Sitting at his cramped, cluttered desk as usual, Thomas wearily stared at the monitor, the faint bluish glare reflecting off his glasses. His fingers moved mechanically over the keyboard, filling out what seemed like an endless stream of forms and documents. His eyes, dry and itchy from the monotony of staring at rows of numbers and lines, threatened to glaze over completely. He rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to ease the ache that had settled deep in his back. The office chair, worn and unsupportive after years of use, groaned under his weight, as if complaining along with him.
The office was unusually lively today. A buzz of energy filled the air as employees bustled back and forth, chatting in hurried tones, swapping papers, and occasionally laughing far too loudly. Thomas glanced up briefly, his brow furrowing. He squinted at the commotion, trying to make sense of it.
"What's with all the chaos today?" he wondered. A small part of him was curious, but the thought quickly fizzled out. "Doesn't matter," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Not my problem." He bent his head back to his work, his fingers resuming their half-hearted dance across the keyboard.
Thomas cut an imposing figure — nearly seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, and weighing in at a hefty two hundred and twenty pounds. Yet for all his physical presence, he moved through life with the energy of a sloth. His interests were few and simple: his paycheck, whatever food required the least amount of effort to prepare, and his beloved late-night gaming marathons. These three things formed the cornerstone of his world, a survival formula he had honed to perfection. But his lack of enthusiasm for anything beyond this made him an easy target for his colleagues. They had long since learned that Thomas, despite his gruff exterior, was a pushover when it came to fending off extra work.
"Hey, Tom, buddy, can you help me out with this report? You know spreadsheets way better than I do," was a phrase he heard so often it might as well have been a company slogan.
And Thomas always said yes. Not because he was particularly kind or obliging, but because saying no often led to arguments or, worse, prolonged conversations. He hated both. It was easier to take on the extra work and stay late than to deal with unnecessary noise. The habit had earned him a reputation as dependable, albeit painfully slow.
"Thomas, I needed that report yesterday!" snapped Mr. Henderson, his manager, just last week, his face flushed with frustration.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'll get it done," Thomas had mumbled, his gaze glued to his desk to avoid eye contact.
Deep down, it rankled him. He knew he could do more, be more, but the thought of stepping outside his comfort zone felt as impossible as scaling a mountain. Besides, with a salary that barely competed with a pizza delivery driver's, he figured, "Why bother?" Life as a "gray mouse," as he sometimes described himself, was easier. Safer.
"Hey, Thomas! Earth to Thomas!"
The loud, booming voice jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up, startled, to see Walter standing by his desk, holding a steaming coffee mug and grinning like he'd just won the lottery. Walter was the kind of guy who thrived on attention. His booming laugh and habit of wearing too-tight shirts to show off his gym-earned physique made him impossible to ignore.
"Uh, hey, Walter," Thomas said, his voice as flat as the spreadsheets on his monitor.
"Man, you look like a zombie! What's up? You good?" Walter asked, pulling up a nearby chair without waiting for an invitation. He plopped down, his muscular frame somehow making the chair look child-sized.
"I'm fine," Thomas muttered, trying to sound convincing.
"Fine? Fine?! Man, you're killing me here. Look at you, buried in work like some kind of office mole. When's the last time you had fun?" Walter leaned forward, resting his elbows on Thomas's desk.
Thomas shifted uncomfortably, his large hands twitching over the keyboard. "I... I'm just busy, that's all. Deadlines, you know?"
Walter snorted, shaking his head. "Deadlines, shmedlines! You missed the game last night, didn't you? Don't tell me you didn't see it."
Thomas hesitated, feeling a pang of embarrassment. "Uh, no... I didn't catch it," he admitted, his voice barely above a mumble.
Walter slapped his leg, laughing. "You missed a masterpiece! Our team destroyed the Canadians! I'm telling you, it was magic. The kind of game you tell your grandkids about. You've GOT to stop living like this, man. Life's too short to spend it glued to a desk."
