Friday mornings at Voss International were usually slow: 

caffeine, gossip, the collective lie of “half-day Fridays.”  

But not today.  

Today, Evan Reid had been volunteered—without consent—to lead the “Communication Clarity Workshop,”

a phrase that sounded less like an event and more like a punishment disguised as personal growth.  

Clara was already in Zurich, her absence vibrating through the building like a missing frequency. 

Her last message to him was concise:  

*“Remember: Clarity isn’t kindness. It’s respect.”*  

Which, in Clara language, translated roughly to: 

Don’t humiliate anyone. But also don’t be boring.

At nine o’clock, the glass conference room filled with the usual mix of departments—Marketing, 

Finance, Design, a few interns who looked like they’d been tricked into attending. 

Mira sat near the back, arms crossed, expression sharp.

 Lena brought her coffee and chaos. Iris carried a sketchbook, as always. Nadia wasn’t there—thankfully.  

Evan stood at the front of the room, marker in hand, staring at the whiteboard like it was a firing squad.  

“Good morning,” he began. “I’m supposed to teach clarity. 

Which is ironic, since I have no idea how this workshop is supposed to go.”  

Laughter rippled through the room. Good sign.  

“Let’s start simple,” he continued. 

“If your email has more adjectives than nouns, you’re writing a novel, not an update.

 If your meeting needs a meeting to prepare for it, delete the meeting. 

And if your boss says ‘circle back,’ they mean ‘I’ll forget this by Monday.’”

Lena raised her hand. “Are we taking notes or filing HR complaints?”

“Both,” Evan said. “Efficiency.”

Even Mira cracked a reluctant smile.  

He continued, pacing slowly. 

“The problem with corporate communication is that everyone’s afraid to sound human. 

You can say the truth and still keep your job. Mostly.”  

“Mostly?” someone called from the back.  

He shrugged. “Depends who you spill coffee on.”

Laughter again—bigger this time. He relaxed into it, feeling the rhythm of the room shift from polite attention to genuine amusement.  

Then, halfway through his next point, the door opened.  

Nadia walked in.  

Late. Unannounced. Wearing a black trench coat and sunglasses despite being indoors.

 “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Continue. I’m just observing for the Zurich report.”  

He hesitated. “Of course. Please observe responsibly.”  

She smiled and took a seat—front row. 

The kind of move that meant: *I’m here to see if you’re worth the rumor.*

He returned to the board, improvising. 

“Okay,” he said, “let’s talk tone. 

Clara—our CEO—believes tone is currency. 

Spend it badly, you lose trust. Spend it wisely, people follow you.”  

Nadia spoke up. “And how do you spend it wisely, Mr. Reid?”  

He turned, marker still in hand.

 “By remembering that emails are like knives. 

They should cut through noise, not people.”  

A murmur of approval. Nadia tilted her head. “That sounds rehearsed.”  

“It’s not,” he said. “Rehearsed lines don’t survive this company.”

Lena whispered loud enough for the room to hear, “Neither do unfiltered ones.”

The laughter that followed was too loud, too real. 

And somehow, it made the room feel more alive than any official seminar ever had.

Mira, always precise, raised a finger.

“Clarity isn’t just language,” she said. “It’s intent. You can’t write cleanly if you’re hiding something.”  

Evan nodded. “Exactly.

 The moment you start writing to protect yourself instead of communicate, the message dies.”  

He caught himself mid-sentence, realizing Clara had said nearly the same thing to him on his first day. 

He stopped, looked at the whiteboard, then wrote in large letters:

TRUTH = RESPECT

Silence followed. 

Then Nadia’s voice, low and amused: “That’s not in any official handbook.”  

“It’s the only thing that works,” he said.  

For a long moment, the room stayed still. 

Then Mira nodded. Iris smiled softly. Even Lena stopped teasing.  

Afterward, people lingered—half networking, half gossiping. 

Mira clapped him on the shoulder.

 “You’re dangerously good at this,” she said. 

“Remind me never to argue with you in an email thread.”  

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I lose interest halfway through typing.”  

Lena joined them. “Congratulations,” she said. 

“You just turned corporate training into therapy. Everyone’s whispering about you again.”  

“Perfect,” he said. “Fame was my backup career.”

Nadia approached last. “That was… not terrible,” she said.  

“I aim for mediocrity,” he replied.  

“You missed it,” she said. “You were honest instead.

 Clara will either hate that or promote you.”  

He blinked. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not supposed to be.” She smiled faintly. 

“She values disruption. Just make sure you survive it.”

That evening, after most of the office emptied, 

Evan sat at his desk finishing Clara’s requested revisions. He hesitated before sending them. 

Her absence had turned the entire building slightly off-balance, like a clock ticking one beat too slow.  

He attached the file, typed the subject line—*Guardrail Final Draft – Respect Edition*—and sent it.  

Then he leaned back, staring at the reflection of the city lights on the glass wall.  

His phone buzzed a few minutes later. Unknown number again. Short message.  

*“Saw the recording. You made them listen. That’s rare. —C.V.”*  

He stared at it for a long time before replying.  

*“Clarity achieved. No coffee spilled.”*  

A few seconds later, her response arrived:  

*“Small miracles. Keep making them.”*  

He smiled, for real this time. 

Not because he felt victorious—but because somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity, 

the job had stopped being just a paycheck.  

The city outside was still awake, neon and rain mingling over the glass. 

And for the first time since he’d joined Voss International, Evan realized he wanted to see what would happen next—not just in the company, but with *her*.  

He closed his laptop, grabbed his bag, and headed for the elevator.  

The reflection followed him in the glass doors—half smirk, half curiosity.  

Whatever this was turning into, it wasn’t just work anymore.  

And that was the first real problem he didn’t want to solve.