Chapter 1
Zack Harlan — December 12th, 5:42 p.m. — Capital Regional Compliance Solutions — Compliance Department
“Are you ready, guys?” Susan from HR chirps into the doorway where the rows of cubicles sit like sad little dominoes waiting to be knocked over.
I sigh. Loud enough that two coworkers glance over, but not loud enough for Susan to get the hint. There’s only one thing I hate more than the day-to-day grind in this place: the holidays in this place. The cheap plastic Christmas tree they drag out every year, still shedding fake needles from 2009. The Santa hats everyone pretends to enjoy wearing. The sudden, aggressive appearance of cinnamon in every corner of the break room, like it’s supposed to “boost morale.” And of course… mandatory Secret Santa.
Because nothing builds a collaborative environment like being forced to buy something for someone you’ve spoken to exactly twice. I sigh again. At this point it might as well be my holiday spirit manifesting.
I’ve been with this company eight years. Got the job straight out of college. Found out I had a weird, inexplicable knack for compliance. Stayed. Blinked. Suddenly I’m arguing with people about whether their email retention settings violate policy. So no, I’m not exactly in the mood for enforced cheer.
This year they’re doing Secret Santa early because apparently our fearless leader booked himself a trip to the Bahamas. Meanwhile, the rest of us get the pleasure of sprinting to buy last-minute gifts in thirty-degree weather. Truly inspirational leadership.
We all grab our gift bags, which look exactly like the ones from last year, and the year before that, and make our way to the conference room. The fluorescent lights are dimmer in there, which would feel festive if it wasn’t due to a dying bulb Facilities still hasn’t replaced.
I got Jeff from Internal Audit. I don’t know much about him besides the fact he’s been here since—according to legend—the dawn of time. I’ve never seen him smile. I’m not convinced he’s able to. I got him a little notepad. Unoriginal. I know. But honestly, what do you buy for a man whose entire personality seems to be “audit findings”?
At least he’ll use it. Or he won’t. Whatever. It cost eight bucks, and I’m pretty sure that’s more thought than anyone put into me.
We shuffle into the conference room like we’re reporting for sentencing. Mr. Denson is already there, laughing a little too loudly with a cup of store-bought eggnog that Janice from Documentation & Records Management contributed. She’s hovering nearby, clearly hoping someone will compliment her for “adding a festive touch,” even though the carton is still sitting on the table with a price sticker on it.
We take our seats, clutching our sad little gift bags like hostages holding their own ransom. Chairs scrape. People clear their throats. Someone coughs in a way that makes me wonder if they’ve been sick for weeks and simply decided to treat this as their social debut.
“Alright, I think everyone’s here, so we can get this started,” Denson says, clapping his hands once, the universal sign for “I’m pretending this isn’t a waste of time.”
He takes a sip of eggnog and winces, because of course he does. Janice brightens, misinterpreting the grimace as enthusiasm. The man could be having a stroke and she’d still beam like she’d just saved Christmas.
Around the table, everyone tries to look chipper in that corporate way where you smile with your mouth but your eyes look like they’re filing HR complaints. A few people rustle their bags dramatically, like we’re all just so excited to participate in the world’s most forced tradition.
I glance toward the clock. We’re one minute in. Only thirty more to go—unless someone insists on speeches. They always insist on speeches.
Denson clears his throat with the practiced confidence of someone who has absolutely no idea how to make this feel natural. “This is one of my favorite traditions,” he announces, which is a little sad, honestly.
The room hums with polite nodding. The kind you master only after years in corporate captivity.
Denson gestures grandly to the pile of gift bags in the center of the table, as if presenting treasure instead of a collection of discount finds from the pharmacy aisle.
“Well,” he says, “let’s kick things off. Who wants to go first?”
Silence. Not the casual kind. The kind where everyone studies the table like they’re suddenly fascinated by the grain of the laminate.
Finally, Susan from HR lifts her hand. Naturally. She lives for this stuff.
“I’ll go,” she says, already beaming. She digs into the pile and pulls out a bag covered in glittery reindeer. “Ooh! Fancy!”
She pulls out a scented candle the size of a soup can. “Vanilla Frost Wonderland,” she reads dramatically, like it’s a limited-edition perfume.
From across the table, Mark mutters, “Smells like a dentist’s office,” but quiet enough he can pretend he didn’t say it.
“Who’s my Secret Santa?” Susan asks, clasping her hands.
No one moves. Eventually, Tom from IT raises his hand halfway. “Uh… me.”
Susan gasps like he just handed her the deed to a vacation home. “Tom! This is wonderful! I love vanilla!”
Tom nods. “Yeah. They only had vanilla. So I—yeah.”
It’s the most enthusiasm he’s shown in six months.
Denson claps once. “Great start! See? This is fun.”
Fun. Right. If you squint.
“Okay,” he says, “next up… Jeff? Why don’t you go?”
Of course. My moment.
Jeff stands, stiff as a yardstick, and picks up the bag I brought. He opens it with the caution of a man expecting an explosive device. Then he pulls out the notepad.
He stares at it for a long second. No expression. No nod. Nothing.
Finally he says, “Useful.”
That’s it. One word. Delivered in the tone of a disappointed uncle.
I raise my hand slightly. “That was from me.”
Jeff gives a small, solemn nod, like I’ve done him a personal service. Then he sits. I think that was gratitude. Or as close as he gets.
“Wonderful!” Denson says, completely missing the social tension that just passed like a cold front. “Who’s next?”
Janice practically leaps out of her seat. “Me!” She snatches her bag and pulls out a novelty mug shaped like a snowman’s head. She squeals. Honest-to-God squeals.
“Oh, I love it! This is adorable!”
“It was me,” says Karen from Accounts Payable. “They were on sale.”
