I stepped into the company's lobby, the chill of the outdoors fading as the warmth of the interior enveloped me. The space was vast, with high ceilings that made every sound echo faintly. The polished floors reflected the glow of the overhead lights, which cast a warm but sterile hue over the room.
At the center of it all stood a massive Christmas tree, its decorations so garish that it bordered on absurd. The branches were weighed down with oversized baubles in clashing colors, strings of blinking lights that seemed to flicker at random, and a glittering gold star that looked as though it might topple at any moment. It was the kind of decoration that screamed extravagance without taste, an effort to convey festivity that fell flat.
Sasha, ever the pragmatist, had settled herself on one of the sleek sofas lining the lobby. It was upholstered in gray leather, positioned as though to suggest an air of professionalism, though its placement felt more like an afterthought.
"Not exactly the kind of office you'd expect from a top-tier tech company," she remarked, her tone dry.
"Very professional," Sasha remarked again, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she glanced at the receptionist, who was now blowing on her nails as if we weren't even there.
I turned to Sasha, noticing something off about her posture. Her face looked unusually pale, and she was arching her back slightly, one hand resting on her stomach as though she were dealing with some discomfort.
"Sasha, are you feeling under the weather?" I asked, my tone softer than usual.
She gave me a faint smile, shaking her head. "I'm okay. It's just… the monthly female problem," she said, her voice low but steady.
Ah. That explained it. I nodded, understanding her situation. While I didn't know the specifics, I recognized the signs of someone trying to push through discomfort.
"No problem," I said gently, gesturing toward the sofa she'd just left. "Just sit back and rest. I'll handle the rest of this."
For a moment, she looked as though she might argue, but then she sighed and sank back into the gray leather seat, clearly grateful for the reprieve.
"I'll be fine," she murmured, crossing her arms and leaning back. "Just don't let that receptionist make you lose your patience."
I smirked faintly. "I'll do my best."
As I turned back toward the hallway the receptionist had pointed out, I couldn't shake the nagging sense that this entire visit was going to lead to more questions than answers. But for now, Sasha needed to take it easy, and I had a job to do.
I nodded, my gaze shifting to the receptionist. She was seated behind a wide counter, utterly uninterested in our presence. A bottle of nail polish sat on the desk, its bright red hue matching the half-painted nails on her left hand. Her right hand held a steaming cup of coffee, and she alternated between sipping it and blowing on the wet polish to dry it faster.
The contrast between her casual demeanor and the supposedly professional setting was stark. She barely glanced up as we approached, her focus fixed on perfecting her manicure.
"Excuse me," I said, stopping in front of the desk.
The receptionist finally looked up, her expression equal parts bored and annoyed. "Yeah?"
I calmly displayed my detective ID card. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly straightened up in her chair, setting her coffee cup aside and clearing her throat. In an instant, her demeanor shifted to something more professional and alert.
She quickly sat up straight and became more alert. "Ah, a detective," she said, her tone becoming more professional and efficient. "How can I assist you today?"
I nodded, acknowledging her change in attitude. "We're here to ask a few questions about Noah Dawson," I said, keeping my tone polite but firm.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Noah Dawson?"
"Yes," I said. "He used to work here. We need to know more about him."
The receptionist hesitated for a moment, her gaze darting to her computer screen before returning to me. She set down her nail polish bottle with a deliberate sigh, her fingers tapping on the desk as though contemplating her next words.
"I don't know much about him," she said finally. "And, additionally, we have a strict policy against giving personal details to outsiders."
I studied her closely. She was one of those who seemed to judge people based on their status or the designer labels they wore. The faint air of superiority about her was hard to miss.
Once again, I flashed my ID card, leaning in slightly to emphasize my authority. "I am the head detective in this investigation."
She arched a brow, unimpressed, though her posture remained formal. "Respected sir, you might be a head detective, but our company policies are very clear. We do not disclose any specific information about our employees, particularly those in higher positions like team leaders. We respect their personal, professional, and private lives."
Her rehearsed response was frustrating, but I kept my expression neutral.
"Do you know that Noah Dawson was found dead on a street in Schwat City?" I asked, my voice sharper now.
Her expression froze, the color draining slightly from her face. "No," she replied, her voice quieter this time.
I leaned against the counter, his ID still in hand. The receptionist's eyes flickered to it again before she reached for the phone, her movements suddenly hurried.
"There's a 'head' detective here," she said into the receiver, her voice carefully controlled but lacking the defiance from earlier. "He's asking about… Noah Dawson."
As she spoke, I caught the faintest twitch in her brow, the way her fingers tapped against the desk edge as though restless. She was nervous, but was it just because of his presence—or something more?
I glanced at Sasha, who had sunk deeper into the sofa but was watching the receptionist with a sharp, assessing gaze.
"She's stalling," Sasha muttered, her voice low enough for only me to hear. "Nobody changes their tone that fast unless they're hiding something."
I didn't reply but gave her a brief nod, filing her observation away as he waited for HR to arrive.
A part of me believed that half the receptionists I'd encountered fit her mold—uncooperative, rude, and quick to judge. Their clipped tones and icy stares often left little room for pleasantries. Still, there had been exceptions—some who were warm, hospitable, and almost overly polite. But if my past experiences taught me anything, it was that the friendly ones often had more to hide. Their politeness wasn't always genuine; it masked deeper motives, secrets they guarded closely behind bright smiles and professional decorum. In contrast, the brusque ones rarely played games—they wore their disdain openly, their honesty almost refreshing. It reminded me that appearances could be deceiving, and it wouldn't do to draw conclusions so quickly.
"Let's hope HR is more cooperative," I murmured, my patience thinning but my determination intact.