earlier:
Sultan braced himself. Taking a deep, calming breath, he pushed the door open.
On the other side, he was greeted by a large, pristine office.
Moronically, his first instinct was to compare it to the size of his apartment, and to his displeasure, his apartment came on the losing side. It wasn't even a fair fight.
To top it off, his first steps into the place squashed that ludicrous thought like the lowly bug it is.
The room screamed lavishness; Sultan heard it first in the cloud-like carpet he half-glided, half-walked on.
Like a curious puppy in a playground, he couldn't resist turning his head left and right, licking by his gaze all the exorbitant items permeating the place.
The walls were adorned with the all opulent and luxurious treasures that sang to the song of richness. Old and rare antiques, limited-edition, artistic paintings, and bottles of wine so aged that "old" would no longer suffice to describe them, "ancient" felt more accurate of a term.
All such bounties and more stood proudly like the trophies of a victorious king on either side of the room.
With a greedy gleam in his eyes, Sultan was gawking around like a thief. his calculating gaze suggesting that the theft had already occurred, and he was merely planning what to spend the spoils on.
Yet, soon his elusive fantasies had to come to an anticlimactic end, for he had reached the king of this court.
Sultan examined the hidden boss he had been working for over the past five years. To his astonishment, the tycoon of a man wasn't as old as he had imagined; he was in his early thirties, or perhaps even younger.
Considering he was one of the wealthiest individuals and the founder of an empire of a company amounting to billions, that was indeed very young.
halting a few meters shy of the modern-looking, expansive desk, Sultan felt intimidated. The interview had been abrupt, and he hadn't prepared for it.
Sultan had come believing it was his first day at work, only to be informed that the big boss was there and wanted to meet with all the new employees on the new production line. As a result, he wasn't sure how to approach the situation.
"'"Good morning, sir. They told me outside that you requested my presence," Sultan said with a smiley voice, deciding that being a bit friendly wouldn't hurt.
His greetings, however, fell on deaf ears. The man in the throne pretending to be a chair hadn't even acknowledged him with a nod, curtly gesturing for him to sit in one of the side seats.
Sultan settled down, his anxiety mounting as the silence stretched into unbearable minutes.
Mr. David remained engrossed in his work, alternating between shifting and moving the layers of holograms before him, checking over the 3D contracts and swiping through digital papers every now and then.
Busying himself, Sultan continued his unfinished task, scrutinizing the whole place inch by inch. Later, even that couldn't soothe his nerves.
So, As the only thing left unexamined, Sultan turned to check out the man himself.
David was what people would call a stylish man: hair impeccably trimmed, face clean-shaven, and dressed in the most fashionable and luxurious attire. In summary, the official image of a successful businessman.
Sultan looked at the radiant man for a long envious moment and then gazed down at himself.
'I retract my statement.' If David was the standard for how people should look in a professional suit, then whoever designed it certainly had some sense of style,
... just a tiny bit.
While the suit on Sultan appeared baggy and crumpled, with a few droplets of water from his hurried bathroom trip still lingering on his sleeves, the idol of a man didn't just wear a suit.
the suit wore him.
Sharp-looking, well-fitted, and flawless, David looked as if the suit had grown two hands and a head just to come to life in perfect harmony.
'good for him.'
Even the god-dammed tie looks exquisite around his neck. Yet Sultan wouldn't be deceived.
Why in the hell would he willingly put a cord around his throat that can strangle him at any time.
'no, thank you.'
"Sultan?" The half-grunt , half-question pulled Sultan out of his daydreaming.
"Yes, sir," he affirmed hastily, almost missing the question.
"Tell me, do you follow or practice any kind of sport?" the man asked, his face still obscured by the swirling holograms.
"Excuse me?" Sultan responded, caught off guard.
"I said," the man repeated, extracting himself from the digital mountain, "do you follow or practice any sort of sport?" leaning back on his throne and giving Sultan his full attention.
"no, there is none at the present time," Sultan stammered .
"At the present time? Does that mean you used to?" David asked, fixing Sultan with a piercing stare.
"my apologies, sir, But I fail to see how any of this could in any way relate or affect my expected role at your institution?" Sultan replied, regaining his composure after the unexpected start to the conversation.
"The skeptical type, I see," he said, opening a drawer and pulling out...
'...what's that?' Sultan squinted, trying to make out the object in the man's grasp.
It was a pack of cigarettes . an outlandishly expensive one, the kind whose price could feed Sultan for a year and still leave him with change.
Plucking one of the cigars between two fingers, the man added, "But since you have the guts to voice your thoughts, you deserve an answer."
"By knowing what sport you practice or which team you support, I can assess your mindset by a measure."
"How so?"
Smiling indulgently, the businessman started smoking Sultan's year worth of food and replied, "Hear this story first, and then I'll tell you how."
Standing up, he motioned for Sultan to follow.
"You are working as an agent for the most renowned and skilled boxer ever to step into the ring," he began, stopping in front of the all-glass window behind his desk.
"He has dominated the world's biggest boxing tournaments for over a decade."
"As one such tournament concludes, he is faced with a promising, rising star."
"The newcomer is talented. He gives it his all, valiantly fighting tooth and nail to reach the final."
"Yet, his luck runs out. The amateur has no chance of defeating an old monster like your employer, and everyone knows it."
"The twist? The young, passionate underdog is your little brother."
"Knowing he would likely humiliate himself, you urge him to concede, but he ignores your advice and insists on fighting."
"So, who are you rooting for in the final? Your brother, who is almost certain to lose, or your employer, whose victory would not only be guaranteed but would also benefit you?"
Sultan stared at the man's back as if expecting him to sprout wings and leap from the window. During the narration of the short story, he had unsuccessfully tried to guess where it was going and what the gist of it was.
Shifting from foot to foot, he hesitated for a moment before realizing he needed to provide an answer.
"Neither," Sultan said, unsure.
However, as the seconds passed, his certainty grew. If his little brother was foolish enough not to recognize the truth and understand his own capabilities, Sultan wouldn't encourage him by offering support.
At the same time, fulfilling his duty to his employer didn't necessarily demand emotional loyalty,
'... or did it?'
The enigmatic man remained silent for a few moments, exhaling mouthfuls of smoke that rolled across the glass, giving the city view a misty, foggy quality. Finally, he spoke.
"A stupid response, dressed up to sound like a smart one."
**"Why?" Sultan blurted out.
"Three reasons," Mr. David replied, raising three fingers in representation.
"Life is never neutral."
"If you don't choose a side, someone else will choose it for you."
"And finally, a friend to none is an enemy to all."
He concluded, lowering all of his fingers.
Sultan wanted to debate his case. He was ready to argue his views. There was so much he could have said , yet the king of the modern age gave him no chance.
"You are dismissed," he gestured, without even looking back.
Sultan stared at the man's shadowy silhouette highlighted against the noon sun for a heartbeat, then turned around and left the office.
A foul taste still lingering in his mouth.