The Monday Consultant

Chapter 3: The HR Inquisition

The fluorescent lights of the corridor seemed to hum with a judgmental frequency as Jorvex stepped out of the IT department. He didn't even make it three paces before a thin, impeccably dressed woman with wire-rimmed glasses stepped out from behind a corner, blocking his path.

“Jorvex Maldrane?” she asked, her voice clipped and devoid of warmth. “I’m Mavren Jost, Head of Personnel. I need you to come with me. Now.”

Jorvex didn't break stride, though he did offer a polite, non-threatening nod. “Morning, Ms. Jost. A little early for an exit interview, isn't it? I’ve barely finished my first day.”

Mavren didn't smile. She turned on her heel and started walking toward the back offices. “This isn't an exit interview, Mr. Maldrane. It’s an inquiry. And after what happened in IT ten minutes ago, I’d suggest you take it seriously.”

Jorvex followed her, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “IT always gets worked up over nothing. They’re a twitchy bunch, don't you think?”

“They’re professional,” Mavren snapped, pushing open the door to her office. “Which is more than I can say for your background check. Sit.”

The office was predictably sterile, decorated with motivational posters that looked like they had been purchased in bulk at a clearance sale. Jorvex sat down, crossing his legs and leaning back with an air of practiced ease.

“Coffee?” Mavren asked, gesturing to a machine on her credenza.

“I’m good, thanks,” Jorvex said. “I brought my own.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Jorvex,” Mavren said, pulling a thin file from her desk. “We’ve been running your credentials since you clocked in. Or, rather, we’ve been trying to. Your history is a void. No education records, no tax filings, no social media, no history of employment at the companies you listed on your resume. You’re a ghost.”

Jorvex chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “You know, I’ve heard that a lot. It’s a bit of a sore spot, really.”

Mavren leaned forward, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “I don't find it funny. I find it suspicious. You walk in here, fix a three-year backlog in an hour, and then start playing games with our servers? We’re a logistics firm, not a playground for industrial spies.”

“Industrial spy?” Jorvex leaned forward, dropping his voice to a tone of wounded sincerity. “Ms. Jost, look at me. Do I look like a guy who’s plotting a corporate takeover? I’m here for a paycheck and a chair that doesn't ruin my lower back.”

“Then explain the void,” she insisted. “Why is there no record of you?”

Jorvex sighed, staring at his reflection in the polished wood of her desk. “My father was… complicated. He moved around a lot. We were part of an, er, niche agricultural collective in the northern provinces. No centralized registry, no digital footprint. We lived off the grid, kept records on paper, and paid in cash. When he passed, I had to figure out how to survive in a world that doesn't recognize a ledger that isn't connected to the cloud.”

Mavren didn't blink. “That’s a convenient story.”

“It’s the truth, and it’s the reason I’m so good at data reconciliation,” Jorvex continued, his voice heavy with a manufactured melancholy. “When your life depends on balancing a harvest account with a pencil and a notebook because you don't trust the banks, you learn to see the patterns. You learn to see the junk entries for what they are. I’m not a spy, Ms. Jost. I’m just a man who grew up in the shadows and is trying very hard to step into the light.”

Mavren looked at him, searching for a tremor in his hands, a darting movement of his eyes. She found nothing but a calm, tired composure.

“And the IT incident?” she asked, her voice softening just a fraction. “The server bypass?”

“I have a knack for finding the shortest distance between two points,” Jorvex said, offering a sad, small smile. “I get anxious when systems are cluttered. It reminds me of the messes we had to clean up back home. I didn't mean to panic your team; I just wanted the machine to run as efficiently as it could. I suppose I should have asked first.”

Mavren sighed, rubbing her temples. “You realize how bizarre this sounds?”

“I realize it sounds like the story of a man who doesn't quite fit in,” Jorvex replied. “Maybe I don't. Maybe that’s why I’m here. I’m tired of running, Ms. Jost. I really am. I just want to do my job, collect my modest wage, and go home to my coffee.”

Mavren looked back down at the file, then slowly closed it. “You’re a strange man, Jorvex Maldrane. You talk like someone who’s lived a hundred lives.”

“I’ve lived one long, boring one,” he lied with a gentle, disarming warmth. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”

The silence stretched, but the tension had shifted. It was no longer the sharp edge of a blade, but the dull ache of an uncomfortable truth. Mavren felt a twinge of something—perhaps it was fatigue, or perhaps it was the strange, disarming gravity of Jorvex’s presence. She felt suddenly guilty for her suspicion, as if she were interrogating a tired traveler who had just lost his way.

“I’m sorry,” Mavren said, the words coming out more softly than she intended. “I’ve been dealing with budget audits all week. My nerves are frayed.”

“It’s quite alright,” Jorvex said, standing up and smoothing his blazer. “I understand the pressure of the role. You’re just doing your job. If I were in your chair, I’d be asking the same questions.”

Mavren stood up, reaching into her desk drawer. She pulled out a small, metallic card. “Look, I can’t clear your background check overnight. It’s going to take time. But I don't want to hold up the Atlas project. If you’re as essential as Tavrik says, you’re going to need this.”

She slid the card across the desk. It was heavy, embossed with a shifting, holographic emblem that wasn't standard for an entry-level clerk.

“That’s an All-Access bypass key,” she explained. “It’s meant for the regional directors. Don't lose it, and for heaven’s sake, don't let the IT team see you using it. It grants entry into the restricted sectors, including the archive levels and the executive suites. If you need to access the deeper nodes for the Atlas project, you’ll need that.”

Jorvex took the card, his fingers grazing the cool metal. He felt the familiar pull of a solution—the way the pieces of a puzzle clicked together just as he had orchestrated. “Thank you, Ms. Jost. I appreciate the trust. I won't let you down.”

“Just keep your head down, Jorvex,” she said, turning back to her monitor. “And try to play nice with Deylor. I’d hate to have to go through this again.”

“Consider it done,” Jorvex said.

He stepped out of the office, the door clicking softly behind him. He walked back into the main floor, the weight of the card in his pocket feeling like the heavy iron key to a long-forgotten gate. He looked toward the end of the hall, toward the restricted elevator that led to the CEO's office on the penthouse floor—the place where the real logs, the ones that mapped the company's true history, were kept.

255,500 Mondays, he thought, a flicker of something close to a smile touching his lips. And today, the archive just opened its doors.