Back to Work, Sort Of
Monday Morning
VAS Corp | Valortown HQ — Main Floor
The clock ticked past 9:15 AM.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting sterile white across rows of desks. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. A microwave beeped from the break room.
At one of the corner desks — with a view of a cracked window and a leaning fake plant — sat Jack Monroe.
He stared intensely at his computer screen.
Blank.
Because the monitor wasn't even on.
He sat perfectly still, fingers poised above the keyboard, typing the air like a secret agent under deep cover.
Across the floor, Adam Morgan — now fully recovered, suited up, coffee in hand — strolled in his usual calm gait. His sleeves were rolled, his beard freshly trimmed. The only sign of last week's chaos was a faint line across his collarbone… and the fact that the last mug he used was now melted scrap in the supply closet.
He passed Jack's desk.
Paused.
Sip.
"Hey, Monroe."
Jack blinked. "Yeah?"
Adam pointed lazily with his coffee mug.
"Monitor's off."
Jack jolted like he'd been electrocuted. "Ah—damn—right—" He scrambled to the power button. The monitor blinked on.
Black screen. No signal.
Adam took another sip.
"PC's off too."
Jack silently pressed the button beneath the desk. The CPU hummed alive like a sleepy dog waking up from a nap.
He took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair.
"This job's gonna kill me before the hybrids do."
Adam chuckled and leaned on the cubicle wall. "Eh, you'll get used to it. It's like riding a bike—except the bike's on fire, and you're also on fire."
Jack cracked a faint smile. "Thanks."
Adam tilted his head. "By the way, I dropped a file on your desktop. One of your first real assignments. Easy stuff. Just inventory logs from the north wing."
Jack gave a slow nod, already nervously opening folders.
"Cool," he muttered.
Adam sipped his coffee, watched him a second longer… then smiled.
"Chin up, kid. You survived worse." And with that, he turned and walked back toward his desk.
BANG!
The front doors burst open with an echoing kick.
"JAPAN WAS GOOD TO ME!"
Ryo Saito, spinning mid-kick, entered with a triumphant pose — holding a massive duffel bag, slung over his shoulder like Santa on anime steroids.
Employees froze.
Looked up.
And promptly ignored him and returned to work like this happened every other Monday.
Ryo marched forward, eyes bright behind his round blue glasses.
"Alright, rookies. Front and center." He pointed dramatically at Jack and Adam. "You two. Don't move."
Jack blinked.
Adam mouthed, "Rookies?"
Ryo slammed the bag on the nearest desk, unzipping it like a man about to unveil a treasure hoard.
Out came anime shirts in plastic wrap. Plushies of obscure mascots. A blanket with a magical girl print. Several full-size figurines still in boxes. And finally, a frame filled with neatly arranged Hatsune Miku pins, glinting like sacred jewels.
"This—" Ryo raised a pink plush. "—is Mr. Bombo, the train conductor ghost from that one 1998 OVA nobody watched. Look at the stitch detail."
Jack just stared.
Adam squinted. "What… is any of this?"
Ryo turned.
"Excuse me?"
Adam shrugged. "It's just… Japanese cartoon stuff, right?"
"JAPANESE CARTOON STUFF?!"
The entire office flinched.
Ryo stood so close to Adam now that their noses were nearly touching, finger pointed between Adam's eyes.
"It's called anime, you uncultured iron gorilla! It's art! Culture! Soul in motion! There's a reason Ghibli wins Oscars, and it's not just because of Totoro's tummy, okay!?"
Adam raised a brow. "You're yelling."
Jack leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and sighed.
"This job's gonna be a disaster…"