The Office stands proudly in its jasmine-white paint and periphery-consuming size. It roots behind black, shoulder-length gates. Neither security guards nor robots greet at its entrance. If one only views the swarming flower beds and intricately-shaped topiary, The Office must look like a mansion having an 'open house'. If one ignores the line of office-suited workers on the cobblestone pathway, too.

Sandra grabs my sleeve, towing me off the line. We zoom past the entrance gateway to the east of the building. At her hurried pace, my fake glasses almost slip down several times. Xin-Yo also keeps on bumping against my backpack's zips; it might be too small for the wheel-sized robot.

Without Xin-Yo's help, there would be no map of The Office, steps on what we should do once we get inside, or clues on which doors should we pass. It absorbs the data it used to handle into the shelves of its brain, making it another important informant in our group.

Another never-ending black gate also surrounds the building's east. When I glance above, lights flash out of the windows that sprout from the wall, though it's still 11 AM.

Now it's clear why the electricity back home often dies abruptly and Auntie Morgan's complaints of it are never heard.

"The door," Xin-Yo squeaks from my backpack, a slight quiver in its voice. Under those windows, lies a faint outline of a white door. "Xin-Yo can't go back inside." My backpack jerks about with enough force to send my forehead to the pavement, and I quickly reach for it to unzip and offer hasty pats on the poor creation. It shivers like it just drowns in a cold water... or electrocuted.

Sandra advances to the gate, her eyes seeking for broken pillars to swoop through. A bit of sympathy glints within her stern look. "We should get this done quickly." Her hands grope around the black steel for a while before grasping a shaky pillar, removing it from the ground with a grunt and a heave.

Rust has invaded their exteriors for years, easing our purpose. Within minutes, she has opened an entrance.

"Here, give me Xin-Yo." She turns to me, exchanging our similar backpacks as her eyes grip my hesitant gaze tightly. "Later, wait outside while I hide Xin-Yo in the janitors' cubicle." She pauses, as if allowing her doubts and questions to briefly take over. "We should be out in an hour. That's the security robots' patrol hour: 12 PM. Workers will also be around for lunchtime."

"What if this doesn't work?" I murmur. Having my plans foiled more than once teaches me to set a lower success expectation. She puckers her lips and almost fires out when I interrupt, "You can be optimistic, but remember who we're up against. Men lower than him have stopped us before, after all."

I don't wait for her reply as I step through the door, accepting the building's cold wind. A bleak, gray corridor stares at us once the door shuts: its right side blank, its left decorated with restrooms and narrow doors, which are like Auntie Morgan's storage. This must be the less-passed section; its modest setting already gives it out.

The Office is said to have an abundance of money to renovate the entire building for three times. What bad can renovating this old corridor do?

As Sandra rushes into the marble-tiled and orange-scented restroom, my eyes swallow the marvelous lobby. I choke back a sigh at the contrast.

The black marble tiles reflect the subtle lights from above, forming a vibrant garden. The white walls are flooded with posters, in-wall TVs, speakers, and holographic signs. People swarm around the first floor like bees around a hive: some to the tube-like elevators; several are on the express escalators; a few are on the circular metal slabs—also elevators—with stalks rising to the sky.

How much money do they have if they can recreate these three times more?

Once Sandra steps out, she leads me to the screening post at the lobby's front. Her journals feel like stones against my shoulders as we march to the officials. Either that or the crowded air also stop me from breathing properly.

"Sandra?" A guard narrows his healthy eye at Sandra's neutral face, while his patched other squirms under my gaze. Is this the guy Roy referred to when he talked about losing an eye, back when he and Sandra argued? "What are you doing here? I didn't see you coming."

The way he addresses her like an old friend shows that my guess is right. What could've happened between this guard, Sandra, and Roy? What did they do that ended up costing his eye?

Setting her arms on her chest, Sandra glances at the bustling entrance. "How are you supposed to see me through that? You're not a security camera, Migos." As she throws a wide smile and wipes off suspicion from the guard's eye, she grabs something like Roy's communication device—what was that called again?—from the small basket on the desk. I hastily pick one myself, despite internally asking if we're allowed to use two of this on the same ear.

Roy used to say how The Office's black gem differs from his, but in what?

Migos sighs while swiping the air in front of us. A holographic form appears. Underneath, a see-through keyboard pops out. According to the rules Xin-Yo told us, our backpacks will go under a screening while we fill out this attendance form.

But once an illiterate, always an illiterate. No matter how hard someone mocks me or whips my tongue so I can pronounce the alphabet...

"Sir? You should start filling yours too." Migos' golden-toothed friend jabs my screen softly, his eyes brimming with concern. Another switch flicks in my brain; is this also who Roy referred to when he talked about losing a grown tooth? If the one without an eye is Migos, then is this man Argus? "Are you okay, Sir? You look... ghostly."

