The surface tension of the water in the cup on his desk rippled as his boss approached. But Samrat didn’t need to see that to know. The sound of footsteps, the overpowering stench of cologne, and the creeping tension down his spine were enough to warn him—Mr. Durbesh was rushing toward him. Before the man reached his cubicle, Samrat had already turned around, head hung in shame, fists clenched on his knees, bracing himself for the inevitable yelling.

Instead, Mr Durbesh walked past him without so much as a glance. Samrat blinked in surprise. This was a first. In five years at this job, the boss had never passed his desk without a yell, a glare, or a snide remark. Slowly, Samrat exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders as he sank back into his chair. Maybe, just maybe, today would be a good day.

And it could have been—if Samrat had stayed at his desk, kept his head down, and stuck to his usual routine of pretending to work while scrolling through Twitter. But no. Today, something was different. Today, he wasn’t satisfied with just surviving his shift. Today, Samrat decided to do something he hadn’t dared before.

Maybe his body had gotten so used to the yelling that on this day, when it hadn’t happened, it felt out of sorts. So, despite any good reasoning, Samrat followed Mr Durbesh. What was the end goal here? He didn’t know. He couldn’t answer that question when the thought occurred to him. All he could focus on was simply putting one foot in front of the other as his shoes made a slicing sound on the grey carpet underneath.

But what was this? Mr Durbesh was nowhere to be seen. Samrat’s cubicle was one of half a hundred in an open floor with no walls or corridors. Mr Durbesh couldn’t have disappeared so fast. He looked around in disbelief. However, he started to notice the other people—his coworkers—were now looking at him, all annoyed.

Samrat hung his head in shame and walked back to his cubicle. Well, he should’ve. His day could have gone back to being a good one had he done so.

But no. Samrat was convinced. It wasn’t just about not having been yelled at now. Maybe Mr Durbesh was in some trouble? Yes, that’s it. He could be in some kind of trouble, and that’s why he hadn’t yelled at or even noticed Samrat. As his junior, maybe it was his responsibility to at least inquire what could’ve gone wrong? Yes, that was it. That’s what he would do.

The stares from his coworkers had gotten even sharper. If Samrat stood here any longer, someone would say something. He had to move. Where? Mr Durbesh’s offic,e perhaps. He’d probably be there or at least some clues might possibly be found.

Samrat turned around and made his way to Mr Durbesh’s office, located on the floor above his own. As he climbed the stairs, he realised that for the past couple of minutes, Mr Durbesh’s stench had lingered in his nose. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Upstairs, he was surprised to find the entire floor empty. Mr Durbesh’s receptionist—who would always give Samrat a sorry stare as he walked by, bracing himself for another round of yelling—wasn’t there. Nor were any of the other bosses.

He peered into Mr. Durbesh’s office and, sure enough, it was empty. Not just empty, but completely dishevelled. Papers were scattered across the desk and floor, and the chairs were askew as if someone had left in a hurry.

Yeah, something had gone wrong. But what could it be?

As Samrat pondered on that query, he saw something fall down from the side of his eye. Startled, he approached the sheer glass wall behind Mr Durbesh’s desk. He looked down and saw a man splattered on the side of the road. He couldn’t believe it. Mr. Durbesh. All of a sudden, many more started splattering on. Almost all of them were the bosses. Some even receptionists that he’d recognised.

Almost out of instinct, he jumped back as if the corpses were flying to him. What the heck was going on? He looked around the office to figure out what sense could be made of it. Mr Durbesh’s computer was on. Samrat watched the monitor and saw that the last thing on it was an email that simply said: jump. He tried to fiddle around, but everything else had been wiped clean. All the folders were empty. All the emails as well. He couldn’t even access the network on which the entire company worked. Sheer terror had turned into pure bewilderment.

He looked outside, but people were still falling. He ran. He ran up to the roof only to find the door had been bolted shut from the other side. He pounded on it. Yelled. He yelled until his voice grew hoarse. No one replied. The only sound from the other side was that of feet ruffling over concrete. Five minutes later, there was no sound at all.

Samrat stepped back. His body collapsed to his left, and leaned on the cold wall. He turned to his right and slid down the wall to the floor. He put his head on his hands and breathed. His breath was hard and hoarse. His throat was dry from all the yelling before. What was that? What could lead to that? What was possibly that bad? He didn’t know. Now, he didn’t even want to know.

After what seemed like hours, he gathered up the courage to get back on his feet. Hands firmly on the railing, he slowly descended the seven flights of stairs to his floor. As he turned the door handle, he expected madness and disarray all around him from his co-worker. What greeted him was far worse.

Everyone was just working like normal. Had they not seen the bodies, the dozens of bodies falling? Were they dumb or ignoring reality? His feet sluggishly made their way to the nearest window. He looked down, and yep, the bodies were still there. People were yelling, crying, and everyone, be it from the nearby shops or other offices, gathered around. Someone had probably called the police or the ambulance, right? Should he? No. He didn’t want to.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. A woman two years older than him and half his height was glaring up at him. “Look, Samrat, you may like being yelled at by the bosses, but the rest of us don’t. So, please stop messing around and idling and just return to your desk and work.” She strutted off in a huff. Samrat felt like laughing. Sure, let’s do that.

He walked to his cubicle, pulled his chair, and sat down. He put his hands on his desk, right above his keyboard, and felt the rough plastic keys already worn down by his constant tapping. He looked at his monitor, which he had mistakenly left with Twitter on the main page. He moved his right hand to the keyboard's right, grabbed his mouse, and started scrolling. What else was there to do?

Shakya is a writer based in Kathmandu.