The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 6: The Water Cooler Conspiracy

Chapter 6: The Water Cooler Conspiracy

The red light of the security camera felt like a laser burning through Daffa’s skull. His hand, which only seconds ago had been exploring the curve of a Vice President’s thigh, now felt heavy and numb. He slowly stepped back, his shoes clicking against the concrete floor with a sound that felt like a gavel striking.

“Clarisse,” Daffa whispered, his voice cracking. “How fast does that footage upload to the server?”

Clarisse was frantically pulling her hair into a semblance of a ponytail, her fingers shaking so violently she dropped her silk tie. “Real-time. It’s a closed-circuit loop, but the cloud backup triggers every five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” Daffa looked at the camera, then at his watch. “We’ve been in here for... oh God, we’ve been in here for forty minutes.”

“Stop talking,” she hissed, finally smoothing her skirt. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated panic, the ‘Ice Queen’ facade shattered into a million jagged pieces. “Go back to the bullpen. Take the service stairs, not the elevator. If anyone sees us coming out of the archives together at midnight, the camera footage is just the icing on the cake.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m the VP, Daffa. I’ll say I was conducting an unannounced audit of the physical files. Now move!”

*

The next morning, the air in the bullpen didn’t just feel cold; it felt electrified. As Daffa walked toward his desk, the usual hum of keyboard clicks and hushed phone calls died a sudden, unnatural death.

Rian, a junior analyst who usually spent his mornings asking Daffa for Excel tips, didn’t even look up. He just smirked at his monitor and whispered loud enough for the entire row to hear, “Guess the 'strategic' part of his job title finally paid off.”

Daffa ignored him, sitting down and staring at his screen. His inbox was empty, which was unusual. Usually, he had ten frantic emails from middle management by 8:30 AM.

“Morning, Daffa,” a voice drawled from behind him.

Daffa turned. It was Hendra, a Senior Manager who had been gunning for a VP spot for five years—the same spot Clarisse occupied. He was leaning against the cubicle wall, a cup of coffee in his hand and a predatory glint in his eyes.

“Hey, Hendra. You need something?” Daffa asked, keeping his voice level.

“Just wondering how the North Kalimantan report is coming along,” Hendra said, his smile widening. “It’s a big project. Lots of... deep diving. Though I hear you’re becoming an expert at navigating tight spaces.”

Daffa felt his stomach do a slow, sickening roll. “The report is fine. I’ll have it on your desk by noon.”

“Actually, check the shared drive, buddy,” Hendra said, patting Daffa on the shoulder. “I took a look at your draft this morning. It looked a bit... messy. Like you had other things on your mind.”

Daffa frowned, pulling up the file. His heart stopped. The spreadsheet, which he had spent twelve hours perfecting, was a graveyard of #REF errors and deleted cells. The data wasn't just wrong; it had been systematically purged.

“What the hell is this?” Daffa muttered, his fingers flying across the keys. “Hendra, someone went into my local save. The formulas are all broken.”

“Is that so?” Hendra asked, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “That’s a shame. This report goes to the Chairman’s board meeting at two. If it’s not ready, it’s going to look very bad for you. And for whoever... promoted you.”

“You did this,” Daffa hissed, spinning his chair around. “You used your admin override.”

“That’s a heavy accusation, Wicaksana,” Hendra chuckled, straightening his tie. “Maybe you’re just distracted. It’s hard to keep your numbers straight when you’re busy climbing the corporate ladder through the executive suite’s bedroom, isn't it?”

The bullpen went silent. Rian and the others were openly staring now.

“What did you say?” Daffa stood up, his height giving him a slight advantage, though his heart was hammering.

“Oh, come off it,” Hendra snapped, his voice rising for the benefit of the audience. “We all saw the way you two were acting at the gala. And now you’re moving into her place? You think we’re stupid? You’re a charity case, Daffa. A boy toy with a calculator. You don’t belong in this firm, and you definitely don’t belong in that office.”

“I earned my spot,” Daffa said, his voice trembling with rage. “I’ve pulled more overnights in this building than you have in your entire career.”

“Doing what? Polishing the VP’s shoes?” Hendra sneered. “You’re a joke. And when that report fails today, I’m going to make sure the Chairman knows exactly why his ‘Lead Analyst’ is failing. It’s hard to work when you’re horizontal, right?”