No, I'm not. These are too many to process. It's like there are murky cabbages in my brain.

With a chuckle at the golden-tooth and a good slap on my arm, Sandra shoves me aside, giving her more room to type on my form. "I'm sorry, he has a sore throat. Nasty fever. He's been acting like a ghost all day... right, Euis Urk?"

Ah, right. That's my undercover name.

"There's a hospital wing if your new friend would like a rest. Hope it's not another Covid-19. Do you know of their recent mutations at Draga City, Sandra? Two infections in a week, after being clean for decades..." Argus displays his toothy gums, as if shirking back after his smart rant. A small respect grows in me for this guy. At least he's keen enough to follow the news, even as a security guard with minimal rest. His personality is warm and welcoming, like the sunlight.

Sandra stretches a smile as she snatches our backpacks from a squinting Migos, dragging me backward. His observant eye drives a blade that slices through my inner peace. How much of me can he see? "That won't be necessary. And no, he's not from Draga City either."

I flash a quick nod to the two before tailing Sandra to the restroom. How can she be so bad at lying? But then again, I am too...

She skitters out minutes later, her back more hunched, while brushing off the stares the friendly guards pay us with. Behind the desk, the corner of my eye catches them whispering to each other's ears while putting up a calm grin.

Like a protective mother hen, Sandra grabs my wrist and strides to the bare, wall-less elevator, to my dismay. It rumbles like a car as we climb on the slab. An acidic bubble pops in my stomach once the circling railings are tightly sealed together, and when its speed increases like a bullet, I close my eyes.

Thank God, we're the only ones here. This is a very bad idea. What a terrible invention. Only mad geniuses like Jorge Zaragoza would ever want to ride something so inconvenient.

Sandra huffs on my right, yet looks unfazed by the experience, judging from her neutral expression. "The ladies gossiped about Mr. Julian's wife—Mrs. Sybil—back in the restroom. She's well-known here, I guess."

A subtle metallic creak delays my answer. Stretched beyond the slab is the ninth floor, its beige flooring reflecting the mini chandeliers, similar to the black marbles below. I force my feet off the elevator.

There's only an hour and I shouldn't waste it with my height-sickness.

The gem in my earlobe crackles to life. Instead of Roy bombarding questions, it transfers the upbeat voice of a woman. "The floor is divided into three wings-west is for Vice Mayor, Mr. Austin Spalding; east for the secretary, Ms. Lara Luther; and north for Mayor, Mr. Jorge Zaragoza."

This floor is mute, barely affected by the commotion from the lower ones. The massive vases, along with the bright brown walls and eye-pleasing paintings, contribute in coloring this section. It's like the luxurious hotel I once worked as a cleaner for.

As I tread alongside Sandra, my thoughts are flung into a hurricane. What if I mess up? What if we run out of time?

I exhale a mouthful sigh when the sturdy door comes to view. Digging my nails into my palms, I seek some encouragement from Sandra, though a part of me sneers for it.

What am I doing? Why do I need comfort when I should be the one helping others to feel it?

But when our gazes meet for a speckled second, the weight in me decreases, turning me slowly into a cloud. A part of me wants to stop her knuckles from rapping against the heavy wooden door, letting me relive the sensation all over again. Thank God, my sanity behaves before I cross any line.

"It'll be fine, Allice, you've got me. Xin-Yo is also here for us."

That alone is enough to cut my string of negative thoughts.

When the door screeches open, a mixed stench of papers and old steel hits my nose. The window filters the amount of sunlight in the room, creating a cooler atmosphere than supposed. As Sandra's shoes squeak against the slate ceramics, my eyes wander to both edges of the room.

"Close the door." Sandra sheds the backpack with Xin-Yo within, tossing it to me.

"Allice Worke must hide behind that bookshelf." Its voice contains panic as it squirms. "The left one. There are more books there than the other side."

I head to the four bookshelves, which are divided into two by a wide pathway, and slink to the closest one to the wall. A sneeze almost erupts before I push it back. Perhaps my allergy to books-and words-is reacting.

Sandra is visible through a few dusty books I set aside. She looks up from her journal, but before another smile leaves her lips, the door slices open, and the dictator treads in with a bored frown.

"Sandra." He offers a small smile. "It's been a while."

"Uncle Jorge." There's a nervous flutter in her eyes. "Thanks for your time."

He approaches his work desk at the center-back of the room, a few steps away from the window. Can someone shoot his head from there? Or is it also bulletproof, besides being a sunshade?

A vigorous tremor rattles my backpack. I slowly unattach it from my shoulders, putting it on my lap. I wait until Sandra engages him in another chitchat before whispering, "It'll be fine. You've got me."

"When will we start, Allice Worke?" it squeaks out like a whisper, "Xin-Yo wants this over with."