At last, the cart crested a narrow passage, and before them loomed the threshold of Brenda’s office—the final bastion of Accounts Payable. Ben slowed the cart with a powerful push, every muscle in his battle-worn frame tense with anticipation.

  Greg grunted, “We made it, Ben,” in his unflappable, standard tone.

  Ben’s eyes burned with the fire of redemption. “Onward!” he declared. “Let us deliver our tribute to the lady of accounts. Today, we right the wrongs and reclaim our honor!”

  And so, with the mail neatly amassed and his trusty navigator by his side, Ben prepared to roll forth into Brenda’s domain—a final charge toward a destiny he was determined not to let slip away again.

  Brenda sat in her cramped corner office—a small throne for a minor lord, or so Ben mused bitterly. In his eyes, she ruled over a paltry dominion with the haughty air of someone who believed her realm was vast and mighty. Yet, he set aside his disdain; now was not the hour to let his pride flare.

  Ben entered, mail bundled like sacred scrolls in his arms, and approached her desk. “My lady,” he intoned, voice low and trembling with wounded honor, “I have come bearing the correspondence required by our charge.”

  Brenda barely glanced up from her computer, her tone clipped and standard. “Take it,” she said, dismissively.

  A flash of indignation surged through Ben, but he held it in. He placed the mail before her and murmured an apology, “Forgive my delay. I have... faltered in my duty.”

  “Spare me the theatrics, Ben. Just do your job,” she replied, eyes returning to her work without a trace of ceremony.

  After a moment, Brenda began methodically shuffling through the envelopes, her movements efficient yet indifferent. The hum of routine filled the room until, suddenly, her eyes caught a particular letter resting among the others.

  “Oh, silly me,” she said, a hint of amusement softening her tone. “It was here the whole time.”

  Ben’s tensed as he absorbed her careless tone. His pride, already wounded by past failures, burned with the desire for redemption. Yet, he remained silent—his duty, his quest for honor, transcending even this small rebuke.

  In that moment, as Brenda returned to her spreadsheets and the mundane rhythm of office life, Ben’s resolve only grew stronger. The battle for honor raged on, and he would not let this minor defeat define him.

  Ben’s pride still burned as he left Brenda’s office, her dismissive “Oh, silly me, it was here the whole time” echoing like a taunting refrain in his ears. Marching down the corridor with the mail cart in tow, he grabbed Greg by the shoulder.

  “Greg,” Ben thundered, his voice a mix of wounded honor and simmering fury, “did you hear her?”

  Greg, steady and unruffled, replied in his usual measured tone, “That’s Brenda for you, Ben. She makes a fuss over every minor mistake. Half the time, it’s her fault. That’s how she is.”

  Ben’s eyes flashed as he hefted the cart with renewed determination, “Then we shall prove our worth by setting things right! Now, let’s take this portal.”

  He pointed at the elevator, their modern gateway from the mundane corridors to the hallowed halls of the mailroom. “Onward, my friend, to the mailroom! There we restore order, and I alone shall bear this burden!”

  Greg nodded and pressed the button for the mailroom floor. As the metal doors slid shut with a resonant clank, Ben flexed his muscles, the fabric of his too-tight suit straining against his heroic frame. Every step was a defiant oath against failure.

  Inside the elevator, the low hum of its machinery mingled with Ben’s inner fervor. He glanced at Greg, who offered a small, reassuring smile before resuming his role as navigator. “We’re almost there, Ben. We aren’t lost.” Greg said simply.

  Ben’s eyes narrowed as he imagined the mailroom as a battlefield—a realm of scattered scrolls and disordered parcels where every properly delivered letter was a small victory against chaos. “Perfect,” he murmured, his tone both proud and pained, “for every error corrected, every scroll in its rightful place, we reclaim a piece of our honor.”

