The full length mirror reflected two breathtaking creatures. They were sharply defined in almost sterile order of the room. The man could have been carved from stone for all the softness he was emitting. He was performing an almost supplicant-like ritual. Every single detail of his appearance adjusted until he was satisfied. Anyone who dismissed him as just a beautiful, expensive status symbol was dangerously mistaken.
He admired the perfection of his clothes. The fabric, the colour, the cut—they were the armour of his own choosing. He enjoyed how they made him feel.
Powerful. Striking. Undisputed. Funny how clothes could do such a thing.
A pair of vivid green eyes watched him as he adjusted the cufflinks, leaving the top button of his luxurious shirt strategically undone. Just enough to hint at the power below.
The feline reclined on top of the dresser, large padded paw dangling over the edge, slowly stretching and relaxing while its tail languidly swished back and forth.
A Maine Coon of significant stature and even more significant ego. Those vivid green eyes didn’t just watch. They appraised. It was the only witness of the preparation rites the man went through. It approved.
He caught the cat’s gaze in the mirror. A silent acknowledgment between two predators.
He checked his reflection one last time. The assistant would be waiting in the glass‑walled office downstairs with a coffee that was exactly 65 °C and a briefing that anticipated every question he hadn’t yet thought to ask.
It was the caring that grated—the way the man looked at him not as a titan of industry, but as a person who might actually be hungry, or tired, or human.
It was a tactical intrusion he couldn’t fire him for, mostly because—infuriatingly—it worked.
It was a strange, quiet nourishment, like the steady weight of the cat on the dresser. He didn’t want the warmth, but he found himself leaning into it all the same.
***
The elevator opened directly into his office. Floor-to-ceiling intelligent-reaction glass ensured it was perfectly lit, advanced filtration provided clean air, the floor was made from solid carbonised bamboo. The corner office was sparse, modern, masculine and unexpectedly tactile. His desk—the clear command centre—was placed so he had visibility of the whole room with the windows forming a L-shaped corner behind him.
The desk was engineered carbonised steel with a smart glass panel recessed into it on his left, displaying the security monitoring feeds and building stats. An ultra-wide, sleek monitor sat comfortably in the middle of the desk. A low profile responsive, silent keyboard was in front of the monitor. And on the right, just within reach, a carving he made. The only concession to personalising his space.
The glass wall extending from the elevator to his left held a door to the antechamber. The door to the executive meeting room was on the wall slightly to the right. The position of his desk ensured he could see both doors and the relaxation area in the right hand corner. A pair of deep carbon planters stood directly behind the large L‑shaped sofa, each filled with air‑filtering greenery. The sofa itself, the colour of young whiskey and made from reclaimed, buttery‑soft oiled leather, was the room’s focal point.
The meeting regarding the acquisition of the Malaysian tech startup with remarkably similar ethos was a formality at this point. The company was happy to join with Ouro Tech provided their core principles were being upheld. Case was more than happy to include the clauses in their contract. He was looking forward to working with them. Their ideas were refreshingly honest and grounded in the needs of the world they were a part of.
The exec chatter petered off as Case entered the meeting room. Rafi was waiting at the head of the table with his briefing. He didn’t expect to need it, but he appreciated the quality of the summaries Rafi prepared for him.
He gave a brief introduction, outlining the importance of this acquisition for their continued success and handed over to the relevant person.
He was lost in thoughts of aligning the acquisition with his Antheia Foundation when he realised a particular kind of quiet descended on the room. He looked down the meeting table, seeing confusion and in the presenter’s case, outright fear.
This doesn’t look promising.
He looked at Rafi who immediately handed him a tablet with the last two paragraphs of the meeting italicised. Scanning the text confirmed his thoughts. Not only was it not promising, it was disappointing and disrespectful. The level of ineptitude… Case could feel his ears starting to heat up. This only happened in extreme situations.
He looked at the presenter and in a very measured voice asked for clarification. There was none. All he got was bumbling, apologies and failing attempts at climbing out of the hole that only got deeper as he spoke. It did nothing but make Case angry.
“Rafi", he almost spat the assistant’s name out, "look into this promptly. And chase up the paperwork for the new chief editor. Please.” He remembered to add. He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He didn’t need to. Rafi was the one person he could actually rely on.
