the breakroom and found Rebecca

she walked into the breakroom and found Rebecca—her coworker with the perpetually tight smile—leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The air smelled of burnt coffee and something sharper, like citrus-scented resentment.

Polly reached for a clean mug, but Rebecca shifted just enough to block the cabinet. "Oh," Rebecca said, voice honeyed, "I didn’t see you there." Her eyes flicked over Polly’s outfit, lingering on the crisp blouse, the polished heels. "You always look so… perfect, don’t you?"

Polly’s fingers hovered near the mug handle, the porcelain cool under her fingertips. She could feel Rebecca’s gaze like a physical weight—the way it traced the sharp line of her blazer, the precise fold of her collar. The breakroom hummed faintly, the refrigerator motor clicking on, the distant drip of the faulty sink tap.

“Thanks,” Polly said, her voice measured, as if she hadn’t noticed the edge in Rebecca’s words. She tilted her chin just slightly, meeting her coworker’s stare without blinking. The air between them thickened—burnt coffee, Rebecca’s floral perfume, something metallic underneath.

Rebecca’s fingers drummed once—twice—against the countertop. The sound was sharp, deliberate. "A fun challenge," she repeated, tilting her head just enough to let the fluorescent light catch the gloss on her lips. "Unless you’re too busy."

Polly’s thumb brushed the rim of the mug. The ceramic was smooth, flawless. Like everything else in this place. Like everything she was supposed to be.

"I’m listening," Polly said.

Rebecca’s smile widened. She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a single die—small, ivory, the numbers etched in deep black.

The die landed between them with a soft click. Polly didn’t move to pick it up.

Rebecca exhaled through her nose—a quiet, controlled sound—and tapped one manicured nail against the counter. "One roll," she said. "Highest number wins."

Polly’s fingers stilled against the mug. The die gleamed between them—small, innocuous, yet humming with unspoken stakes.

“And what,” she asked slowly, “does the winner get?”

Rebecca’s nail tapped again—click, click—against the counter. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows under her cheekbones. She leaned in, just enough for Polly to catch the scent of her perfume—jasmine, cloying, with something bitter underneath.

“A favor,” Rebecca murmured. “Unquestioned.

Polly’s pulse thudded once—hard—against her ribs. The die sat between them like a dare. Rebecca’s perfume clung to the back of her throat, thick as the tension in the air.

“Unquestioned,” Polly repeated, testing the word on her tongue. The hum of the refrigerator pitched higher, a strained whirr beneath the silence.

Rebecca’s fingers twitched toward the die, her French manicure catching the light. “Unless,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’d rather walk away.”