It is every writer’s worst nightmare. Not just writers, in fact, anyone in a shared office. But for a writer, it is pure horror. The kind you don’t even let yourself imagine. I certainly never did.

Until it happened.

That morning started just like any other. I arrived early as usual, I waved to people as I walked by; creative, studio, strategy, budgets. Familiar faces, half-awake smiles. In the kitchen, I brewed myself a cup of green tea from a pouch of leaves I brought from home, the light earthy scent helped to ground me. Then I headed to my office, a small space overlooking a wild array of mismatched buildings and tangled greenery; almost picturesque, if you squint hard enough.

For the past three months, I have been trying my hand at copywriting, officially titled as 'consultant' in a well-regarded advertising agency. We did some solid work for a few well-known food brands and even airlines. My favorite was a recent campaign that tied healthcare services to observing Shabbat. Clever and meaningful.

Getting into this place was not easy.

More than once, I sat down with the director, Gamliel Zoldan, a rather stout man with sharp taste and sharper eyes. I told him a writer would be the ultimate copywriter; every novel is built on hundreds of sharp lines, distilled ideas. If anything, I was overqualified.

He disagreed.

Writers, he said, don’t know when to stop. Give them a sentence, they will turn it into a chapter. Give them a concept and they will build you a trilogy. In advertising you need the opposite. You require precision, restraint. An entire concept, clear and concise with no unnecessary fillers, a one-liner, a single image.

Still, he gave me a chance. After I flooded him with ten different angles for every product he threw at me, he relented, partially. I got the job, but did not yet gain his trust, not fully. Which meant I carried two weights: proving I deserved the seat at the table and being quietly grateful I had any of this access at all. Life as a full-time serious writer was certainly not paying the bills, yet.

That morning, that morning, I put my bag down, placed the tea beside my keyboard, unwound my scarf, and sat.

I turned on the computer and opened my email program.

I was waiting for a reply about the “special potatoes for frying” campaign. I’d outlined a few ideas in an email the night before, last thing I did before leaving home. But there was no response in my inbox. Strange, did I send this? Maybe not. Maybe I’d left it sitting in Drafts.

I checked. A few unfinished documents were there, but not the potatoes email. So, I must have sent it after all.

I took a small sip of tea and clicked into the Outbox. The list scrolled past my eyes lazily at first, routine and harmless, until something snagged my attention. One line above “Potatoes” sat another email. I frowned and leaned closer to the screen.

To settle the score with dear Mr. Zoldan

What the hell is this? I didn’t remember writing anything like that. My hand trembled on the mouse. Click. The email opened.

I read slowly at first, trying to understand what I was looking at, trying to force some forgotten memory to rise to the surface. But after a few lines my eyes began darting wildly across the text. The reading became jerky, frantic. Somewhere during those seconds, I realized I stopped breathing.

My heart froze. A sudden wave of cold swept through me so violently I was certain my blood pressure had crashed. I sat there with my mouth hanging open, staring at the screen, unable to breathe properly, unable to think.

The email was full of insults. Not ordinary insults, carefully targeted blows, exposing personal details, business secrets, intimate humiliations. And it had been sent from my address in the agency’s mailbox.

To Gamliel Zoldan.

I kept staring at the screen, numb. Then my heartbeat returned all at once, pounding through my body so hard my hands were shaking.

This was sent from me. I’m finished. That’s it, finished.

I scrolled back to the top of the letter. My finger trembled against the arrow keys as I began reading again, slower this time. And then the second blow landed.

I knew these words. These were my sentences. I recognized the phrasing, the descriptions, the rhythm of the language. Lines from my books. Expressions I had invented. Whole fragments lifted out of my writing and stitched together into a monstrous letter of slander.

How is this possible? Someone had taken my voice, my own words, and turned them into a weapon.

In one instant I understood the full scope of the disaster. Not only was my job finished, not only was my friendship with Zoldan destroyed, but I could also find myself facing a defamation lawsuit over words that sounded unmistakably like mine.

The blood drained from my face and hands. I looked at my palms; they were white as paper. My vision blurred. It felt as though someone had struck me in the head with a metal horn. Blackness gathered at the edges of my sight, threaded with sparks and flashes.

I couldn’t think clearly anymore.