Thomas forced a weak smile, hoping it would end the conversation. But Walter wasn't done.
"Tell you what," Walter said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Friday night. Bar downtown. Me and the guys are going. You're coming with us. No excuses."
Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but before he could string together a coherent excuse, a sharp voice sliced through the office noise like a knife.
"Walter. Thomas."
Both men froze as Anna—Anna Sullivan, their boss—strode toward them. She was a striking woman in her early forties, her fiery red hair pulled into a sleek bun. Her tailored suit was immaculate, as always, and her sharp green eyes behind thin-framed glasses could cut through steel.
"And what, exactly, is so important that it can't wait until after you've finished your overdue reports?" she asked, her tone icy.
Walter, unfazed, leaned back in his chair, still grinning. "Just brainstorming, boss! You know, sharing ideas, improving efficiency—"
"Spare me the excuses, Walter," Anna interrupted, crossing her arms. "I want those reports on my desk by the end of the day. No exceptions."
"Of course, boss. You got it," Walter said smoothly, giving her a mock salute.
Anna's gaze shifted to Thomas, who immediately looked down, his face burning. She didn't say a word to him. She didn't have to. The weight of her disappointment was enough to make him feel like he was sinking into his chair.
As soon as she turned and walked away, Walter let out a low whistle. "Man, she's something else, huh? I swear, if she wasn't so... terrifying, I'd totally ask her out. What about you, Thomas? Wouldn't you?"
Thomas's face went an even deeper shade of red. "I... I don't think so," he stammered, pretending to be engrossed in his documents.
Walter laughed, clapping him on the back so hard Thomas almost dropped his mouse. "You're hopeless, man. But you're coming Friday. No excuses!"
And with that, Walter sauntered off, leaving Thomas alone once more. As the noise of the office buzzed around him, Thomas sighed heavily, staring at his monitor. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would be like to say yes—not just to Walter, but to life outside these walls. But then he shook his head, pushing the thought away. Life was easier this way. Safer.
Wasn't it?
******
An hour crawled by, and to his own surprise, Thomas had nearly completed the stack of documents that had been haunting him all morning. His fingers, though sluggish, worked with a steady rhythm, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he allowed himself a small glimmer of satisfaction. The finish line was in sight. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he even leaned back in his chair for a moment, letting out a quiet sigh of relief.
But peace, as usual, was fleeting.
The sharp click of heels on the tiled floor cut through the office hum like a whip. Thomas didn't need to look up to know who it was. Sure enough, Chloe appeared at the edge of his desk, her arms crossed and her expression a potent mix of irritation and superiority. Chloe was the kind of person who seemed to radiate authority, even though she wasn't technically anyone's boss. Her blond hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her tailored blazer gave her the look of someone perpetually ready to deliver bad news.
"Thomas," she began curtly, not even bothering with a greeting. With a dramatic motion, she dropped a hefty stack of papers onto his desk. The impact made his coffee cup rattle precariously.
"Deal with this. It all needs to be done by today," she commanded, her voice sharp and clipped.
Thomas blinked, staring at the pile as if it had grown there out of thin air. His momentary relief was obliterated, replaced by a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"All of this?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. He flipped through the first few pages, as if hoping the stack might somehow be less intimidating from a different angle. It wasn't.
Chloe raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, her lips curling into a smirk. She leaned slightly forward, placing one hand on the pile of papers, her nails tapping rhythmically on the top sheet.
"Yes, all of it," she said with mock patience. "And this time, try not to drag your feet like you usually do. Some of us are actually trying to meet deadlines around here."
Thomas felt a spark of irritation flicker in his chest. He opened his mouth, the beginnings of a protest forming on his tongue.
"But I might not be able to finish in time. I already have—"
"No 'buts,' Thomas," Chloe snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her voice rose just enough to draw the attention of a few nearby coworkers, who quickly pretended to be engrossed in their own tasks. "You'll manage if you stop wasting time and actually focus for once. Or is that too much to ask?"
