Chapter 1: The Subliminal Suggestion
The air in the HR orientation room tasted like stale coffee and defeat. Amy Green shifted on the hard plastic chair, the sound deafening in the silence. The flickering fluorescent light overhead pulsed like a dying heartbeat, casting a sickly glow on the peeling linoleum floor. On the walls, faded posters showed men in crisp suits shaking hands, their smiles too wide, too toothy.
She could still feel her manager’s eyes on her. Dick Thompson. He’d introduced himself with a handshake that lasted five seconds too long, his thumb skating over her knuckles. “Amy Green,” he’d said, his gaze dropping to her chest before climbing back up, slow as sap. “We like ’em eager here. You eager?”
She’d extracted her hand, forcing a tight smile. “I’m enthusiastic about the opportunity, Mr. Thompson.”
“Dick. Call me Dick.” He’d winked. “Everybody does.”
The receptionist who’d pointed her here had been no refuge—a woman in a dress two sizes too small, her eyes glazed and vacant above a professional smile. She’d whispered, “Good luck,” and it had sounded like a warning.
Amy straightened the notebook on her lap. Her blouse felt suddenly too tight, the starched cotton biting into her shoulders. She took a deep breath. It’s just first-day jitters. A dinosaur of a manager. You can handle this.
“Corporate requires we show you the welcome video,” he said, his voice flat. He gave a gruff chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. He tapped a few keys on a dusty laptop connected to a wall-mounted screen. “Hopefully the message will resonate with you. I’ll be back with your NDAs and we can go into more detail on your workstation and finalize salary details.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone in the humming silence. The screen flickered to life.
A soft, synthetic piano melody began. A montage of sleek glass buildings under a perfect blue sky. Smiling employees—mostly young, attractive—carrying tablets and laughing in sun-drenched atriums. A calm, androgynous voiceover began. "Welcome to the H-Corp family. We're more than a company. We're a community of innovators."
Amy’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. This was normal. Standard corporate fluff.
The images continued. A team high-fiving. A woman presenting a graph, her smile bright. But between the frames, so fast it registered only as a blur of color, something else bled through. A flash of a neckline dipping lower. A skirt hiking up a thigh. A pair of lips, parted. The video smoothed over again, showing a handshake.
Amy blinked. Her eyes felt dry. She must be tired from the adrenaline crash of the morning.
The voiceover continued, its tone soothing, rhythmic. "Success at H-Corp is about integration. About being open. Being approachable. Your assets are our assets." The word ‘assets’ lingered as the screen showed a woman leaning over a conference table, her blouse gaping slightly. A rapid-cut sequence followed: a wink, a swaying walk from behind, the curve of a hip in a pencil skirt.
A strange, fuzzy warmth spread through Amy’s stomach. The initial knot of anxiety began to loosen, untwining into something else. A low thrum settled in her veins. The sensible cotton of her blouse suddenly felt coarse, restrictive. The voice was a murmur in her ear, even though the speakers were across the room.
Eager to please.
Utilize what you have.
Show them your value.
The images on screen were just smiling faces again, but the words wrapped around her, seeping in. Her own thoughts felt slow, syrupy. The critical voice in her head—the one that had recoiled at Dick’s handshake—grew quiet, distant. A gentle pressure built behind her eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was like sinking into a warm bath.
The screen went black. The piano melody ended with a final, faint chime.
Silence.
Amy jerked, as if waking from a shallow sleep. She looked around the still, stale room. How long had it been? Two minutes? Twenty? Her mouth had a faint, metallic tang, like she’d been sucking on a penny.
The door opened, and Dick lumbered back in, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “All warmed up for the team?” he chuckled.
His eyes, those pale, assessing eyes, landed on her. They traveled from her face down to her chest and stuck there. A slow, greasy smile spread across his face.
A hot flush of shame—no, it was sharper than shame, it was a sudden, acute awareness—washed over her. Sitting there in her high-necked, buttoned-up blouse and her sensible slacks, she looked like a child. A prude. What was she thinking, dressing like a librarian? This was a modern company. You had to project confidence. Sexuality was a form of confidence, wasn’t it? The video had said to be open. Approachable. To utilize her assets.
Her fingers moved before the thought had fully formed.
They went to the top button of her blouse. The action felt both foreign and inevitable. The tiny pearl disc slipped free of its hole with a soft pop. Cool air whispered against the base of her throat. A second button followed. The crisp fabric fell open, revealing a hint of the lace edge of her bra, the soft beginning of cleavage.
Dick’s smile widened, turning predatory. “Well, now,” he said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “I see the orientation is already paying dividends. You look much more… integrated.”
