The building didn't look impressive from the outside. That surprised Logan.
He'd imagined something sleeker, taller, sharper. Althrex was supposedly one of those shadow companies—massive, profitable, but nobody could quite explain what they actually did. The kind of place where middle management drove black cars with diplomatic plates and janitors got issued burner phones.
But the tower itself? Glass and steel, sure. But it looked like every other office high-rise downtown. Clean sidewalks. An understated logo etched into the entryway glass. Just another block in a city full of them.
Still, standing out front, badge clipped to the lapel of his thrift store blazer, Logan felt the weight of it. Not just the building. The moment. The choice he'd already made by showing up.
Lucas Vaughn, Logistics Intern. That was the name on the badge. His new name. Clean background, fake employment history, a whole fabricated LinkedIn profile that made him look like someone who still called his professors "sir."
He adjusted the strap on his bag and walked in.
The lobby was a pressure chamber. Quiet in that oppressive way only corporate buildings knew how to do—like even the air was on salary.
Polished floors, backlit wall panels, a reception desk manned by two security guards in matching dark uniforms. No receptionist. Just the guards, the glowing turnstiles, and a ceiling so high it made Logan feel like a tourist in his own life.
One of the guards glanced at him—white guy, buzzcut, arms that didn't fit his sleeves. The other didn't look up from his tablet.
Logan approached. The buzzcut one grunted. "Badge?"
He unclipped it and handed it over. The guy gave it one glance, then turned it in his hand like he was checking for holograms. Logan resisted the urge to make a joke.
"Lucas Vaughn?" the guard asked, flat.
"Yep."
"Mailroom?"
"Yeah."
The guy nodded once, handed the badge back, and pointed a thumb toward the turnstiles. "You'll need to tap in. If it flashes red, wait. Someone'll come."
"Cool. Thanks."
The guy didn't respond.
Logan stepped to the gate. Held his badge to the reader.
It beeped.
Blue light. The gate unlocked with a soft click.
He walked through, the sound of his shoes echoing against marble and silence.
The elevator was tucked behind a hallway that curved out of sight from the main lobby—intentional, probably, to keep the low-level hires from ruining the clean lines of the entrance.
No buttons. Just a flat black panel with a circular badge reader and a vertical strip of light above it.
Logan tapped his badge. The strip glowed blue.
The screen flashed once.
Authorized Floor: B1 (Mailroom)
He stepped in.
The doors shut soundlessly behind him.
There was no music. No mirrored wall. Just quiet and a soft shift of weight as the elevator descended. It was fast, but smooth. He only felt the pressure change in his ears.
B1.
He expected the doors to chime when they opened.
They didn't.
The hallway outside was a different world. The sleek design stopped at the elevator.
Down here, the floors were linoleum, slightly scuffed. The walls were off-white, bordering on beige. Ceiling panels buzzed faintly overhead, one of them flickering in a slow, uneven rhythm that gave him a headache just looking at it.
A single laminated sign was taped to the wall next to a heavy gray door:
MAILROOM – Knock or don't. We don't care.
He paused. Knocked twice.
No response.
He turned the handle and walked in.
The air inside the mailroom was colder, and stale. Like it had been filtered too many times through vents no one remembered existed.
There were shelves. Metal racks stretching wall to wall, stuffed with sealed boxes. Some cardboard. Some plastic. Most looked like they hadn't moved in weeks. There were carts too—some full, some tipped sideways with papers spilling out of them.
To his left, a desk.
At it, a woman.
She was typing. That was her whole vibe—typing. Her monitor was cracked across the top corner, patched with two strips of faded red duct tape. A granola bar sat next to her mousepad, half unwrapped, untouched.
Logan walked up, quietly.
"Hey. Uh. Sorry. First day," he said.
She kept typing.
He waited a beat, then added, "I'm supposed to start in the mailroom. Name's Lucas Vaughn."
Still typing.
Then, without looking: "Badge?"
He held it out.
She turned her head half an inch, glanced at it, then returned to her keyboard.
"New guy."
"That's me."
"No desk."
Logan blinked. "Okay."
"No computer."
"Right."
"No login. No onboarding. You're float."
"Float?"
"You go where you're needed. That wall—" she nodded toward the far corner of the room, "—boxes. Sort. Label. Move. Don't mix stickers. Don't open sealed packages. Don't ask where things go unless you're ready to be yelled at."
"Noted," Logan said. "Is there… a supervisor or something?"
"You want to talk to Rick, he's probably hiding in the boiler room pretending to file reports. But he doesn't care. I'm Wendy. If something catches fire, tell me."
"Hopefully nothing catches fire."
"Don't jinx it."
Logan opened his mouth to ask another question, but Wendy was already back to typing.
He turned, eyes scanning the wall she'd pointed to.
It wasn't just a wall of boxes. It was a fortress.
Stacked from floor to ceiling, crammed onto carts and shelves and temporary tables, it looked like the warehouse scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark if the artifacts were made of recycled packaging and passive-aggressive post-its.
He walked over.
The stickers were color-coded—green, blue, orange, red. Some had numbers written on them. Others had little check marks in Sharpie. No key. No explanation.
Logan picked one up.
It was heavier than it looked. Probably filled with company merch, judging from the edge of a logo peeking out the top.
He turned back to Wendy.
"Where do the green stickers go?"
"They go where green stickers go," she said without looking up.
"Cool. Helpful."
She didn't respond.
He sighed. Rolled up his sleeves. Picked up the first box.
The next few hours passed in a steady rhythm.
Pick up. Check sticker. Sort into stacks by color. Guess what department it might be. Push carts when full. Return. Repeat.
He found a box full of branded baseball caps. Another with coffee mugs—some chipped, some shrink-wrapped. One box just had twelve unopened boxes of printer toner. Another was nothing but USB drives, all labeled "Internal Use Only."
He didn't touch those.
Around noon, Wendy stood up.
Logan looked over. "Lunch?"
"I'm going outside to breathe. You want food, there's vending machines in the sub-hall. Don't expect hot stuff."
"Appreciate the tip."
She grabbed her granola bar, gave him a nod, and left without another word.
He was alone again.
He checked his phone.
No bars. No Wi-Fi.
Figures.
He found the vending machines ten minutes later. One of them had a sign taped to the glass: EXACT CHANGE OR BLOOD.
He fed it a crumpled dollar and got a protein bar that expired last year.
When he got back to the mailroom, someone else had arrived.
A man in a fitted suit, probably mid-thirties, hair so precisely styled it looked like it came with an instruction manual. He was scanning boxes silently, muttering department names under his breath.
He didn't acknowledge Logan. Just picked up a box marked BRAND STRATEGY, tucked it under his arm, and left.
Logan didn't follow. But he made a note.
Brand Strategy. Fancy suits. Comes in person to get his own deliveries.
Logan added that to a growing list in his head.
By the time the lights dimmed—5:03 p.m. on the dot—he'd sorted three carts of boxes, identified four departments by sticker color, and figured out how to rig a broken cart so it didn't veer left into every wall.
He hadn't spoken to anyone besides Wendy.
He hadn't been told when to leave.
There was no clock on the wall.
He checked his phone again. Still dead.
He stood there, surrounded by boxes, hands aching, sweat dried on his collar.
He should've felt tired.
But instead, he felt something else.
A quiet kind of attention.
Like the building was watching him.
And maybe, just maybe, it liked what it saw.