Jenny’s office—now dubbed the “war room” by Ben—smelled of burnt espresso and over-achieving vanilla. Ben slumped in a plastic chair, its uneven leg ticking irritably with every shift. Jenny sat rigid across from him, her clipboard a shield, her voice a blade.“I apologize for the seating. Most stand—and unless they’re being reprimanded, don’t stick around long enough to get comfortable.” She stirred the espresso, sludge thick as dragon’s blood in her goblet, leaving lazy, swirling trails of undissolved grounds. “The Tower isn’t just a place. It’s a parasite. It feeds on fear. Stress. Ambition. Every time you rage at a jammed printer or cry in a supply closet, it feasts.”Ben’s eye twitched. “A leech? Then why not burn it?”Jenny exhaled sharply, less a sigh and more a small, bitter laugh. “Because if you don’t play by the Tower’s rules it locks up. You have to beat it properly for the next floor to open. As far as we can each floor isn’t connected exactly like a Tower, we just call it a Tower for simplicity,” she said, tapping her pen against the clipboard with a hollow tok-tok. “It grows stronger on the energy it drains. Every meltdown, every deadline panic—it fuels the Tower. Allows it to build new floors, new traps. A self-sustaining nightmare.”Ben leaned forward, his fingers drumming once on the table before curling into a fist. “And the Council?”Jenny scoffed, flipping a page on her clipboard as if reading a list of ancient failures. “Descendants of fools who thought they could control these things. Ten thousand years of playing whack-a-mole with Towers. We nudge zoning laws, buy land, plant front companies—”“Like Chad’s Empire,” Ben interrupted.Jenny smirked, the expression barely there before it vanished behind another sip of espresso. “Empire?” She let the word sit between them, tasting its absurdity before shaking her head. “It’s a tax write-off with benefits. Plus, he’s just the branch manager. The company lets us steer idiots like you away from the Towers… or toward them, if you’re useful.”Ben’s grip tightened on the table’s edge. “You herd lambs to slaughter?”Jenny rolled her eyes. “We redirect,” she corrected, her voice as even as a scalpel. “Most people feel the ‘Call’ as a nagging urge to work late, chase promotions—harmless. But a few…” Her gaze flicked to Ben’s scarred knuckles, lingering like a silent accusation. “…hear it as a war drum.”The hum in Ben’s bones deepened—a vibration he’d long blamed on the building’s garbage HVAC system after prodding Greg. But now, with every flicker of the lights, he recognized it for what it was. The Tower’s pulse. Rhythmic. Calculating. Waiting.“Besides, once one enters the Tower, if they are deemed worthy, they will be given a skill. We call these Mockeries—or ‘Mock’—twisted skills the Tower grants to those it deems worthy,” she held out her hand, small sparks flew from her fingers. “You’ll know if your given one, so I wouldn’t say we herd lambs to slaughter so much as herd wolves that believe they are lambs to what they truly are.”“Parlor tricks,” Ben spat. “A true warrior needs no crutch forged by cowardice.”Jenny the Ruthless thrust a battle-scarred tome across the war table, its time-ravaged edges curling like dragonhide parchment. “Chad thinks you’re our can opener,” she said, rolling her eyes, then watching him. “This Tower’s newer, about fifty years old as far as we can tell. Only five floors mapped here. The early floor’s are meant to, for lack of better terms, accept someone. Allow them access. After that it gets… messy.”Jenny slid the dossier closer to him, its glossy surface catching the flicker of the office’s witchlights. Ben flipped it open, his fingers brushing the first photo.The image showed a dark labyrinth, its walls of jagged stone slick with an oily sheen. Shadows pooled in its recesses, and faint torchlight glimmered in the distance like dying stars. Ben’s eyes narrowed. “The Guts of the Beast,” he muttered, his voice low and graveled. “A maze for the desperate. See here—” His finger tapped the photo. “—the walls weep. And there—” A faint smear of something dark on the stone. “—the blood of fools who thought themselves clever.”He flipped to the next image: a massive wooden gate, its surface carved with runes that might have been warnings or invitations. The gate stood alone in a cavernous chamber, flanked by shattered pillars and coils of rusted chains. Ben’s lip curled, but there was a flicker of respect in his gaze. “A Barricade of Vanity,” he said, his tone edged with grudging admiration. “Rotten wood, but the runes… they hum with power. A gate meant to test, not bar.”The final photo made him pause. An empty arena, its sands white as bone, its walls lined with cracked stone thrones. The air in the image seemed to shimmer, as if the very dust held memory. Ben’s fist tightened. “A Coliseum. An arena for warriors,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Fight for what? Trophies or acclaim?” His finger traced the edge of the photo, where faint drag marks scarred the sand. Jenny leaned forward, her voice tentative. “You can tell that much from a photo? Color me impressed. They’re the lower levels, we’ve gotten to. The Coliseum, as you called it, is the fifth floor. Our current level.”Ben closed the dossier with a snap, his eyes dark. “These places are alive. They wait.” He stood, the dossier clutched in one hand. “And I’ll not keep them waiting long. And at the top?” he asked, his voice low.“Unknown.” Jenny’s fingers drummed once against the table before she withdrew them, as if touching the dossier too long would stain her. “Reach it, and the Tower collapses. But out of a hundred global hellscapes, we’ve only closed two. In ten thousand years, only two.”“Weaklings,” Ben spat.Jenny’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. “Realists,” she countered. “Towers aren’t conquered by rage and power alone. They’re solved. Every floor’s a puzzle dripping with trauma. You’ll need more than a mug.”Ben stood, chair screeching against the floor. “I’ve felled gods.”Jenny leaned back, unimpressed. “And I’ve buried ten of you,” she said coldly. “Hotheads who thought ‘champion’ meant ‘invincible.’ The Tower preys on ego. It’ll twist your pride into a noose.”Ben’s teeth clenched. “When?”Jenny took another slow sip of espresso, letting the silence stretch, “When you stop mistaking stubbornness for strength. The Tower’s on Floor five. Tomorrow, we breach it.”“We?”“You’re the can opener,” Jenny said, rising from her chair with the precision of a blade unsheathed. “I’m the hand that twists.”Ben sat motionless, the dossier before him. His eyes lingered on the final photo: the image burned into his mind, a grotesque monument to the Tower’s hunger.The hum crescendoed, a low, insistent thrum that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. Ben’s fingers twitched, aching for the hilt of a blade worthy of his strength. He frowned at a nearby butter knife. It had served him well, an instrument of defiance against the tyranny of stale breakroom bagels, but it was no war blade. No instrument of legend.A true weapon, one fit for battle, had weight. It had presence.He missed Dragonsdeathbringer.Ben’s gaze drifted to his mug, the words “World’s Okayest Employee!” mocking him in cheap office print. It had once been his sword, his steadfast companion, his unyielding bastion against the horrors of a dozen battlefields. He gripped the handle, willing his will into it. If he focused, if he believed—he could almost feel the steel beneath the illusion, the ghost of its balance in his palm.But the Tower’s pull was strong. The hum rose, a relentless tide, and the battle call thrummed louder in his chest. The Tower loomed on the horizon of his mind, a foe worthy of his steel.He stood abruptly, his chair groaning in protest, the seams of his suit jacket giving a defeated little pop. Ben scowled.“This armor is weak,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders as the fabric strained against his bulk. His “suit,” as these Nameless office-dwellers called it, was no fit raiment for a warrior. The sleeves cut into his biceps like shackles, the trousers threatened rebellion with every step, and the last time he had reached for the top shelf in the supply closet, the back of his jacket had surrendered entirely.No, this would not do.If he was to face the Tower, if he was to conquer it, he would need stronger armor. Something with give, something that would not rip asunder at the mere flexing of his divine physique. If this realm of scribe work could accomplish such a feat. Ben nodded to Jenny as he stood, leaving her office. Ben strode through the dim-lit maze of cubicles, the oppressive air of laborious monotony pressing down on his shoulders like a curse. Screens glowed like false stars, their pale light casting ghostly halos over abandoned keyboards. Somewhere, a phone rang—unanswered, unheeded, its shrill cry swallowed by the void.The Tower was listening.The hum of war swelled in his chest, a low, insistent thrum that quickened his pulse and sharpened his senses. He walked toward the mailroom, his boots striking the floor with the rhythm of a war march. Powerful and intimidating. It wasn’t long before he got lost.He could map the twisting paths of a cursed forest in his mind’s eye, track a beast through the wilds by a single misplaced blade of grass—but this? This endless maze of sterile walls, white ceilings, and soulless cubicles? Every turn led him back to the same blank-eyed, hunched-over office drones, their faces carved from the same weary mold.Ben scowled. “GREG!” His voice thundered through the labyrinth, shaking loose a cascade of Post-its from a nearby cork-board. No response.He stomped forward, louder this time. “GREG!!!”“Will you shut up, man?! I’m with a client!” came an irritated voice from one of the faceless drones.Ben turned, narrowing his eyes at the offender. A Nameless one, clad in a shirt too tight for his frame, his face a mask of indignation.Without hesitation, Ben strode to the desk, seized the man’s phone, and slammed it onto the receiver, shattering the device into pieces. “Now, you’re not.”The worker sputtered, his face flushing red. “What the hell—”“Nameless one,” Ben interrupted, his voice a low growl. “Come now. Show me to the mailroom.”“What? No! Get lost!”Ben tilted his head, considering. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he grabbed the man by his shirt collar and hoisted him into the air. The worker flailed like a fish, his arms slapping uselessly against Ben’s unyielding grip.Ben chuckled, a deep rumble that shook the cubicle walls. “Ah! Spirit! I admire one who struggles against the jaws of fate. Perhaps you would make a fine addition to the Mailroom War Council?”The worker paled, his legs kicking feebly. “The—what? No! Put me down!”“Very well,” Ben said magnanimously. “Guide me to my destination, and I shall grant your release.”“Just—just let me walk!”Ben shook his head. “One does not demand terms from Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword!” His voice boomed like a warhorn in the narrow hallway. He adjusted his grip on the worker’s shirt—a tunic of polyester stripes—and continued, “With your will to fight, I grant you authority to use my common name, Ben.” The proclamation felt noble, the Nameless squirmed as if wrestling a dragon rather than enduring a handshake. “You shall be released from my employ upon arrival.”And so, with his unwilling guide dangling like an overfilled grain sack looted from some peasant village, Ben continued his march toward the mailroom. His steps were sure, his purpose unwavering. Destiny called, and it was very loud about it—like a printer jammed on its final page.He reached the threshold of the sacred mailroom, the heart of the War Council’s dominion. Torchlight did not flicker along the walls, nor did banners bearing mighty sigils hang overhead, but in Ben’s mind, it might as well have. And soon enough, they would be. Instead, LED screens blinked their cold incantations, and witchlights cast their pale glow across shelves stacked high with scrolls. The air smelled not of sweat and steel but of ink and parchment—the lifeblood of this bureaucratic kingdom.

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