-POV Derby
The digital signature at the bottom of the email didn't disappear, no matter how many times I rubbed my eyes or blinked at the screen. *Jordan Vasquez. Office of the Chairman.*
My fingers hovered over the mechanical keyboard, completely frozen. Around me, the ordinary office buzz continued unfiltered. Maya was laughing at someone’s joke two rows over, the communal printer was groaning as it spat out hundreds of marketing briefs, and the smell of burnt toast drifted from the breakroom. Everything was completely normal. Except for the absolute bomb that had just detonated in my private inbox.
"Hey, Derby, you good?"
I jumped slightly, my hand instinctively slamming the laptop screen half-shut as Marcus, a junior web designer, strolled past my cubicle with a stack of visual ass
