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LEROI LETS OUT AN ANIMALISTIC groan that sounds like he's literally struggling with the physics trying to squeeze into his ears and plant itself into his brain. The fonts of the book dare him into a menacing staring contest and he obliges gladly.

The godfather pendulum in the far right corner of the office ticks its presence known, so does the humming of the airconditioner and the harmonic melody of cars and society zooming down the streets enjoying their daily normal lives. All these sounds can take Leroi's blame of not allowing the book to assimilate. The tuxedo strangling the comfort out of him and the invisibility out of his veins is not left out.

Leroi has always hated tuxedos. Every single type. Tailed, cotton-chested, the shiny extra-bogus ones highschoolers of nowadays use to slay prom royalty. Every single brand. The Micheal Kors, Louis Vuitton, To Oscar de la Renta and so on. This one is a plain, simple Moschino suit, monochromatically themed to reflect the boringness of businessdom.

Just like this office. The highest floor in the headquarters of Slayberry Corps sitting in the heart of Houston. Sure it sounds cute to be an executive manager of a whole million dollar company dealing in agricultural luxury. It sounds even cuter to look out to these not-so-quaint town erect in the heart of Texas, wailing in simplicity from the giant, transparent wall window that looks out of the skyscraper.

Soon, he'll be the owner of all this. It all sounds swoonworthy but boring at the same time. He's not even overthinking the fact that it's been set in stone that he's destined to be stuck in this chair, giving orders and riding gross office cars instead of the Bugattis and Ferraris he is pursed enough to acquire.

Who doesn't want to sit in that comfy acrylonitrile rolling chair; Leroi is sprawled over the mini-lounge in the left corner of the room, his head is upside down as he stares at the still chair from across the room. He can feel the blood rushing into his head but its far from the physical realm.

Flipping out of the couch and consequently dropping on the floor, he picks himself up almost immediately and trudges to the table where Robyn should be sitting, if not for her ass being stuck on yet another gruelling, pointless board meeting. The table is majestic glass embroidered with masterful woodwork. On the table is a MacBook flashing its glowing apple crest charging, some gummy bears packets stuffed under the clicker and a mess of documents painting every vertex of the table.

Leroi flops into the seat and twirls thrice, throwing his head back while feeling the airconditioned wind blow his face. Then he shifts in the chair to his comfort. He strikes the clicker. He sets the set of pencils and pens in place beside the sharpener. Then, out of boredom, arranges each and every paper into fresh stacks on an edge.

He clicks his tongue and gives the table one last look.

"Fuck this shit."

Leroi rolls out of the seat and grabs a bottle of Myx Moscato from the cooler, his physics textbook too before pressing the elevator open.

It's Take Your Child To Work day and Robyn, wanting to be a just boss deemed it fit to tag, more like tug Leroi along. Irrespective of the test he has in two days time and his allergy to officework.

When the elevator dings and opens to the lowest floor of the building, Leroi's claustrophobic ass almost rums out of the contraption. He's soon out of the shock and is practically bouncing.

A cleaner who's busy with her daily activities and whistling out the Ed Sheeran in her head is in front. Leroi leaps over her supplies. "Watch your way, grandma!"

While Leroi can see a handful of children, and teens like himself strolling the building, it's still clear the population is sparse. This board meeting seems to be urgent enough to involve the near entirety of the company.

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