Chapter 10 （continued）
Nika
I read the side of the bottle carefully.
Common side effects include abdominal pain, bloating, and diarrhoea.
Abdominal pain. Bloating. Diarrhoea.
I nodded slowly, the way you nod when something confirms exactly what you were hoping it would confirm, and reached for the second bottle.
The kitchen smelled like dark chocolate and something sweetly dangerous.
Rich and warm, the kind of smell that made people lower their guard completely—that made them think treat and celebration and someone went to a lot of effort.
Which was true. I had gone to a lot of effort.
That was the part I wanted them to appreciate.
I poured both bottles into the Belgian chocolate. Watched the liquid disappear into the dark, glossy mixture without a trace. Once every drop had been drained I screwed the lids back on and dropped the bottles into the recycling bin. The glass clinked together, cheerful and unbothered.
This is going to be so good.
The recipe would serve at least forty people. Forty people, one bathroom per floor, and a client presentation tomorrow afternoon.
I grabbed the third bottle and added it to the double cream. A little sugar, a little patience, and the cream came together thick and smooth and entirely unsuspicious. Nobody would taste anything. Belgian chocolate was a generous host—it masked everything.
I worked carefully. Methodically. The same focus I brought to testing a system, finding the fault, documenting exactly where things were going to go wrong.
I knew where things were going to go wrong tomorrow. That was rather the point.
The cake layers went down first. Then the black forest compote—deep and dark and glossy, spread evenly to the edges. Then the cream. Thick. Generous. Lovingly applied.
Then the chocolate frosting, dark and gleaming.
Fresh berries arranged on top with what I can only describe as genuine artistic care.
And in the centre, nestled between the piped frosting, the little Happy Birthday decoration.
No one would know whose birthday it was.
No one would know who brought it in. No one would question it.
There was always something—a birthday, a retirement, a new baby. A cake in the kitchen was just Tuesday.
Everyone would be tempted by a home-baked chocolate sponge cake.
I stood back and looked at it.
It was genuinely beautiful. A shame, almost.
I printed the allergen notice and set it beside the box. No nuts. Contains dairy and gluten. Francis was vegan. Francis would be fine. I had considered Francis.
I was not a monster.
I boxed it up, slid it carefully into the fridge, and closed the door on it.
Tomorrow I would arrive early. I would carry it in a large bag, completely covered. I would leave it in the kitchen, uncovered, with the dietary note. No one would see me place the mysterious cake.
Part of me wished that I could tell everyone that the cake was from me, but I needed to pay rent, so alas, I must remain anonymous.
Just the way they kept me.
Admit it. You’re loving this.
I smiled at the kitchen.
I really was.
??
??
??
Three bottles of concentrated laxatives might have been too much.
Another person ran past my desk holding their arse cheeks together with both hands and the focused expression of someone who had never wanted anything more in their life than a vacant cubicle.
“Nooooo,” someone screamed from the direction of the bathrooms.
I sipped my coffee.
My head turned slowly across the floor. Carla was curled up beside the pillar near the printer bank, sobbing quietly, one hand braced against the carpet tile the other on her arse.
The wet farting sound that followed confirmed what the position had suggested.
She’d followed through.
I sipped my coffee.
Andy had never returned from the toilet. That had been forty minutes ago. I assumed he was still in there. I hoped he’d had the foresight to bring his phone.
From somewhere down the corridor came the distant, rhythmic banging of someone trying to get into an occupied cubicle. Then a second set of banging. Then what sounded like a negotiation.
Yes, there were of course people who hadn’t eaten the cake. Good for them. Good decision. Very wise.
The smell hit around the same time Claire appeared from her office.
I sniffed the air and immediately regretted it.
Francis, seated two desks away, did the same. Our eyes met briefly over the rising fog of human catastrophe.
“Everybody.” Claire’s voice was admirably steady for someone surveying what was effectively a biohazard situation. “Get yourselves home or to a medical facility if needed. Keep hydrated. Watch your emails for further updates.”
The working from home protocol had been implemented.
Around us the office was evacuating itself in stages—some people power-walking, some hunched, some making sounds that had no business being made in a professional environment. Graham was somewhere near the fire exit, pale and focused. Carla had stopped sobbing and started making different sounds.
The smell was evolving.
“Right,” Francis said, her voice muffled behind the hand pressed firmly over her nose and mouth. “We need to leave. Now. Before I add to this.”
“Fancy lunch before you head home?”
She stared at me.
“Yes,” she said finally. “Absolutely yes. I need fresh air and something that will make me believe in humanity again.”
We gathered our things with quiet efficiency—bags, laptops, coats—moving through the chaos like two people navigating a very specific kind of natural disaster.
I couldn’t help letting my gaze drift across the floor.
The hunched shoulders. The speed-walking.
The general atmosphere of a people who had made a terrible mistake and were living with the consequences in real time.
“I wonder what made everyone so sick,” I mused.
Francis looked at Graham, then at Carla, who was now being assisted toward the lift by someone who clearly drew the short straw.
“Could be many things,” she said thoughtfully. “Or it might just be all the evil oozing out of people.”
I hid my smile and followed her through the wreckage.
Three bottles, the voice said, warm and deeply satisfied.
The perfect amount.