Page 5 of The Associate
It didn’t help much.
Chapter 2
Samuel
Samuel reached his assigned workstation and set the thick orientation packet down on the bare laminate surface before lowering himself into the chair.
Everything about the space felt too exposed; the relentlessly open layout, the token half-walls separating the desks, the clear, unimpeded sightline Gael Wise would have directly into his pod if the man walked past at any moment.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to settle the frantic thrum running like a live wire under his skin. It didn’t settle. His heartbeat hammered in his chest, a frantic, off-rhythm percussion that felt completely out of sync with the quiet hum of the floor.
He reached for the packet, intending to ground himself by reading through the first page of policies, but his fingers hesitated midair, trembling slightly. He forced them forward anyway. When his fingertips finally touched the edge of the cardstock cover, the entire stack of papers shifted minutely beneath the faint, involuntary tremor in his thumb.
He stilled, his breath catching in his throat.
He hadn’t realized how much his hands were shaking until he saw the physical evidence.
Samuel curled them into a tight fist, pressing the knuckles hard against the muscle of his thigh. The fine tremor traveled up from his hand, into his wrist, a small, persistent pulse of adrenaline that refused to stop no matter how tightly he clenched his hand, how hard he pressed down.
He inhaled again; a short, sharp pull of air that was too fast.
He exhaled; a ragged, uneven release.
He tried it again, forcing the rhythm.
Nothing smoothed out. His body was a separate entity, disobeying direct commands.
He blinked hard, trying to force the world back into focus, but the office around him didn’t quite snap back into place. The overhead LED lights seemed to strobe, too bright and glaring in spots, dimmer and hazy in others, as if the room itself was breathing unevenly. The distant chatter flattened into a dull, oppressive hum against his eardrums.
He rubbed a damp palm over his face and leaned his elbows onto the cool desk, letting his head drop forward slightly.
He wanted to shake it off, to just reset his entire nervous system like flicking a switch, but his body wasn’t listening. It was reacting on a primal level, without his permission. His breathing felt high and thin, stuck somewhere high in his chest, above his ribs, refusing to fill his lungs.
He sat back suddenly, his spine stiffening against the unyielding chair. The abrupt movement made his pulse jump erratically.
Not here.
Not on the first day.
Not in the middle of the fucking office.
He stood abruptly, the chair rolling back and hitting the half-wall with a soft thud. He headed for the nearest corridor without a clear destination. His footsteps felt too loud, each one echoing sharper and more clumsily than they should against the sound-dampening carpet. He ducked into the men's bathroom before anyone could stop him or ask if he was alright, the door swinging shut behind him.
He braced his hands on the cold, polished edge of the sink. He curled his fingers around the hard rim until his knuckles strained, whitening under the pressure.
His breath hitched once; a quiet, sharp, involuntary sound in the silence.
He kept his head down, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting for control.
It didn’t stop the old, ingrained lines from whispering through his thoughts, soft at first, then louder, clearer, in a voice that wasn't his own:
Stand straight.
No mistakes.
Obedience first.
He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working against a sudden, painful tightness, but the words didn’t go away. They snapped into place behind his eyes with the same brutal clarity they had the first time he’d heard them spoken. His chest tightened further. His vision blurred at the edges, the pristine white tiles of the bathroom wavering.
