Microscopic Growth of Trust

The office door clicked shut behind Sera Lin, and silence settled like fresh snow beautiful, fragile, begging to be ruined. I stood exactly where she'd left me, palms flat on the desk, heart fluttering at a tempo no cardiologist would approve. She'd walked out without flinching, without cursing, without threating to set me on fire. By my old metrics, that was practically a marriage proposal.

I inhaled, testing the air for lingering citrus. Nothing but recycled HVAC and a hint of toner. Still, the tension in my shoulders didn't leave; it crept into a corner, pacing, waiting for the next catastrophe.

"All right," I muttered. "That could have been worse."

A pale blue window bloomed at eye level the system, punctual as anxiety.

[Post-interaction analysis complete. Threat level: negligible. Trust increment: +3.2 %. Relationship status upgraded from Active Hostility to Guarded Curiosity.]

"Three-point-two?" I scoffed. "I gave her scheduling autonomy and a discretionary buffer."

[And you refrained from leering. Progress must be earned, Host.]

I rubbed my temples. "At this rate I'll hit thirty percent trust by retirement. Any shortcuts?"

[Unethical behavior or forced bonding can create false positives. Long-term stability probability: 0.6 %. Recommendation: continue current path of professional consistency, respect, and minimal charm.]

"Minimal?" I huffed. "Your faith inspires me."

The holo-pane blinked. [You're welcome.]

Before I could craft a suitably sarcastic reply, my assistant materialised in the doorway a baby alpaca disguised as a man in pinstripes. He balanced two thick folders, a tablet, and what looked suspiciously like a stress ball shaped like a golden microphone.

"Miss Ryvenhart," he panted, "sorry—legal just sent the contract revisions, finance needs your signature on the Q2 reforecast, and HR updated the inter-company dating policy." He held out the avalanche of paperwork. "Also, A&R would like your feedback on venue options by tonight."

I stared, hoping the stack might burst into flames and save me the trouble. "Jordan, when you say 'by tonight,' do you mean 'by midnight,' or do you mean 'I forgot and now we're doomed'?"

A sheepish grimace. "I… may have misplaced the memo until just now."

Of course. I accepted the folders, which weighed as much as my patience. "Fine. Draft coffee, black, hazardous-material strength. And order dinner. Something not made of vending-machine regret."

"Yes, ma'am!" He pivoted so fast his tie smacked him in the face, then fled.

I sank into the chair, the folders hitting the desk with a thud that rattled my vertebrae.

[Reminder: you chose this. Villainy comes with administrative fees.]

"Villainy? I'm practically a social-services volunteer." I flipped the finance packet tables of numbers dancing like midges in a swamp. "Explain why success requires my signature on every line item larger than a stapler."

[Because your predecessors embezzled funds for yacht parties and bespoke pheromone blends. The board reacted by instituting 'mandatory top-level oversight.']

"Lovely." I initialed six pages, then caught myself writing A. R. in the margin of a nutritional catering quote. Mind wandering already.

The next bundle: legal's latest draft of cease-and-desist letters. Tone: menacing. Font: Gothic enough to terrify monks. I skimmed:

Any further dissemination of said defamatory statements shall incur damages inclusive but not limited to…

My brain fizzled. "Does anyone even read these past paragraph three?"

[Statistically, 93 % of recipients fold at paragraph two. The rest forward them to their mothers.]

"Good. Saves on ink." I signed.

Jordan reappeared, breathing hard, coffee in one hand, paper bag in the other. "Extraterrestrial-strength espresso, and I found a bistro that still delivers at this hour."

"Angel." I traded him a signed pile; he swapped in a fresh one HR's dating-policy update. I skimmed the bold headings: Power Dynamics, Consent, Pheromone-Influence Mitigation. There was an entire subsection on elevator proximity protocols.

"Did they draft this because of me?" I asked.

Jordan coughed. "Well… the timing is… coincidental."

"Of course." I initialed the form, ignoring the page titled CEO Conduct Remediation. Baby steps, I reminded myself.

He hovered. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Cancel tomorrow's lunch with Director Reed. Tell him I have a dentist appointment."

Jordan blinked. "Do you?"

"No, but if Reed spends one more hour recounting his golf swing, I'll need a root canal."

Jordan looked like he wanted to giggle but settled for a solemn nod and retreated again.

I pressed my palms to my eyes. Twenty minutes with Sera had invigorated me; forty minutes of paperwork had drained seventeen percent of my will to live.

[Energy levels dropping. Suggest fifteen-minute break.]

"No time." I opened the A&R venue proposals three theatres, one outdoor amphitheater with aggressively boho décor. Sera deserved acoustics, not wind and wandering pigeons. I scribbled notes, picked the mid-sized art-deco hall: intimate, high-quality sound, minimal pyro risks.

[Decision logged. PR will draft contract.]

A beep email from Legal: tabloid number two caved, issuing apology. My crusade was working.

Another beep New message from Sera:

Received budget outline. Tight but feasible. I'll send revised rehearsals timeline tomorrow.—S.

No smiley, no flourish. But the absence of suspicion in her wording made my chest warm. I typed back:

Acknowledged. Let me know if additional adjustments required.

Send. No emoji. Minimal charm. System would be proud.

Jordan breezed in with more forms—facility-maintenance approvals. Apparently our recording booth carpets needed hypoallergenic replacement. I signed while chewing a surprisingly good sesame-ginger noodle salad.

Time blurred: flick of pen, slurp of noodles, digital pings, system asides.

[Fun fact: you have signed 47 documents in 62 minutes. Average CEO endurance: 38.]

"Raise the bar," I grunted, signing number 48.

At 9 p.m. my eyes burned. Papers still towered like mythic hydra, every signed sheet sprouting two new disclaimers. I tossed the pen, massaged my wrist.

"System, status on 'becoming a better person.'"

[Quantitative empathy index currently 12 %. Up from 6 % yesterday.]

"Out of?"

[One hundred.]

I groaned. "Feels like more."

[Human change is incremental. Also, paperwork does not count as moral growth.]

"Tell my tendons."

Jordan popped in again last time, I hoped holding a single envelope. "From Director Nakamura. Personal."

I slit it open: a hand-written thank-you for defending creative integrity in the meeting, plus an invitation to discuss strategic streaming partnerships over matcha. I smiled genuine, small.

"Progress?" Jordan ventured.

"Progress," I agreed.

He exhaled, as if validation were contagious. "All right. I'm going home before I adopt another spreadsheet." He hesitated at the door. "Good night, Miss Ryvenhart. And… well done today."

When he left, silence returned but friendlier now, around the edges.

I gathered the last forms, stacked them neatly, and powered down the desk lamp. The skyline outside glittered like spilled secrets, each window a story I'd never know.

[Reminder: you still haven't taken a break.]

"I'll break when I'm dead."

[Statistically inevitable. But rest prolongs inevitability.]

I chuckled. "Fine, mother hen." I stretched, vertebrae popping like castanets, then paced to the floor-to-ceiling glass. Far below, headlights streamed, indifferent to alphas, omegas, or redemption arcs.

The reflection in the glass stared back tired, but steadier than yesterday. Behind it, the dark office with its fortress of papers already looked slightly smaller, less ominous.

"I think," I whispered to the city, "I can keep doing this."

[Affirmation logged. Tomorrow: refine launch timeline, review venue contract, schedule first showcase rehearsal.]