Left alone in the vast office, Anderson Jr. Seely placed the thick file onto the desk—a large, executive piece of polished wood, its surface bare except for a sleek Apple desktop, its reflective screen catching the faint glow of city lights outside. The space felt clinical, efficient, and devoid of unnecessary decoration as if designed to ensure that the focus remained solely on work. He sat down, exhaling slowly, and flipped open the file, the crisp rustling of paper the only sound in the room.
These first days of probation would define his career, shaping his future at Kivalina Resources LLC. He understood that much. Yet, despite the weight of the documents before him, his mind remained tangled with T.B.'s cryptic response—Tea Boy. The words echoed, looping with a quiet insistence, refusing to settle.
A tea boy? In an Alaskan mining company? The title seemed almost absurd, out of place in a setting like this. He had heard of such positions in distant corporate cultures—companies in parts of the world where the lowest rung of the corporate hierarchy was occupied by someone tasked with serving tea, fetching water, and carrying documents from one office to another. In some industries, the tea boy also acted as an internal courier, shuttling papers between departments and sometimes even running errands beyond company walls. But here? In the U.S.? It felt anachronistic.
Yet, something about T.B. unsettled him. The man didn't carry himself like a mere errand boy—his posture, his measured gaze, the quiet confidence in his movements. No, there was something else there, something hidden beneath the surface.
Anderson forced his focus back to the file, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He hugged the document close to his abdomen as if the physical weight of it could ground him, silence the dark thoughts creeping at the edge of his mind. This was what mattered—facts, figures, geological reports. Academic knowledge would drown out the unease.
As he scanned the first few pages, he immediately understood what Ms. Kimberly Smith had meant earlier:
"This is a vital project for Kivalina Resources Limited Liability Company."
His lips curled into an unconscious smile. This company valued his abilities—why else would they trust him with this? The file contained details about a gold mine—a massive deposit lying downstream of the Tagiunituk Lakes.
The lakes, located five miles east-southeast of the Omikviorok River mouth and nineteen miles southeast of Kivalina, sat within the Kotzebue Sound and Kobuk River watershed. At an elevation of 594 feet above sea level, they had long been a subject of geological curiosity, though few had anticipated just how much wealth lay beneath them.
The gold veins here were ancient, their formation a result of violent geological forces over billions of years. Magma had once surged through fractures in the Earth's crust, high-pressure fluids dissolving gold and depositing it in hidden seams within layers of metamorphic rock. Locked beneath the surface, these veins stretched like arteries beneath human skin, carrying silent fortunes within their hardened pathways.
But the real prize—the easiest gold to extract—was found in the rivers. Placer gold. Over centuries, erosion had broken flakes and nuggets from their rocky origins, washing them downstream, where they settled into natural traps—pay streaks hidden within the gravel and sand of riverbeds. Heavier than the rushing water, the gold remained caught in the bends of the streams, waiting for those who knew where to look.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
Knock, knock.
"Come in, please."
T.B. stepped inside, a stack of papers in hand, his expression unreadable, that ever-present, almost amused glint still lingering in his gaze.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely," he said, his voice steady. "These documents require your signature. They outline your contractual obligations to the company, including confidentiality clauses regarding proprietary information and internal operations."
Anderson wasn't surprised. For a mineral exploration company, confidentiality was paramount. These weren't just contracts; they were oaths, legal chains binding employees to silence, ensuring that knowledge, once acquired, remained locked within the company's walls for as long as deemed necessary. Some secrets outlived the men who carried them.
T.B. flipped through the pages methodically, waiting as Anderson skimmed the fine print before signing in the designated spaces. The scent of Coco Chanel perfume drifted faintly between them, a lingering trace that sent a flicker of something unbidden through his mind.
And then, suddenly—
The fire alarm shattered the quiet.
A piercing wail erupted through the office, its high-pitched scream echoing down the halls. Anderson's pulse spiked, instinctively looking to T.B., who remained unnervingly calm, his expression unchanging.
The emergency lights flickered to life, casting sharp, artificial shadows. In the distance, voices rose—confusion, urgency, the dull thud of hurried footsteps against the carpeted floors.
T.B. moved first.
"This way."
Anderson followed, his heartbeat steadying only slightly as they maneuvered through the stairwell. Two floors down, the disarray gave way to structure—employees funneled into orderly groups, moving with practiced efficiency toward the Gathering Point outside.
The yellow-painted rectangle on the pavement was marked clearly, with bold letters designating it as the designated safe zone for evacuation procedures. The cool air outside was a stark contrast to the heated tension of the alarm, yet Anderson barely registered it. His gaze had locked onto a singular figure standing within the yellow-marked boundary.
A man, old man.
His white hair, though neatly combed back, betrayed the weight of years. Dressed not in the polished, corporate sterility of a boardroom executive but in something far more practical—a Levi's denim suit, well-worn but carrying an air of quiet authority.
He stood apart from the others. Not physically—no, he was well within the boundary of the gathering point—but in presence. There was something about the way he held himself, the way his sharp gaze scanned the crowd, not with the anxiety of an employee caught in an emergency, but with the quiet patience of a man who already knew exactly what was happening.
Anderson didn't need an introduction to understand. Whoever this man was, he was someone who mattered. Even amid a fire alarm, no one dared to stand too close—an unspoken rule kept a clear radius around him as if stepping into his personal space might carry unseen consequences. He wasn't shouting orders, wasn't demanding attention, but he didn't need to. People glanced at him, then quickly looked away, as if catching his eye for too long might invite something they weren't ready for.
His denim suit—worn, sun-faded, yet somehow still expensive—hung easily off his broad frame. His posture was casual but absolute, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but his presence pressed down like a weight on the crowd. The wind caught at the edges of his coat, revealing the subtle gleam of a gold chain tucked beneath his collar—just a glimpse, but enough to suggest wealth, control, and legacy.
The deep creases lining his face weren't just from age—they were weathered, hardened, carved by years of exposure not just to Alaska's brutal landscape, but to something much colder. A thin scar traced from the edge of his temple down toward his jaw, old and faded, the kind that came from a knife fight long since forgotten.
He exhaled slowly, watching the employees gather, his eyes sharp beneath his furrowed brow. Then, without turning, he spoke.
"Where is Seely?"
Not loud. Not rushed.
But everyone in earshot went completely still.