They didn't tell me much.
Just a short message after lunch. No subject. No signature. "Report to Floor 11, East Wing. Office 11.3."
I stared at it for a moment. Eleven-point-three? We had offices like that?
The elevators didn't even have a button labeled 11. I had to transfer at the tenth and walk a dim hallway to find a stairwell that smelled like dust and old carpet.
Floor 11 felt different. Quieter. Colder. Fewer lights. No intern chatter or casual coffee mugs lying around.
Office 11.3 had no nameplate. Just a steel door slightly ajar.
I pushed it open and stepped inside.
Five heads looked up. Four went back to work immediately.
Only one kept staring. A tall man, lean, in a tailored gray suit. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly combed back. He didn't smile. Just gave me a blank once-over.
"You're the intern they sent?" he asked.
I nodded. "Cassian Neville."
"Hmph." He looked back down at his monitor. "Sit over there."
The desk he pointed to was empty, small, and slightly separated from the rest.
Nobody greeted me. Nobody explained anything.
For the next few hours, I was handed small tasks, sorting data, reformatting sheets, comparing numbers from two obscure client accounts I didn't recognize. The files were marked with partial names and coded labels. No context.
I caught glances once or twice. Just brief, emotionless stares. Like I was a tool. Not a person.
One woman, blond, mid-40s, sharp jawline. She passed me a file without a word, without a look.
This was not a team. This was a lab.
The clock hit 6:43 PM. I closed the last file, double-checked my spreadsheet, and stood up.
Nobody noticed. Or if they did, nobody cared.
The coffee shop was half-empty. Warm lights. Faint music in the background. Just a calm place where I could sit, drink something hot, and let my thoughts go quiet for a while.
I ordered my usual and sat in the corner by the window. Same table. Same chipped wood. Same view of the dull brick wall across the alley.
A few sips in, I heard the cane tap.
"Excuse me, young man," a gentle voice said.
I looked up. An old man stood there, mid-seventies maybe. Cane in one hand. Neatly dressed in a worn brown coat and simple gray scarf.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked, smiling.
I paused. Then nodded. "Sure."
He sat with a soft grunt, laying his cane across his knees.
"Thank you. These days it feels like I have to ask permission just to exist."
I said nothing. Just nodded and took another sip.
"You work around here?" he asked.
"Yeah. Office job."
"Finance?"
I looked at him. He smiled again, faintly.
"You just have that look," he added.
"I'm an intern."
"Ah. The bottom rung." He chuckled. "That means you're either very ambitious or very lost."
"Both, maybe."
He nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense.
We sat quietly for a moment.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Cassian."
"Good name. Strong. British, right?"
"Sort of. I moved here for the job, actually."
"Still. Names carry weight."
He turned his cup slowly on the table. Empty.
"I'm Pieter," he said.
"Nice to meet you."
He studied me a bit. Not in a creepy way. More like how a gardener looks at a strange flower.
"Married?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked. "No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
He smiled wider. "I have a granddaughter. She's very picky. But you might pass."
"Thanks," I said, half-laughing.
"She says most guys her age are too immature."
"Sounds like a lot to deal with."
"She's worth it."
He leaned back and looked toward the window.
"What made you choose finance?" he asked.
I hesitated. "I like puzzles. Systems. Things that aren't personal."
He nodded again. "Money doesn't argue. It either is or it isn't."
"Exactly."
"You like it so far?"
"It's... fine."
He chuckled. "That's a very intern answer."
He asked more questions about where I grew up, what kind of coffee I liked, if I read the news or not, what I thought about the trains in Belgium. Casual stuff. But every answer I gave, he listened closely. No rush, no judgment.
"Ever think of quitting?" he asked at one point.
"All the time."
"But you don't."
"No."
"Good."
I glanced at his hands. Pale, spotted with age. But steady. The way he moved them. He wasn't weak. Just older.
"You remind me of someone," he said. "From a long time ago."
"Yeah?"
"He was stubborn. Smart. A little too quiet. Thought that was strength."
"Was it?"
"No," he said simply. "But it looked good on him."
He stood up slowly. Brushed his coat. Took the cane.
"You seem sharp, Cassian. Stay sharp."
He nodded once, then walked away, cane tapping softly on the floor.
I looked back at my cup.
Something caught my eye.
On the seat across from me, where he'd been sitting, lay a card.
Matte black. Plain. Just like the one from weeks ago.
No writing this time. No warning. Just the card.
I picked it up. Turned it over.
Blank.
So that was him.
I sat back in my chair and held it between two fingers.