  The elevator doors opened with a groan, and the duo stepped into the dim, hallowed space of the mailroom. Amid the scent of aged paper and the quiet shuffle of diligent workers, Ben’s heart pounded with the promise of redemption. Today, even the smallest errand would be transformed into a triumph.

  “Onward, Greg,” Ben commanded, clenching his fists. “Let us bring order to this realm, and show the world that even in failure, a warrior’s spirit burns ever bright!”

  *****

  Ben’s fist struck the mail cart like a war drum, rattling a tower of parchment-scroll invoices. “Mark this day, comrades! The clothiers of this realm are spineless curs.”

  The War Council stirred. Kellen’s stress ball wheezed. The Intern swept shredded paper into a dustpan.

  “Three hours we wandered!” Ben bellowed, gesturing to Greg, who hovered by the door like a disgraced herald. “Three!” He yanked at his suit jacket—a charcoal relic from Greg’s “golden age” of client-facing meetings—now frayed at the cuffs and split at the seam. “Their shears trembled before my stature!”

  Lisa paused her nail-filing ritual. “You told the guy at Suit Wearhouse you needed ‘armor for verbal jousting.’ He called security.”

  “Falsehoods!” Ben roared, but the sleeve tore further, revealing a bicep patched with sticky notes and binder clips. “The IT shamans have blessed my path! Their runes glow with…” He squinted at Derek’s hastily scrawled Post-it. “‘Firmware update needed.’ Aye! The stars align!”

  Marisa slid a caramel macchiato toward Ben. “Syncing with Jenny, huh? Last guy who ‘synced’ with her got relocated to the Anchorage branch. By fax.”

  Ben ignored her, pacing like a caged wyvern. “When the Tactical Liaison and I are joined in purpose, our conquests shall—”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Riiip.

  The left knee of his trousers yawned open, exposing a hairy calf duct-taped to a sock garter.

  “The threads rebel against their master,” Ben intoned, staring at the tear.

  Lisa didn’t glance up from her crossword. “The threads rebelled when you wore them to ‘storm’ the supply closet.”

  The Intern paused his sweeping. “Chad’s new memo says ‘business casual includes kilts if culturally appropri—’”

  “SILENCE!” Ben’s roar shook Garry’s half-eaten doughnut from its wax-paper throne. He drew himself up, a titan in threadbare finery, and thrust his stapler toward the flickering exit sign. “Dawn finds me in the Obsidian Spire! Let Jenny come with her ‘metrics’ and ‘bandwidth’—I’ll answer with this!” He flexed. A binder clip shot off his shoulder, nailing Derek’s forehead.

  Derek adjusted his fogged glasses. “Your VPN’s still…”

  “SYNCED!” Ben boomed, storming out.

  Marisa stirred her oat-milk wandcraft. “Jenny’s gonna eat him alive.”

  “Proactive… interdepartmental collaboration,” Greg whispered, fishing a Xanax from his fanny pack.

  Garry snorted in his sleep, a rumble deeper than the HVAC’s death rattle.

  The door shuddered.

  Ben loomed before the Vertical Portal—a shuddering steel contraption he’d dubbed “The Throat of the Tower”—as Greg cheerfully interrogated a passing intern about their weekend pottery class.

  First Trial (Lobby Skirmish):

  “The portal beckons, Greg!” Ben barked, jabbing the elevator button like a knight prodding a dragon with a stick. “Our quest brooks no delay!”

  “Two secs!” Greg called over his shoulder, high-fiving a janitor. “Manny! How’s your daughter’s recital?”

  Ben’s eye twitched. “You consort with the castle’s scullions?!”

  “She played Hot Cross Buns,” Greg sighed, stepping into the elevator. “Twice. It was… formative.”

  Second Trial (The Vertical Gauntlet):

  The doors groaned shut. Ben glared at the floor numbers like a general surveying a siege map. “Mark my words—this ascent teems with vipers. Jenny’s spies lurk in every shadow.”