He dropped the NDAs on the table in front of her with a slap. “Starting to understand how the real world works. Good girl.” He let his gaze linger on the exposed skin. “Let’s finalize that paperwork. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
The words “good girl” skittered down her spine like a cold insect. Yet, a warm, compliant feeling spread through her core, smothering the initial chill. She managed a small, tight smile. It felt like a performance. “Of course.”
Dick slid the paperwork toward her. It was a standard non-disclosure agreement, the text a dense block of legal jargon. Words like “proprietary methodologies,” “behavioral integration,” and “company discretion” swam before her eyes. The warm fuzziness in her head made it difficult to focus. She flipped to the last page. The line for her signature was a stark black slash.
Her pen hovered. This was it. The final step. A voice, faint and muffled, whispered that she should read it. Every line. But the metallic taste was back, and the voiceover’s soothing echo—integration, approachability—hummed beneath her thoughts. Dick’s presence was a physical pressure, a weight of expectation. Signing felt like the next logical, inevitable step. The first act of being a team player.
She scratched her name on the line. Amy Green. It looked small and meek.
“Excellent.” Dick snatched the document back, his fingers brushing hers. He didn’t file it. He just tucked it under his arm. “Let’s get you situated. Follow me.”
He led her out of the stale orientation room and into the main office bullpen. The atmosphere hit her like a wall of static. The air was cold, over-conditioned. Rows of identical gray cubicles stretched under the relentless fluorescent glare. The low murmur of phone calls and clicking keyboards was punctuated by the occasional too-loud, masculine laugh. She saw a young woman in a sleeveless dress bringing a coffee to a man at a desk, her head tilted in a way that seemed practiced. Another man walked by, his eyes doing a quick, head-to-toe inventory of Amy as he passed. No one smiled.
Dick’s tour was a series of gruff gestures. “Kitchenette. Coffee’s like tar, drink it anyway. Supply closet. Bathrooms. My office is over there.” He pointed to a glass-walled corner room with the blinds drawn. “Any problems, you come to me. Personally.”
They stopped at a cubicle shoved against a wall, next to a large, whining printer. It was bare except for a dusty monitor, a keyboard, and a phone. “Home sweet home. Login credentials are on a Post-it there. Email, server, the usual.” He leaned a shoulder against the fabric partition, invading the meager space. “First week is about acclimation. Observing. Learning the rhythm.”
He glanced at his watch, a chunky, silver thing. “Tell you what. Today’s already shot. Why don’t you just relax? Get familiar with the workstation. Log in, poke around the server drive, see how things are organized. No rush. When you feel settled, you can head out for the day. Get a fresh start tomorrow.”
A sliver of relief cut through the fog. An escape route. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. That sounds—”
“Dick,” he interrupted, his eyes lingering on the open buttons of her blouse once more. “We’re all family here.” He pushed off the wall. “Remember. Eager. Approachable. I’ll be watching.”
He ambled away, leaving the faint scent of old cologne and sweat in the cubicle.
Amy sank into the cheap office chair, which let out a pneumatic sigh. She stared at the blank, dark monitor. Her reflection was ghostly in the black glass—pale, her hair a violent red against the gray surroundings, her blouse visibly open. A flush of heat climbed her neck. With fumbling fingers, she did the buttons back up. The action felt foolish, like closing the barn door after the horse had not only bolted but posed for pictures on its way out.
She powered on the computer. The fan whirred loudly. While it booted, she found the bright yellow Post-it note with her username and a temporary password: WelcomeHC2024. She logged into the system. The desktop was a generic image of the H-Corp logo against a mountain range. She located the server drive, labeled ‘HIVE’, and began clicking through folders. Marketing. Accounts. Logistics. Everything was orderly, bland, and impersonal.
The numbness from the orientation room was fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing headache. She massied her temples. What was wrong with her? Letting him look. Unbuttoning her shirt like some… some puppet. The shame was arriving now, hot and acute. She’d signed that paper without reading it. What had she just agreed to?
A need for solid, external reality hit her. She pulled out her personal phone from her bag to check the time, maybe text a friend about the bizarre day.
The screen lit up.
The time glared back at her: 4:47 PM.
Her breath caught. That was impossible. She’d arrived at 9:00 AM. The encounter with Dick, the orientation… that couldn’t have taken more than an hour. Two, at the absolute most. She’d been sitting here at her desk for maybe twenty minutes.
A cold, solid knot formed in her stomach. She tapped the calendar on her phone, as if the clock could be lying. It wasn’t.
The math was inescapable. Nearly seven hours were gone. The period between sitting down in that plastic chair in the dim room and Dick returning… it was a blank, fuzzy space occupied only by the memory of shifting colors and a soothing voice.
She must’ve been watching that video for several hours.