Before Ryan could pivot toward the relative safety of his desk pod, Greg shifted his weight, effectively blocking the narrow walkway between the filing cabinets and the print station. He didn't drop the subject; instead, he popped the metal clasp of the slim manila folder with a crisp snap and flipped it open to a flagged signature page. A pre-printed corporate ballpoint pen—one of the cheap promotional ones Corravale ordered by the gross—was already extended toward Ryan's fingers. Greg offered a thin, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, noting smoothly that regional logistics needed the authorization logged before the morning briefing cycle kicked off at nine, practically tapping his index finger against the dotted line where Ryan's exact, immaculate signature block was already faintly ghost-printed in light toner.
The air in the fourth-floor corridor felt unnaturally still, smelling faintly of stale ozone from the nearby copier and the bitter dregs of burnt espresso. Inside the canvas messenger bag slung over Ryan's shoulder, the heavy leather-bound ledger felt like an anchor pulling him down into deep, freezing water. He looked from the extended pen to Greg's patient, expectant face, acutely aware of the open-plan workspace humming around them like a well-oiled machine oblivious to the trap snapping shut. With agonizing slowness, Ryan reached out, his fingers brushing the cool plastic barrel of the pen as he stalled for time, searching for a way to dodge a signature that his own hand seemed to have authorized a dozen times before he even woke up.