“That’s enough, Hendra!”

The voice was like a gunshot. The bullpen scrambled as Clarisse Bautista marched down the center aisle. She looked like she had been carved out of obsidian—sharp, dark, and dangerous.

Hendra’s smug expression faltered, but he didn't back down. “Ms. Bautista. We were just discussing the North Kalimantan projections. Daffa seems to have... lost the data.”

Clarisse stopped inches from Hendra, her eyes narrowing. “I don't care about the projections right now, Mr. Syarif. I care about the fact that I can hear your unprofessional garbage from the elevator bank.”

“I’m just stating the consensus of the office, Ma’am,” Hendra said, trying to regain his footing. “It’s a conflict of interest. The staff are concerned about favoritism.”

“Favoritism?” Clarisse let out a cold, dry laugh. “Daffa Wicaksana is the only person in this department who identified the sixteen percent discrepancy in the Van der Meer audit. He did more work in one lunch break than you’ve done in the last fiscal quarter.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s—"

“He’s my fiancé,” Clarisse interrupted, her voice booming through the room. Daffa winced, but she didn't stop. “And as for his work, I’ve already reviewed the North Kalimantan file. I have the original backup on my private server. So, if you’re finished sabotaging company property to settle a personal grudge, I suggest you go back to your office before I have security escort you to the curb.”

Hendra turned a deep shade of purple. “You can’t threaten me. I’ve been with this firm for—”

“You’ve been with this firm long enough to know that I sign your bonus checks,” Clarisse stepped closer, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “Do not test me, Hendra. Daffa is here because he is brilliant. If you have a problem with that, take it up with HR. But be warned: I’ve already sent them the logs of who accessed the shared drive at 6:00 AM this morning. Would you like to guess whose ID appeared?”

Hendra’s jaw tightened. He looked at Daffa, then at the silent, judging eyes of the bullpen, and finally back at Clarisse. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

Clarisse took a breath, her shoulders dropping only a fraction of an inch. She looked at Daffa. For a second, the professional mask slipped, and he saw the exhaustion in her eyes.

“My office. Now,” she said.

*

As the door to the executive suite clicked shut, Daffa collapsed into one of the leather chairs. “That was a disaster. You shouldn't have done that, Clarisse. You just made me a target for every person in this building.”

“They were already targeting you, Daffa,” she said, pacing behind her desk. “If I didn't shut Hendra down, it would have turned into a riot. My father is already asking questions about the archive power surge. We’re on thin ice.”

“Thin? Clarisse, we’re standing on a vibrating glass floor over a shark tank,” Daffa groaned. “The whole industry is going to be talking about this by lunch. ‘The Ice Queen defends her commoner fiancé.’ It’s a tabloid headline.”

“Let them talk,” she said, though she looked like she wanted to scream. “As long as we stay the course, we can—”

Ping.

Daffa’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Then Clarisse’s laptop chimed.

Daffa pulled out his phone. It was an email from an encrypted address. No subject line.

“Did you just get something?” Daffa asked, his heart sinking.

Clarisse didn't answer. She was staring at her screen, her face turning a sickly, ghostly white.

“Clarisse? What is it?”

Daffa stood up and walked around the desk. He looked at the monitor.

It was a single image. A high-definition, crystal-clear screenshot from the archive security camera. It showed Daffa with his back against the filing cabinets, and Clarisse with her legs wrapped firmly around his waist, her head tossed back in a moment of undeniable, passionate abandon.

Below the image, there was only one sentence:

“I wonder what the Chairman would think of Project Kraken’s new developments? If you want the rest of the video to stay private, I’ll be expecting a call.”

Daffa felt the room spin. The silence in the office was so heavy he could hear the blood rushing through his ears.

“They have the video,” Daffa whispered.

Clarisse sank into her chair, her hands covering her mouth. “It’s not Hendra. He doesn't have access to the security server.”

“Then who?”

Clarisse looked up, her eyes wide with a new kind of terror. “The only person besides the Chief of Security who has the override codes for the archive cameras.”

Daffa’s phone buzzed again. A text message this time, from an unknown number.

“Check your front door, Analyst. The game just got a lot more expensive.”

“Clarisse,” Daffa said, his voice trembling as he looked at the screen. “I think the Van der Meers just found our price.”