The elevator display blinked: 114. Charles's fingers drummed against his messenger bag in sync with the gentle deceleration, muscle memory from countless identical mornings. As the doors slid open, the familiar scent of coffee and sanitizer washed over him, mingling with the sharp undertone of ethanol from the lab wing of Helix Biometrics.
8:47 AM. His steps faltered as he rounded the corner. The usual spots were already claimed – monitors glowing, protein structure models rotating on screensavers, half-eaten breakfast bars scattered across desks. The analytics team had staked their territory hours ago, their synchronized typing creating a percussion of productivity.
A hand shot up from the HR corner. "Charles! Got your quarterlies done?"
Diane. Her voice carried across the open floor plan like a jar of dropped beakers. Charles lifted his hand in what might have been a wave, might have been a warning, and veered toward his locker.
The combination lock clicked: 27-13-42. Each number aligned with precise, practiced movements. Inside waited the artifacts of belonging.
He scanned the room, cataloging available desks with the same attention he usually reserved for analyzing trial data. There – three rows back, just close enough to seem collegial, just far enough to avoid getting pulled into conversations about someone's sourdough starter or their kid's dance recital.
The nameplate came first. Cumberland Box & Display's final gift: his name router-carved into cherry wood, the grain swirling like DNA helices. He positioned it, adjusted it, adjusted it again. The angle had to be right – visible but not asking to be seen.
His Ember mug settled onto its charging base with a soft click. The LED ring pulsed red, then blue, a miniature version of the PCR machines humming in the lab below. He extracted his mouse next, the programmable buttons worn smooth from countless hours of data analysis.
Finally, the jacket. Navy blue, department store clearance rack. The right sleeve was slightly frayed, but draped over the chair back, it completed the illusion of permanence.
The chair required its own ritual. Forward. Back. Up. Down. The lumbar support knob resisted, then yielded. His vertebrae aligned one by one, like base pairs finding their matches.
"Yo, Charles!"
Tom's voice cut through his concentration. The team lead was weaving between desks, tablet in hand, lab coat fluttering. "We're reviewing the Peterson trial data in five. The enzyme degradation rates look weird."
Charles's hand tightened on his mouse. The screen before him showed yesterday's unfinished analysis, the cursor blinking accusingly in cell E247.
"Still need to update my regression models," he said, the words coming out clipped. His fingers moved automatically: 9-3-5-7-2. The laptop hummed to life.
"Come on, man." Tom leaned against the desk, disrupting the nameplate's careful angle. "We've got the whole team waiting. Even got Roberts calling in from the Singapore lab."
Charles looked at his carefully arranged desk – the nameplate now askew, steam rising from his untouched coffee, his jacket hanging like a borrowed costume. Then he glanced at his analytics dashboard, where red flags dotted the Peterson trial data like warning flares.
"Those degradation rates," he said slowly, straightening the nameplate with one finger. "They're not weird. They're impossible." He pulled up a chart, columns of numbers reflecting in his glasses. "Look at the control group. Someone's been rounding down the failures."
Tom's casual lean became a sharp intake of breath. "Shit. How did we miss that?"
"Because of open plan desks.”