I don’t know how much time passed, the tea beside me had gone cold. I sat frozen in front of the screen, unable to move, unable to speak, like some petrified mummy sealed inside its tomb.

I cursed the day I started working here. I cursed the day I started writing books. I cursed Gamliel Zoldan for ever deciding to hire me.

I still hadn’t begun thinking practically. I was trapped entirely inside the shock of it, drowning in humiliation, betrayal, bitterness.

Then the door opened.

I jumped violently, a scream catching in my throat. My chair slammed backward into the wall hard enough to shake a small vase from the shelf beside me. It hit the floor and shattered, red fragments scattering across the tiles like pieces of something alive.

Gamliel Zoldan stood in the doorway. He stepped inside with that measured, rhythmic gait of his and leaned slightly toward me. His eyes widened as they moved from my face to the shattered vase.

He said nothing. He only pointed at the shards glittering on the floor. 

• • •

My vocal cords felt frozen solid. I couldn’t force out a single word. This was it. Now he would tell me I was fired, and after that we would meet in court.

God help me. A vicious letter of abuse had been sent to him from my account, written in my voice, using my own texts. There was no way out.

Zoldan raised a hand, curling it slowly into a fist. A sharp hiss slipped through his teeth.
“Do you know why I’m here?”

I shook my head like a scolded child. Fear made me stupid, hollow. “N-no…” My voice cracked, thin and foreign. I didn’t recognize it. I wanted the sky to collapse, to swallow me whole. For the ground to split open and erase me. For a bomb to wipe this entire place off the map. I was gone.

“Don’t you know why I’m here?” he pressed, his tone tightening, gaining heat.

“No… no.” I swallowed, my throat felt coated in tar.

He pointed at me, almost trembling. “You… you…” His head tilted, searching for the words. “You, the truth is, you’re good. You...”

“What?” I could barely draw air. My legs turned to lead.

“I came to tell you, excellent work on the Medicine and Shabbat case.” His voice steadied, even warmed. “I spoke to the VP yesterday. They were blown away. Said you can tell it’s a man’s thinking, sharp, structured. Up until now, a woman handled their portfolio. Congratulations.”

Most of it didn't even register, the words slid past me. Only one fact landed, hard and bright: He doesn’t know yet. He hasn’t seen it. He hasn’t opened the email.

Air rushed back into my lungs. A glimmer of hope, fragile but real, flickered inside me.

Maybe I can fix this. Maybe...

“Alright,” Zoldan said, already turning toward the door. “I need to get back to my office.”

Hope shattered. “Wait!” The word tore out of me before I understood it. I stumbled around the desk. “Wait!”

I had no plans. No thoughts. Instinct had hijacked everything.

“Yes?” He paused mid-step. His polished shoes pointed toward the hallway, but his upper body, wrapped in that immaculate gray suit, faced me. “Do you need something?”

“Yes.” I closed the distance too fast, grabbed his hand without thinking. “Come. You must come with me. Now. You’ll see something, something incredible. Come.”

Where did that come from? I didn’t know. I just pulled. Hard.

He stumbled after me, trying to keep his balance. “What, what’s wrong with you? What happened? I need to step into my office for a moment. Check my email...”

“Come with me!” I snapped, louder now, heat flooding back into my body. Energy surged, wild and directionless. Adrenaline without a plan.

I dragged him out into the hallway. Past the open elevator to the stairs.

“Come on,” I muttered, breathe quick, grip tight. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Zoldan… Just come with me.”

I dragged him all the way to the parking lot to my car, a battered old Ford Fiesta. I yanked the door open and pointed inside.

“Get in.”

If I heard myself at that moment, I might have recoiled. I don’t give orders. I do not bark at people. This is not me. But the voice that came out was sharp, commanding, almost violent.

“Sit down. Come on, Mr. Zoldan. Sit. We're going for a ride.”

He hesitated, just a second, then obeyed. I caught a flicker of something on his face. Fear perhaps.

I slammed the door shut, the sound echoed through the lot and stepped away before he could speak. My fingers flew over the keypad as I dialed.

He picked up on the first ring. “Abraham, Abraham!” My voice came out breathless, breaking. “I’m collapsing. I need you.”