Her words stung. Thomas clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists beneath the desk. For a moment, he considered pushing back, saying something—anything—to stand up for himself. But as usual, the words died in his throat. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"Understood," he muttered, barely audible.
Chloe straightened, clearly pleased with his compliance. "Good boy," she said coldly, her tone dripping with condescension. With a final, dismissive glance, she spun on her heel and strode away, the sharp clack of her heels echoing through the office.
Thomas watched her go, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration and the mountain of papers now occupying his desk. The pile seemed to loom larger with every passing second, taunting him with its sheer impossibility.
He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Well, there goes my evening," he muttered bitterly to himself. Adjusting his glasses, he reached for the first page in the stack, forcing himself to focus.
But as his eyes scanned the text, his mind wandered. He imagined, just for a moment, what it would feel like to say no—to stand up, push the stack back across the desk, and tell Chloe to deal with her own mess for once. The thought was tantalizing, even exhilarating. But it was just that—a thought.
Thomas shook his head, banishing the fantasy. "You're not that guy," he murmured under his breath. "So just get it done."
The office noise buzzed around him, a constant reminder of the world moving on while he remained stuck, silently drowning in other people's work.
******
After some time, when Thomas's body could no longer physically continue working, he decided to take a short break to drink some coffee and stretch his legs. He leaned back in his chair, stretching until his joints audibly popped. A deep yawn escaped him, and he muttered under his breath, as if scolding himself:
"Man, I really shouldn't have stayed up late scrolling through forums yesterday. At my age, staring at a screen all night feels more like punishment than relaxation."
Thomas had recently stepped into his thirties, and though he tried not to dwell on it, the signs of wear and tear were becoming harder to ignore. His late nights, endless overtime, and a lifestyle that rarely involved more movement than shuffling from his desk to the coffee machine had started to exact their toll. It wasn't just the stiffness in his back or the persistent dark circles under his eyes—it was the gnawing awareness that he was no longer as invincible as he'd once thought.
"Not now," he muttered again, shaking his head as though to physically toss the anxious thoughts aside. "Too much to do. Worry about that later."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, legs protesting slightly as he stretched them out. The promise of coffee was enough to propel him forward. As he walked sluggishly toward the coffee machine, his colleagues came into sharper focus. Normally, the office buzzed with the familiar rhythm of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and the occasional burst of laughter. Today, though, the air carried something different—a faint hum of unease. People huddled in corners, whispering in hushed tones, their faces tight with worry. Thomas's brows furrowed as he caught fleeting glances of their expressions.
"What's going on?" he thought, his stomach tightening. A strange déjà vu prickled at the back of his neck, tugging at a memory he'd rather leave buried. It reminded him of that awful Easter morning years ago, when his parents' car accident had shattered the quiet calm of the day. His gut had warned him then, too—a heavy, twisting sensation he couldn't explain until the bad news arrived. The memory made him swallow hard, and he tried to shake off the feeling.
Outside the window, the clouds had thickened into a menacing charcoal mass, swirling with the promise of a storm. The glass reflected his worried face as he glanced outside. Fat drops of rain began to splatter against the pane, their rhythm uneven and impatient.
"Figures," he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Guess I'll be walking home in this mess."
Reaching the coffee machine, Thomas grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured himself a cup of the office's strongest brew. The rich bitterness hit his tongue with a familiar jolt, though it did little to mask the deep fatigue clinging to him like a second skin. He took another sip, trying to focus on the tasks ahead, when a cheerful voice broke through the fog in his mind.
"Thomas! Hey!" Jeremy's bright tone cut through the tension like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Thomas turned to see his fiery-haired colleague striding toward him, flanked by the short but spirited Lewis. Jeremy adjusted his tie, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
"Tomorrow's a big day," Jeremy said, clearly brimming with excitement. "It's my daughter's birthday! You, Clara, and Emily should come over—make it a proper celebration."
