Chapter 4: The Complaint

Chapter 4: The Complaint

The minutes between 12:30 PM and 1:30 PM stretched into an eternity. Leo sat at his desk, a perfect statue of corporate diligence. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his keyboard, his eyes were fixed on a column of data, and his posture was a model of ergonomic correctness. To any casual observer, he was just another analyst, lost in his work. But beneath the surface, a high-frequency current of adrenaline vibrated through his entire body. His calm exterior was a carefully constructed dam holding back a flood of anxious triumph.

He didn't need to check the kitchen. He knew.

At 12:45 PM, he’d watched Marcus Thorne stroll back from the direction of the kitchen, looking as smug and self-satisfied as a Roman emperor after a feast. Thorne didn’t have a lunch bag, of course. VPs didn't bring brown paper bags to work. They had power lunches at steak houses or had catered meals delivered by deferential assistants. But today, Thorne had a certain glow about him, the look of a man who had just enjoyed a particularly satisfying, and free, Italian sandwich. He’d even caught Leo’s eye as he passed, giving a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, a final assertion of dominance.

Leo just kept typing, his face a mask of placid neutrality. Enjoy it, you magnificent bastard, he thought. Savor every last bite of that prosciutto and mozzarella. Appreciate the vibrant, creamy texture of that avocado spread.

He waited. One o’clock came and went. Then one-fifteen. He gave it until exactly 1:35 PM, allowing a full hour for the Polyethylene Glycol 3350 to begin its inexorable march. It was time.

He closed his spreadsheet, stood up, and retrieved his empty lunch tote. The short walk to the kitchen felt ceremonial. He pulled open the heavy refrigerator door, the hum of the condenser washing over him. He scanned the second shelf.

Empty. The Hoagie of Judgment had been deployed.

A cold, thrilling calm settled over him. This was it. He closed the refrigerator, turned, and began the walk toward Human Resources. This time, he wasn't a supplicant. He wasn't a whiner. He was a man with two very specific, very serious problems, and he was here to file a report.

Brenda Mills looked up when he entered, and the fatigue in her eyes instantly curdled into pure annoyance. “Leo. Please don’t tell me.”

“I’m afraid I have to,” he said, his voice level and devoid of emotion. He placed the empty tote on her desk, just as he had before. “My lunch was stolen from the office refrigerator. Again.”

Brenda threw her pen down on a stack of files. The clatter was sharp and angry. “For goodness’ sake! We have been over and over this. I told you what would happen. I told you to bring something less appealing or keep it at your desk! There is absolutely nothing more I can do about a stolen sandwich!”

“I understand your position,” Leo said calmly, reaching into his back pocket. “And that’s just my first complaint.”

Brenda blinked, her tirade cut short. “First… complaint?”

“Yes,” Leo said, his voice dropping slightly, taking on a more serious, formal tone. “The second is far more serious. My prescription medication, which was inside my lunch, has also been stolen.”

The words hung in the air between them. The blood drained from Brenda’s face, leaving behind a pasty, grey mask of corporate terror. The word ‘sandwich’ vanished from the equation, replaced by the infinitely more terrifying phrase ‘prescription medication.’ Her eyes, wide and suddenly focused, darted from Leo’s face to the empty tote on her desk.

“What?” she whispered, the sound barely audible. “What are you talking about?”

“As you know, I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately,” Leo said, channeling the earnest concern of Dr. Finch. “My doctor diagnosed me with a stress-induced medical condition. He prescribed me a medication to manage it.”

He placed a neatly folded piece of paper on her desk. It was the printout from the pharmacy, showing the date, the medication name, and the patient: LEO VANCE. Beside it, he placed the official receipt.

“The medication is a tasteless, odorless powder,” he continued, his voice a steady, factual monotone. “The instructions are to mix a single dose into my food once a day. Today, I mixed it into my avocado spread. Which means whoever stole my sandwich has also, inadvertently or not, ingested a full dose of my prescription medication.”

Brenda stared at the papers as if they were live scorpions. Her practiced, weary apathy had evaporated, replaced by raw, undiluted panic. She looked up at Leo, her mouth opening and closing silently. She was no longer a jaded HR manager dealing with a trivial workplace squabble. She was suddenly facing a massive corporate liability incident. An employee had been dosed with a controlled substance on company property. The legal ramifications began to flash behind her eyes like neon warning signs: lawsuits, OSHA violations, police reports, personal injury claims.

“A… a laxative?” she stammered, reading the drug name on the printout. Her mind was clearly racing, trying to calculate the potential damage.

“A powerful, high-potency osmotic laxative,” Leo corrected gently. “As I said, prescribed by my doctor for my medical condition. A condition exacerbated by the hostile work environment I’ve repeatedly reported to you.”

He let that last part sink in. He wasn’t just the victim of a theft anymore. He was the victim of a theft that had resulted in an accidental dosing, stemming from an HR department that had ignored his prior complaints. He had documented everything.

Brenda’s hand trembled as she reached for her phone. “Stay right there,” she ordered, her voice thin and reedy. She jabbed a number on her speed dial. “Richard? Brenda. I need you in my office. Now. And get someone from Legal on the line. We have a Code Seven situation in progress.”

Leo had no idea what a Code Seven was, but it sounded appropriately dire.

The placid atmosphere of the office was shattered. Within ninety seconds, a stern-faced man in a slightly-too-tight suit—Richard, the head of corporate security—strode into Brenda’s office, his eyes already sweeping the room as if looking for a threat.

“What’s going on?” Richard demanded.

Brenda could only point a trembling finger at Leo. “He… his lunch was stolen. It had his prescription medication in it.”

Richard’s professional calm faltered for a second. He looked from Brenda to Leo, his gaze sharp and assessing. “What medication?”

“Polyethylene Glycol 3350,” Leo supplied helpfully.

Richard winced. He clearly knew what that was. “Okay,” he said, his voice all business. “Nobody goes anywhere. Ms. Mills, call Legal back and tell them to get down here in person. Mr. Vance, you’re with me. We need a statement. We need to identify who took your food immediately.”

Control had been ripped from Brenda Mills’s hands. She was now just a terrified spectator at a crisis she had allowed to fester. The system she had served so loyally, the one designed to ignore problems like a stolen sandwich, was now roaring to life with terrifying speed, all because that sandwich had been weaponized by the simple, beautiful logic of medicine and liability.

As Richard began speaking into his wrist-mounted radio, a notification dinged on Leo’s phone. It was a calendar alert he’d set earlier in the week.

The alert simply read: “Estimated eruption time: 2:00 PM.”

Leo glanced at the clock on Brenda’s wall. It was 1:47 PM. Thirteen minutes and counting.