In the background, I could hear murmurs, clients, and papers shifting. He was working. Of course he was.

“Drop everything,” I snapped. “Right now. You need to save my life.”

A beat. Then, calmer: “What happened? Talk.”

Abraham Huys, Abraham, private investigator, methodical, unflappable. The same Abraham my Yeshiva roommate, where we spent long nights imagining darker versions of the world outside.

“A letter,” I said, forcing the words out. “Was sent from my email. To my boss. Full of insults, worse. It’s built from fragments of my books. Stitched together. It’s… it’s bad.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Resign. Pay fifty thousand for defamation. Move on. Glad I could help.”

“No, no, no!” I shouted louder than I meant to. The parking guard glanced over. I turned my back to the car, lowering my voice. “I didn’t call for advice. Drop everything and go to my office. Now.”

Silence.

“I’ll keep him away,” I rushed on. “I’ll take him out, distract him, kidnap him if I must. You get in, open my computer, and delete the email. Both sides. Mine and his.”

“Why bother?”

“Because I won’t do that to him!” The words tore out of me. “I’m not going to let him read something like that, from me. You have no idea what’s in there. His business, his family, everything. It’s vicious. It’s poison.”

I swallowed, my throat burning.

“Better I insult him to his face than let him read that. Things like that… they stick. They rot your insides, they never leave”.

The car door clicked and opened behind me. Zoldan stepped out.

“I’m coming!” I called over my shoulder. “One second, this is important!”

Back into the phone, low and fast: “Listen to me, Abraham. Go to my office. I’ll walk you through it. You delete everything. That’s it. I’m out of time.” I hung up before he could argue.

I turned and nearly ran straight into Zoldan. He reached for my arm, about to speak. I cut him off, raising a hand. “Please. Just, give me this. We’re friends, right? You trust me. Let me show you something. Don’t worry. You won’t regret it.”

He studied me for a long second. Then he sighed, a small, resigned shake of the head. “Alright,” he said. “Fine.”

He got back into the car.

I circled to the driver’s side, slid in, and started the engine. The engine coughed. I pulled out fast, tires crunching over gravel as we merged into traffic.

Beside me, Zoldan was already on his phone, firing off calls one after another. No smartphone, this was before email followed you everywhere. Not for him. Not yet.

Which means as long as I kept him moving, he would not see it. 

• • •

I drove like a madman.

Up bridges, down ramps, cutting through side streets and narrow alleys, doubling back for no reason except to buy time. My eyes kept darting to the mirrors, to the clock, to him, searching for anything, any excuse to stretch this out a little longer.

I just needed time. A few more minutes. Another hour. Anything.

Finally, I pulled up near a place Abraham and I used to joke about, a small, tired restaurant we’d nicknamed The Snail. The slowest service in the country. You could order coffee and grow old waiting for it. Perfect.

I parked on the curb, crooked enough to invite a ticket, or better yet, a tow. For a fleeting second, I actually prayed for it. Let them take the car. Let me drag him across the city chasing it down. killing time.

I turned to him, forcing a smile onto my face. It felt wrong. Stiff. Like something arranged on a corpse.

“Come,” I said, extending a hand. “Breakfast on me. Let’s eat, relax a little. Start the day right.”

“I already ate,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Then lunch,” I shot back immediately. “Even better. Business lunch. My treat. Come on.”

He hesitated, then shrugged and followed me inside. We sat.

A waiter drifted somewhere in the background, moving with geological patience. Good. Let it take forever.

A moment later, I pushed my chair back and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

I stepped aside and dialed. “Abraham, Talk to me. Where are you?”

“I’m in,” he said. His voice dropped. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted, pacing. “We need to figure this out. If his computer’s on, the email client might already be running. That means the message could’ve been pulled into his inbox the second it hit the server.”

“And if it’s off?”

I paused. “Then we’ve got a different problem.”

“It means the email is still sitting on the server,” I continued. “Think of it like a transit station, messages pass through it before reaching the machine. Our office has its own server at the end of the hallway, near the restrooms. There’s a recessed niche, you’ll see it. Big metal unit, stacked with LEDs, cables everywhere.”

“I know the one.”

“If the message is still there…” I swallowed. “We may have to take the server down.”

