a formula that looked like it had been plucked from an Sci-Fi movie. Symbols, graphs, and equations formed a dizzying tapestry, and I quickly realized this wasn’t just a test—it was an ambush
This is Dr. Mool? I tried to concentrate on the symbols and equations she was sketching, but I couldn’t ignore her presence. Her tailored blazer framed her shoulders perfectly, and her heels added just enough height to make her even more intimidating.
“You’re staring,” she said suddenly, not bothering to look at me.
“What? No, I—”
“You are,” she said, finally turning to face me. Her sharp blue eyes seemed to cut right through me. The floor felt like it was crumbling beneath me.
I’d pictured an older man—someone gruff, with gray hair and a weathered face. Instead, I got her. Brilliant, intimidating, and completely out of my league in every conceivable way.
She smirked, as if she could read my thoughts.
Arms crossed she pointed to the formular. “Well?”
I stared at the board, trying to make sense of it. “Uh… is this part of your current research?” I ventured. “It’s fascinating, but it looks like it would require additional dimensions. The physics here is—well, it’s insane.“
Her eyes narrowed, but a faint flicker of interest crossed her face. “Let’s say it’s possible,” she said. “If I hired you, - and you actually made it in time to work - how would you prove it?”
I fumbled for an answer, my mind racing. “The energy requirements alone are astronomical,” I began slowly. “But if the system is self-catalyzing… perhaps the process stabilizes under certain conditions. I’d design experiments to test how parameters influence the reaction’s entropy and enthalpy—”
She interrupted, her tone cutting. “And what’s the purpose of these experiments? What are you looking for?”
I swallowed hard, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead. “I’d want to find the tipping point,” I said finally. “The exact condition where the process either sustains itself or collapses. Understanding that difference could reveal what’s driving the phenomenon.”
As the interview progressed, her questions were rapid-fire, each one more complex than the last. She exuded a kind of effortless authority that made it impossible not to hang on her every word, even as my brain scrambled to keep up.
Her intensity was overwhelming, and I found myself second-guessing everything I said. Meanwhile, a part of me couldn’t help but notice how her sharp features softened ever so slightly when she smirked—or how her confidence bordered on hypnotic. I adjusted my tie. Focus, Joe.
“Mr. Falks,” she said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Why do you want to work here?”
The real answer—the one about money and desperation—felt inadequate. So I lied.
“I want to work with the brightest minds in the industry,” I said, meeting her gaze as steadily as I could. “To push boundaries, to solve problems that others can’t.”
She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she gave a curt nod. “We’ll be in touch.”
Without another word, she turned and left the room, leaving me to sit there, unsure whether I’d just bombed the interview—or passed the first test.
As I rode the elevator back down, the cheerful voice of the receptionist echoed in my mind: Good luck!
I clutched the pen and notepad Dr. Mool had handed me, scribbling notes about the formula she’d shown me. But no matter how hard I tried to focus, her piercing blue eyes and commanding presence lingered in my thoughts.
When the doors opened, two massive security guards were waiting for me.
“Sir,” one of them said, his voice low and threatening. “Is there anything on that notepad related to today’s interview?”
I froze. “Uh… just some notes about one of the questions,” I admitted.
He held out a hand. “Hand it over. And you’ll need to sign a confidentiality agreement before you leave.”
Reluctantly, I handed over the notepad and made my way back to Ms. Keller’s desk to sign the paperwork. The whole time she smiled at me as if it was the best time in her life. I hated it. As I walked out of the building, I just thought about the train ride back home I could not afford and another 5 hours without something to eat.
What the hell just happened?