Janice doesn’t seem bothered by that detail. She hugs the mug like it’s her firstborn.
One by one, the gifts make the rounds. A box of chocolates. Socks with penguins. A desk plant destined for landfill before New Year’s. Each exchange comes with forced laughter and the occasional “How thoughtful!” that fools absolutely no one. We’re all seasoned enough to know sincerity left this building years ago.
Then my turn comes.
I adjust my glasses, mostly to buy myself a second of emotional prep, and look for the bag with my name on it. It’s wedged awkwardly between two others, like it’s been trying to hide. I pick it up. Heavier than expected. Suspicious.
I reach inside, pull out the box, and freeze.
It’s a LEGO set.
A mini one.
The Batmobile from the 1989 movie.
For a moment I’m sure I’ve misread it. Maybe this is one of those off-brand building sets with a copyright-dodging name like Night Car Defender. But no. It’s the real deal. The tiny, beautiful, plastic real deal.
This is not a run-of-the-mill Secret Santa gift. This is… specific. Personal. Something someone would’ve had to know about me. And not just “know,” but remember. Because I love Legos. And Batman. Especially that movie. Especially that car.
I look up from the box, trying to keep my face neutral, because God forbid anyone in this office sees genuine emotion. But I can feel something creeping in—surprise, maybe gratitude—two feelings I haven’t experienced here since the year they upgraded our monitors.
Across the table, people are watching, waiting for my reaction. Expecting a polite nod, maybe a shrug. The usual.
I clear my throat. “Uh… wow.”
Which, for me, might as well be a dramatic monologue.
“Who…” I lift the box slightly. “Who had me?”
There’s a beat of silence. A shuffle of chairs. Eyes dart to name tags, then to ceiling tiles, then to absolutely anywhere that isn’t me. No one comes forward. Classic.
Before the awkwardness can fully ripen, Benedict decides to offer his contribution to society.
“I guess Santa dropped your— what’s that, a toy?—a bit early, Harlan,” he says, leaning back with that smirk he wears like an employee badge.
I take a slow breath. Perfect. Exactly what this moment needed: commentary from the office’s walking LinkedIn post.
“It’s a collectible,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “But thanks for your concern.”
“It’s still a toy,” he insists. “Just smaller and more expensive.”
“Like your tie,” I say.
A few people cough in the way that means they’re trying not to laugh. Benedict adjusts said tie, wounded but pretending he’s not.
Susan jumps in with her professional peacemaker voice. “Alright, let’s keep things friendly. This is supposed to be fun!”
“Fun,” I repeat, mostly to myself. Sure. Nothing says fun like public gift shaming.
Denson raises his eggnog cup. “Yes, yes, let’s stay positive. Someone must’ve gotten you that for a reason. Right? Whoever it was… great choice!”
His eyes sweep the table, inviting someone—anyone—to step up and claim responsibility. A few people make sudden, urgent studies of their own shoes.
Janice pats my arm. “I think it’s lovely. Very whimsical.”
Whimsical. Wonderful. That’s definitely what every grown man wants to hear about himself in the workplace.
“I just want to know who got it,” I say. “Not to… you know. Confront them. I just want to say thanks.”
Benedict snorts. “Right. Sure.”
I look at him. “Believe it or not, Benedict, gratitude is a thing people feel. Even in compliance.”
He opens his mouth—because of course he does—but Denson cuts him off.
“Okay!” Denson says loudly. “Let’s not turn this into a debate. If the Secret Santa wants to stay anonymous, that’s fine. Right? It’s all part of the magic.”
Magic. Strong word for a spreadsheet-driven gift exchange with a fifteen-dollar limit.
But I nod and set the box carefully on the table. I can still feel the weight of it in my hands. Someone got this for me. Someone actually noticed something about me.
Which is unsettling.
And weirdly… nice.
But mostly unsettling.
The rest of the get-together sputters along until it finally dies out, like a candle burning in a cold room. People gather their empty cups and half-hearted compliments and start drifting back to their desks. I never find out who bought me the Batmobile. No one steps up. No dramatic confession. Nothing.
Which is… irritating. This isn’t romantic intrigue. It’s Secret Santa. You’re supposed to awkwardly raise your hand, mumble “That was me,” and then everyone claps like you just solved world hunger. That’s the script.
Instead I’m left holding a box and a mystery.
Some people don’t reveal their gifts, apparently because they “like the tradition of anonymity,” which is corporate speak for I didn’t want to admit I spent $7 at Walgreens. And then there are the two people out sick—because of course there are. One with “food poisoning,” one with a “bad cold.” Both descriptions vague enough to mean anything from an actual virus to simply not wanting to see coworkers wearing reindeer headbands.
I try to observe the room as everyone leaves. Who’s looking at me? Who’s avoiding me? Who seems a little too smug? Hard to tell. This department is full of people who hide their emotions so deeply that I’m not sure half of them have heartbeats.
It could be Carl from my department. The guy has a habit of sniffing alcohol markers when he thinks no one’s watching, so his judgment is already questionable. Maybe he thought buying me a collectible car would be a bonding moment. Or maybe he just likes shiny boxes.
It could be Dave from Documents, who’s so cripplingly shy that he apologizes when someone bumps into him. I could see him picking something thoughtful and then panicking at the idea of admitting it.
Or it could be someone who isn’t here at all. Someone home right now, blissfully unaware that they’ve turned my afternoon into an episode of low-stakes workplace suspense.
I tuck the box under my arm and head back to my desk. The office feels quieter than before, like everyone spent their holiday spirit reserves pretending to enjoy themselves.
I sit. I look at the Batmobile again.
Fantastic. Now I have feelings about a toy. That’s exactly what I needed today.
