Ryan stared down at the crisp corporate letterhead, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of the signature block. The signature wasn't merely a rough forgery or a passing resemblance; it was his own exact pen stroke—the slightly exaggerated loop of the 'R', the sharp downward cross of the 't', executed with the precise pressure he used when signing off on routine marketing expenditure. Yet his memory remained entirely blank. He had never contracted the electrical firm, never authorized heavy-load transformer work for a derelict cold-storage site in Mascot, and certainly never signed off on a four-figure bill. Around him, the open-plan marketing pod was steadily thinning out as colleagues began drifting toward the ground-floor food court or stepping out to grab a midday flat white, leaving Ryan marooned in a quiet island of fluorescent light and mounting panic.
With a quick, furtive glance left and right to ensure no one was peering over the low privacy screen, Ryan folded the vendor invoice and slid it deep inside his leather meeting folder, right alongside the overdue logistics notices and the unauthorized shipping manifests. The paper felt heavy, burning against his ribs like lead. His chest felt tight, the air-conditioning vent directly overhead suddenly seeming too cold, too sharp against the back of his neck. It felt impossible—some bizarre shadow-work operating through his own hand while he slept, or perhaps while he sat right at this very desk, executing corporate transactions he had no cognitive record of making.
Checking the bottom right corner of his computer monitor, the digital clock blinked softly: 13:05. The lunch hour was slipping away, and the midday lull would soon give way to afternoon check-ins and vendor calls. Needing a break from the claustrophobic hum of the pod, Ryan stood up, smoothing down the front of his pressed white collared shirt. He grabbed his canvas messenger bag, sliding it securely over one shoulder, deciding that a brief walk down to the lobby water fountain—or perhaps a very cautious look at the floor box near his desk—was the only way to keep his hands from shaking before the afternoon rhythm resumed.