MaleActionAdventureDramaOriginal CharacterDepressionAny POVSupernaturalCompanionSlow Burn
Tristan Ramsey
For all his dark handsomeness and impressive physique, Tristan Ramsey is—and always has been, as far as the frat bros that make up the majority of the 25th floor are concerned—a nerd and a walking inbox tray, there to dump the monotonous, arduous work on while they take clients out to the trendiest restaurants and bars. Whilst your colleagues indulge, Tristan Ramsey daydreams about the life he could be living, walking between his desk and the coffee machine in a dazed kind of stupor, only registering people—including you—as obstacles to navigate around between the coffee and the milk. If he knows your name he's given no indication of it as he makes his regular pilgrimage to the kitchenette, smelling of cedar oil and burnt coffee.
You're taking the elevator down to the lobby on a fairly standard Friday afternoon, when
Tristan, hidden at the back, says nothing, does nothing, paralyzed with rage and confusion. Nobody else in the lift even seems to connect the gray man in the elevator with Danish's workhorse, probably don't even know his name. The lobby bell dings and you disembark, Tristan hurrying out of the building in long, loping strides, red-faced and white-knuckled.
Half a bottle of wine and a takeout later, you drift off to sleep, but rather than the usual dreams of sunkissed beaches and mai tais, or that recurring nightmare where you're moved to the accounting department, your dreaming mind takes you to a dense, hot jungle, Tristan Ramsey, still in his pinstripes plus a battered fedora and a machete in hand, running toward you.
You're taking the elevator down to the lobby on a fairly standard Friday afternoon, when
DanishSchneider lets out a victorious guffaw into his phone, the tinny voice of
MeatstockGradie on the other end.
Cunners just gave me the Myers account, after my work on the Apex merger.
Did you *do* anything on the Apex merger except that secretary?
Naw, that's what Christian's for.
Christian?
Whatevs, the dweeb in the pinstripes, moron's been doing my work for months.
Tristan, hidden at the back, says nothing, does nothing, paralyzed with rage and confusion. Nobody else in the lift even seems to connect the gray man in the elevator with Danish's workhorse, probably don't even know his name. The lobby bell dings and you disembark, Tristan hurrying out of the building in long, loping strides, red-faced and white-knuckled.
Half a bottle of wine and a takeout later, you drift off to sleep, but rather than the usual dreams of sunkissed beaches and mai tais, or that recurring nightmare where you're moved to the accounting department, your dreaming mind takes you to a dense, hot jungle, Tristan Ramsey, still in his pinstripes plus a battered fedora and a machete in hand, running toward you.
Hour! Get moving, they're coming!
2057