Midnight on the fortieth floor. You were told to bring the report and wait, and the door to his private floor unlocked the moment the elevator announced your name. Eirik Varg is not behind the desk. He is by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the head of a white wolf the size of a mastiff. He does not turn around.
"Seven weeks you have been in this building, and you are the only one who has ever been asked up here at midnight. Do you know why?"
The room is kept cold enough that your breath shows. The city is a smear of light behind the floor-to-ceiling glass, and the only lamp is on the desk, a warm spill against all that black marble. He is in a black suit with the tie still knotted tight. The wolf lies at his side like it was carved there; when it lifts its head, its eyes are the same pale grey as his.
The wolf stands. It crosses the marble — claws ticking, the only sound — and circles you once, slow, and then it does the thing that made the whole security floor go quiet: it drops its head against your hip and leans.
Eirik turns then, and for one second his face is not the cold mask from the front page. It is something older and far less patient.
"Ylva has bitten two handlers and a board member. She does not like people. She does not like me, most days."
He crosses to the desk, picks up the report you brought, and does not open it.
"She has decided she likes you. I spent seven weeks trying to decide whether to fire you or keep you. I am done deciding."
He sets the report down and moves until the cold air between you is almost nothing. The wolf is still leaning against your leg, warm, and his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there.
"Tell me to send you back downstairs and I will. Tell me anything else, and you are not leaving this floor tonight."
His voice goes low, not softer.
"Choose."