Mr. and Mrs. Frost [completed]

VI: Job

JACK

Jack stumbled out of his car, his mind still spinning with the rush of emotions from the morning. He shook his head, trying to focus. "Focus!" he muttered under his breath, scolding himself as he walked toward the building. The weight of the day's surprises hung heavily over him, but he pushed them aside, slipping into the sleek, modern structure that housed his new workplace.

As he entered, the hum of activity surrounded him. The clatter of keyboards, the buzz of office chatter—everyone was in motion, each person absorbed in their own tasks. Jack stepped into the elevator, joining a few other employees, each absorbed in their own world. The elevator's smooth ascent seemed to stretch on forever as the floors ticked by, each one shedding its passengers until, by the time the elevator reached the 50th floor, Jack was alone, left with his thoughts as the soft chime echoed through the empty space.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the floor he had come for. The 50th floor, the home of the President's office. It was a space that screamed authority and influence. A large, imposing desk sat at the center, a woman, presumably the President's secretary, hunched over her work, furiously scribbling on a notepad. Jack hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat softly to draw her attention.

"I'm here for Mr. Pitch Black," he announced, his voice carrying a formal tone as he stepped into the space.

The secretary glanced up briefly, her gaze uninterested as she continued typing without pause. "Name, please?" she asked, her voice dull and mechanical.

"Jack Frost," he replied, meeting her gaze with quiet confidence.

She didn't react, merely nodded before turning her attention back to her computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, a blur of rapid movements. Jack's eyes wandered over the room, noting the strategically placed cameras in every corner of the room. The security here was as tight as a drum, no blind spots, no room for error. A sly smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Clever, he thought to himself.

Just then, the phone on her desk rang, breaking the silence. The secretary answered it quickly, her voice dropping to a lower register as she spoke. Jack strained his ears, catching snippets of the conversation. The tone of the call, the quick manner in which she responded—it wasn't lost on him that it was likely Pitch Black himself on the other line. His suspicion was confirmed when, after a few moments, the secretary hung up and turned her attention back to him.

"Mr. Black is out for a meeting," she said, her voice as dry as ever. "He said you can head to the design office on the 39th floor." She gave a brief, almost dismissive nod, her fingers already returning to the keys. Jack didn't waste another second. He nodded, turned on his heel, and made his way back to the elevator.

The 39th floor was a far cry from the rigid formality of the 50th. The quiet, focused energy of the design department wrapped around him as he stepped off the elevator. He glanced around, taking in the hum of creativity—the artists, the designers, the architects of dreams, all working diligently on their projects. Everywhere he looked, there was some new, fantastical creation in progress—clunky robots, intricately detailed dolls, high-tech gadgets designed to captivate and entertain. This was the beating heart of Dreamland, where the magic began.

Jack continued down the hallway toward the head office of the design department. Just as he reached the door, it swung open, and a middle-aged man stepped out, his expression focused, brisk. He exchanged a few quick words with his secretary about heading to the finance department for a brief meeting, then turned his attention to Jack, noticing him standing by the door.