Lewis, already grinning, clapped a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. "How old is she turning?" he asked, his deep voice tinged with genuine curiosity.
"Eight!" Jeremy announced proudly, as though the number was a trophy he'd won. "Can you believe it? Eight years old. It feels like just yesterday I was changing diapers and trying to figure out how to assemble a crib without losing my mind."
"Time flies, doesn't it?" Lewis mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "So, what's the plan? Big party? Balloons? Maybe a magician?"
Jeremy laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "Magicians next year, maybe. For now, just a small gathering at home. But I've got a cake ordered, and we're setting up a little treasure hunt for the kids. Should be fun."
The conversation flowed easily between them, their voices buoyant with anecdotes about family life. Jeremy recounted a story of his daughter's latest school project—a papier-mâché solar system that had left glitter stuck to their dining table for weeks. Lewis chimed in with tales of his nephew's soccer games, his tone filled with pride as he described the little boy's determination on the field.
Thomas stood quietly, sipping his coffee and listening. He didn't have much to contribute to conversations about kids or family life. Instead, he felt a strange mix of emotions welling up inside him—an ache of loneliness, tinged with envy.
"Thirty years old," he thought, staring into the depths of his coffee cup as if it held answers. "And what do I have to show for it? No family, no house, not even a girlfriend. Meanwhile, Jeremy's got it all—a wife, a kid, a home filled with warmth. How did he pull that off while I'm still stuck here, practically living at my desk?"
The thought gnawed at him, but he quickly pushed it aside. "Maybe I just need to work harder," he reasoned. "Get that promotion, save some money, put my life together. There's still time. There has to be."
He finished the last bitter sip of his coffee just as the rain outside picked up, the droplets now racing each other down the glass. The office seemed quieter than before, the whispers fading into a tense stillness. Even the air felt heavy, like the atmosphere before a storm truly broke.
******
"Maybe this year will be different," Thomas murmured to himself, setting his empty mug in the sink. He straightened his tie and made his way back to his desk, the weight in his chest lingering like the storm clouds outside.
Suddenly, an agitated voice pierced through the usual hum of the office. It was sharp and trembling, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Guys!" a woman shouted, her voice cracking with panic. She stumbled into the center of the room, her face ashen and her hands visibly shaking. "You need to see this! It's… it's just awful!"
The office froze, everyone turning to look at her. A low murmur rippled through the room as employees exchanged confused glances. Some groaned, irritated by the interruption, while others stood up slowly, curiosity beginning to override their initial annoyance.
"What now?" someone muttered under their breath, rolling their eyes in exasperation. "Another sensational story about a celebrity battling addiction?"
But the tension in her voice silenced the skeptics. Thomas, like the others, hesitated for a moment before pushing his chair back and joining the slow-moving crowd now shuffling toward the small break room. The air felt heavier with each step, the kind of weight that told him something bad was coming.
When they arrived, the television was already on, its screen flickering with chaotic images. The news anchor's voice was loud, strained, almost drowned out by the cacophony of reporters shouting in the background. The words "BREAKING NEWS" flashed in bold red across the bottom of the screen, accompanied by shaky footage that seemed too surreal to comprehend.
Thomas, being one of the taller employees, craned his neck over the huddled crowd and caught sight of the screen. His breath caught in his throat. At first, he thought it was some kind of elaborate hoax—a movie clip or a poorly timed prank. But the images kept coming, and each one was more horrifying than the last.
The footage showed a tranquil city park, lush and green under a sunny sky. The peace didn't last. Out of nowhere, a massive reptilian creature—easily the size of a bus—charged into view, its scaled body rippling with unnatural power. It had the unmistakable shape of a dinosaur, but it was grotesquely exaggerated, as if pulled from a nightmare. The creature lunged at a man walking his dog, its enormous jaws snapping shut around him. The man screamed—a sound that would haunt anyone who heard it—before the creature flung him into the air like a rag doll, tearing him apart in the blink of an eye. Blood splattered across the grass as the dog bolted, yelping in terror.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Someone in the crowd stumbled back, bumping into a desk.