  “Or,” Greg mused, waving at Chad’s assistant through the closing doors, “it’s just Jessica from Legal.”

  Ding. Floor 3: Marketing.

  The doors slid open. A flock of graphic designers scattered, clutching their chai lattes.

  “Greg!” cried a woman in a moth-wing cardigan. “You got my ergonomic chair request approved!”

  Ben barred the doors with his arm, quivering. “We do not tarry!”

  Greg leaned out. “Anytime, Sarah! Wrist stretches save lives!”

  Third Trial (Mid-Floor Ambush):

  Ding. Floor 5: Accounting.

  Ben lunged for the “Close Door” button, but Greg dodged, greeting a pale man pushing a cart of ledgers.

  “Steve! How’s the new puppy?”

  “Ate my W-2s,” Steve’s voice monotone.

  Greg clasped his shoulder. “Growth opportunity!”

  Ben’s fist crumpled a styrofoam cup. “You COURT DISASTER!” he roared, yanking Greg back. “Must you parley with every serf and scullion?”

  Greg adjusted his “Mental Health Matters” pin. “They’re not serfs, Ben. They’re people. You know what happens when Chad ‘optimizes’ someone? I do. I filed the paperwork. I watch them box up their kid’s crayon drawings.” His voice softened. “So yeah, I learn their coffee orders. Their kids’ names. Makes the layoffs hurt less when they know someone… cared.”

  Ben hesitated. Somewhere below, a photocopier whined like a dying griffin.

  “A warrior’s might,” Greg said, tapping Ben’s chest, “isn’t in his sword arm. It’s here. You want loyalty? Remember who hates coconut syrup.”

  The knight-errant stared at Greg’s outstretched hand—a HR pamphlet on “Emotional Intelligence” balanced atop his palm.

  “Bah!” Ben swatted it away. “Soft words won’t shield us from Jenny’s wrath!”

  Ding. Floor 12: Jenny’s Floor

  Outside Jenny’s Office (Floor 12):

  “Steady, Greg,” Ben rumbled, his voice a landslide in the suffocating quiet. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit, its seams groaning under the strain of Ben’s siege-hardened frame. “When the Liaison emerges, we’ll demand answers. A knight does not grovel before bureaucratic phantoms.”

  Greg’s Adam’s apple quivered. “Right. Answers. But maybe we phrase it as a collaborative—”

  “Ben.”

  The name struck like a guillotine blade.

  Jenny stood behind them, materializing as though the shadows between ceiling tiles had coalesced into a woman. Her blazer, blacker than the door itself, absorbed the light, leaving only the glint of her security badge—a blood-red slash across her breast. Greg’s binder hit the carpet with a thunderclap, pages exploding outward in a paper blizzard of flowcharts and mediation guidelines.

  “Mr. Tario,” Jenny said, her voice smoother than a severance package. She didn’t look at Greg. Didn’t need to. Her gaze pinned Ben like a specimen slide. “Your skill set is no longer… aligned with current objectives.”

  Greg’s laugh hiccuped into a whimper. “But Chad’s all-hands memo said cross-departmental synergy is a Q4 priority! I’ve got the bullet points—” He stooped to gather papers, fingers trembling.

  Jenny’s heel crunched down on a flowchart titled De-Escalation Pathways. “Your bullet points,” she said, “are archived.”

  Ben stepped forward, his bulk casting a shadow even Jenny couldn’t eclipse. “The Herald stays. Our covenant was sworn before the Coffee Altar itself!”

  Jenny’s smile was a blade sheathed in frost. “Your ‘covenant’ violates six HR policies. Greg.”

  Greg froze, a paper crane of conflict resolution strategies crumpled in his fist.

  “Now.”

  The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

  Greg fled, his loafers squeaking a retreat anthem. At the elevator bank, he turned—just once—and met Ben’s gaze. His eyes screamed a warning older than corporate time: Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

  Then he was gone, leaving Ben alone with the woman who wore shadows like a crown.