Sphinx of the Fourteenth Floor

The corporate **pyramid** rose above the city like a glass monument to mediocrity, and somewhere on the fourteenth floor, Sarah made her daily pilgrimage to HR. She clutched a peeled **orange** in her left hand, its citrus scent cutting through the recycled office air—a small act of rebellion against the fluorescent purgatory.

"The question," Miller said, not looking up from his terminal. He was the department's **sphinx**, poring over spreadsheets and posing impossible riddles in the guise of performance reviews. "Why haven't you met your quarterly targets?"

Sarah's pulse spiked. She'd started taking **vitamin** B supplements last month, hoping they'd somehow metabolize into courage. They hadn't. "The market shifted, Miller. You know this. We discussed it—"

"I asked why *you* haven't met them."

The orange's juice ran down her thumb, sticky and bright. She remembered her mother telling her that citrus fruits symbolized good fortune in the old country. Some fortune. Thirty-two years old, drowning in student loans, playing guessing games with a man who'd probably forgotten what sunlight felt like.

"You know what?" Sarah set the orange on his desk, where it left a small puddle. "I'm done solving riddles."

Miller finally looked up. For the first time in three years, the sphinx seemed almost human.

"I mean it," she continued, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her veins. "I'll finish this project. But after that—find someone else to answer your questions."

She walked out, leaving the orange behind like an offering to an abandoned god. For the first time in forever, the pyramid didn't feel like a prison anymore. Just a building. One she could eventually leave behind, one floor at a time.