"Jesus Christ," a woman whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. Her wide, terrified eyes glistened as if she might cry. "Is this… is this real?"
Thomas felt like the world had tilted beneath him. His heart slammed against his ribs as he kept staring at the screen, unable to look away. The footage changed to another city—Paris. There, an enormous dinosaur-like creature, this one resembling a brontosaurus, swung its massive tail like a wrecking ball. With one thunderous strike, it slammed against the base of the Eiffel Tower. The iconic structure tilted dangerously, metal groaning under the force, before it began to collapse. People below scattered like ants, screaming and tripping over one another in a desperate attempt to escape.
The newsroom cut back to the disheveled anchor, her makeup smeared and her voice trembling as she spoke.
"We are receiving reports of similar attacks across major cities worldwide," she said, her words barely holding together. "Enormous creatures—dinosaurs, or something resembling them—are appearing without warning. Beijing, New York, London, Sydney… No one knows where they've come from or how this is even possible. Authorities are urging everyone to stay indoors and—"
The screen switched to yet another clip—Tokyo. A skyscraper crumbled like a stack of cards as a creature with massive horns charged straight through its base. The scene dissolved into a haze of dust and rubble, screams echoing faintly in the background before the feed cut out.
The crowd in the break room stood frozen, the weight of what they were seeing pressing down on them like a physical force. Someone let out a nervous laugh, the sound brittle and empty.
"This can't be real," one man said, his voice shaking. "This has to be some kind of stunt. A viral marketing thing. Right? RIGHT?"
"Are you kidding me?" another woman snapped, her voice sharp with fear. "You think this many news channels would run a *joke* like this? Look at the footage! Look at their faces!"
"But dinosaurs?!" another voice said, incredulous. "That's not possible. They're extinct. They've been extinct for millions of years!"
Before anyone could respond, the sound of ringing phones broke through the room. Employees scrambled to grab their cell phones, frantically calling loved ones. The room filled with fragmented, panicked conversations.
"Mom? Are you okay? Are you watching the news? No, don't leave the house!"
"Stay inside! Lock the doors! Just… just stay safe, okay?"
Thomas stood apart, his phone still in his pocket. His hands trembled, but he didn't reach for it. Who would he even call? His parents were gone, and he hadn't spoken to his sister in months. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him feeling more alone than ever.
He turned toward the window, needing air, needing something to ground him. But as he gazed out at the stormy sky, something in the distance caught his eye. At first, it looked like a bird, but as it approached, his blood turned to ice. It was no bird.
A massive winged creature was soaring toward the building, its leathery wings spread wide enough to shadow entire blocks. Its elongated beak and razor-sharp talons glinted even in the dim light. It was a pterodactyl—or at least, something terrifyingly close to one.
Thomas's throat went dry. "No… no, no, no…"
"What is it?" someone asked, noticing his pale expression.
He pointed a trembling hand toward the window. "There," he choked out. "Look!"
The office erupted into chaos as more people turned to see the creature rapidly descending. Its eyes gleamed with a predatory focus, locking onto the building like a hawk diving for prey. Before anyone could react, the pterodactyl let out a bone-chilling screech. A split second later, it slammed into the side of the building. The impact shattered the glass windows, sending shards flying in all directions. The walls groaned under the force as desks and chairs toppled over.
"Get down!" someone screamed.
Thomas barely had time to hit the floor as debris rained down around him. The creature's talons tore through the office, ripping apart walls and scattering papers like confetti. People screamed, some bolting for the exits while others froze in terror. The pterodactyl let out another piercing cry, its wings battering the room as it clawed its way inside.
Thomas pressed himself against the floor, his arms shielding his head as the world around him descended into chaos. Dust filled the air, choking him, blurring his vision. Through the noise, one thought echoed in his mind like a drumbeat:
*This isn't a nightmare. This is real.*