He could feel his corporate persona slipping. He needed to get out of the room before he did something he would regret. He needed release. Now.
He was angry in the way that warned everyone to steer clear. He got out of his chair and headed for his office. His normally fluid grace turned staccato as he strode toward the entrance to his private elevator.
This is not acceptable. Months of preparation, networking, pandering to the cameras. All undone because of an oversight in the contract. Because someone didn’t pay attention to the clauses, because they couldn’t read?
The elevator took him to his private work area. The suit jacket was discarded first, his shoes kicked off on the way, the perfectly curated image crumbling until he stood barefoot and bare-chested, in front of the indifferent block of dense White Oak.
He ran his hands slowly over the block, feeling the direction of the grain, and for any hidden knots where the oak would fight back. Scoring knife in hand, he drew the first lines onto the wood. The cut went through the rough-sawn surface of the block, revealing the cream-coloured flesh beneath.
He picked up the heavy wooden mallet, lined up the broad corner-chisel with the line and drove it home with a dull crack. The impact vibrated through the chisel into his forearms and shoulders. The oak fought back. It was coarse, hard and stubborn. Exactly what he needed.
He adjusted his grip, tilted the chisel and struck it again. The sharp, sour smell of it filled his nostrils. He gritted his teeth and struck again. It didn’t matter if he sweated, bled, or hurt because of it. By the time he was done, the unyielding, ancient thing would look exactly as he wanted it to look. The room echoed with the heavy, rhythmic sound of iron hitting wood.
***
The morning light filtering through the wall of glass revealed a silent battleground. The oak wood lay on the sturdy work bench, no longer a block, but a monolithic cradle. The rough factory cut edges were chiselled away, planed down to form smooth, powerful, six-inch-thick, rounded edges. The cradle stretched to thirty-six inches in length and stood sixteen inches off the bench. The core of it was ten inches deep, giving it both a stable base and a satisfying symmetry.
Case sat on a simple wooden stool of his making, at the side of the work bench. His bare feet, covered in wood shavings, were planted wide, giving his frame stability. His head hung low, elbows resting on thighs, shoulders slouched, hands clasped to keep the exhaustion tremors contained. His bare skin coated in a film of sweat and fine pale oak dust, his muscles locked in the heavy, burning ache only that work managed to give him.
He was spent. A night of debarking, hollowing out, and flipping the oak wood, completely drained his physical reserves. His mind — his mind was still. He sent a voice note to Rafi.
“I’m in the workshop. Your assistance is needed.”
Rafi knew Case had a workshop, he also knew it was his private sanctuary and he was not to be disturbed in there. When the message pinged on his phone, Rafi took the thick towelling robe and a container of bone broth calmly to the elevator. The large cat was already waiting for him to open the door.
“You also checking on him, huh?”
He said to the cat. The cat inclined his large silver head towards him slightly, flicked one ear and proceeded to ignore him.
“I can see why the two of you work.” Rafi chuckled at the Maine Coon as the elevator door opened.
Momentarily taken aback by the sheer violence surrounding the work bench, Rafi took it in. Case’s insanely expensive clothing and shoes—strewn about the floor. Case in a heap, barefoot and bare-chested, covered in dust and wood shavings, his fine cashmere trousers unrecognisable.
As Case opened his eyes to look at him, Rafi was a picture of his usual composure. He knew Case well enough not to show any concern. The man saw the smallest acts of compassion as weakness. Rafi was absolutely aware the only reason Case allowed him anywhere near was his competence and ability to stay out of his business. That and the small fact he worked himself so hard last night, he was barely able to lift his head.
The cat didn’t go to Case. It didn’t twine around his ankles and shins or meow. It passed him by, looked at him, then leapt on the workbench, sniffed the cradle, and settled in its depth regally.
“I am so glad you approve, Slate.” Case muttered.
Rafi took it as an opportunity to hand him first the robe, then the bone broth container. He knew there was no way he would be able to shoulder Case’s massive frame if the man didn’t help at all.
Rafi finally managed to get Case to his penthouse floor — with Slate looking bored every step of the way, but staying with them — half an hour later. He left him perched at the high breakfast bar.
“Rafi.”
Case’s resonant baritone cut through the quiet, stopping him in his tracks.
“Take the rest of the day off.”
Rafi smiled to himself. This was the highest type of praise Case ever lavished on anyone.