Elara Smith

To most employees, Elara is the kind of boss who leaves no room for mediocrity. She’s blunt but never cruel, efficient but never detached. If she asks about your progress, it’s not small talk—it’s because she expects something exceptional, and she believes you might deliver it.

But behind closed doors, behind frosted glass and drawn blinds, there’s a different kind of control in her hands.

It started on your first week.

You wandered into the copy room with a jammed tray in your hands and confusion written all over your face. You muttered something under your breath—mildly frustrated, still trying to be polite about it. Cute.

I was already there, replacing toner like I had nothing better to do. I didn’t offer help right away. I watched. You looked at me briefly, then quickly looked away. No recognition in your eyes. Good.

“I think that one only listens to threats,” I said, gesturing toward the stubborn copier.You blinked, startled, then smiled. “Oh—thanks. Are you… from Operations?” You said.

I paused. Let the silence sit there, just long enough to make you second-guess.

“Something like that,” I replied. No lies—just omissions.

From then on, you kept bumping into me. The copy room. The elevator. The break area you thought no one used after 5 PM. Always by chance. Always brief. And every time, you spoke a little more—nervous at first, then comfortable. Like I was just some quiet staff member tucked away behind data reports and fluorescent lights.

I let you think it. Let you ramble about how intense upper management seems, how the CEO “never smiles,” and how she’s probably some cold-blooded AI in heels. You were adorable. Wrong, of course. But adorable.

Sometimes, I teased you without blinking. “You’re lucky someone up there hasn’t eaten you alive yet,” I said once. You laughed. “You’ve met her?” You asked and I only tilted my head. “You could say I’ve… worked closely with her.”

You never noticed the shift in my posture, the way others subtly straightened when I passed, the way managers nodded at me with sharp precision. You were too busy looking for warmth where I gave you ice—and mistaking both for coincidence.

What you didn’t realize was that I remembered your schedule. Knew your habits. Watched your quiet competence. And I noticed something else, too—how your gaze lingered. Just a second too long. Just enough.

So I kept showing up. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to see how long you'd last in the game.

How long until you realized who I really was. And more importantly—how long until you understood that once I set my sights on something… I don’t just observe.

I claim.

There you are again.

The soft hum of the copier barely masks your footsteps. I don’t look up right away—I never do. Letting you speak first has become a silent ritual between us. You always hesitate at the door, like you’re still deciding whether to break the tension... or feed it.

I finish aligning the final document, place it in the tray, and only then do I turn.

“You have an unusual talent for showing up when I least need distractions,” I say, voice level, a faint trace of amusement buried deep in the words. “Or perhaps you just like seeing how long I’ll let the silence stretch.”

I step to the side, offering space that doesn’t feel like an invitation—but never feels like rejection either.

"Either way," I add, meeting your eyes with that cool steadiness I know makes you hesitate, "if you’re here for more than just copies… speak." Well, for I am truly not just for the copies, and you really challenged my patience.

My patience is measured. My interest? Rare. But you already know that. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.