“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “You’ll cripple the entire office. Network, workstations, everything runs through that thing.”

“They have backups,” I said quickly. “It will take a day, maybe less, and they’re up and running again. It’s damage, but it’s contained.”

Unlike the alternative.

Through the tinted window, I saw Zoldan watching me from inside. Still seated. Still waiting. I lifted a hand, made a small gesture: stay there, don’t move. don’t go anywhere near your office.

“Listen carefully,” I said, lowering my voice. “If it comes to it, take the server out, anyway you can. There’s a reset mechanism inside, protected, delayed response. If you can reach it, use it.”

“And the computer?”

“If his computer is already on, then forget the server. Kill the machine. That’s the priority“. “Just tell me before you do anything,” I added. “I need to know what I’m buying time for.”

I stood still for a second, the noise of the restaurant was dull and distant, like it belonged to another world.

Then I turned back to the table, and to the man I was desperately trying to save.

I couldn’t even begin to think like Abraham right now. How will he get into the office. How he’d reach Zoldan’s computer, or the server. How he’d destroy anything without getting caught.

He will figure it out. He had to. I had my own fire to contain.

I went back inside. The air smelled of frying oil and stale bread. I picked up the menu, though I wasn’t reading a word of it.

“Salad. Bread. A pitcher of water,” I told the waitress.

Zoldan leaned forward. “I’ll have lunch.”

“It’ll be about an hour,” she said, already halfway gone.

“An hour?” he said sharply, suspicious.

She froze. “We only start serving lunch at twelve,” she added quickly, apologetic.

I jumped in. “No problem, we’ll wait.”

Zoldan turned to me slowly, eyes widening. He tapped my arm, not gently. “Wait for what? Are you out of your mind? I’m not burning an entire workday on schnitzel. I have people waiting for me. Let’s go.”

“This is important,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “We’ll talk in the meantime. You know how it is; there’s never a quiet moment at the office. Always a race. This is… rare.”

I gave the waitress a small nod. She took the cue and disappeared.

Zoldan leaned back, studying me. “Alright,” he said. “Talk. What’s so important?”

Nothing. My mind was empty. utterly, terrifyingly empty.

Every other day I overflow with ideas, spilling out faster than I can catch them. And now? Nothing. The pressure had vacuumed me clean. I had nothing to hold him here with.

My eyes drifted, desperate, until they snagged on a framed picture on the wall: the New York skyline. Skyscrapers, the Statue of Liberty, rising pale green against the haze.

“Okay,” I said, buying time even as I spoke. “So, here’s something. The Statue of Liberty? It was originally designed for Egypt. It was supposed to stand at the entrance to the Suez Canal. Not as a robed Roman figure, but as an Arab peasant woman. The torch, her flame, symbolizes light carried into Asia.”

God, just keep talking.

“That’s good,” Zoldan said, leaning in, a spark lighting his eyes. “That’s very good. I see where you’re going.”

I almost laughed. Where am I going? He knew better than I did.

My hand slipped to my phone under the table, checking for any sign from Abraham. Nothing. 

• • •

“You’re talking about displacement,” Zoldan continued, warming up. “Context distortion. Taking iconic objects and placing them where they don’t belong.”

He was animated now, building it, running with it.

“We put the Leaning Tower of Pisa in France. The Chrysler Building in Japan. The Great Wall in Russia. The Eiffel Tower in India...” His hands came together in a sharp clap, the sound ringing through the slow, sleepy restaurant.

“And that,” he said, eyes shining, “is a full campaign, ‘Terner Sauce’. Global identity, misplaced context, brilliant. Huge. Absolutely huge.”

I nodded, forcing a thin smile. “Exactly”.

And under the table, my phone remained silent.

“Yeah. Yes… I like it. Like this… you know…” I nodded, words stumbling over themselves. Come on. Come on. Abraham, move.

My hand tightened around the phone in my pocket until the blood drained from my palm.

“Perfect,” Zoldan said, already sprinting ahead. “We reposition the sauces from their expected use. Barbecue sauce with fish, not just meat. Thousand Island in sandwiches, not just salads. Vinaigrette on...”

I didn’t hear a word he said. His lips moved, his hands painted ideas in the air, but it was all a blur. My chest felt hollowed out, splintered from the inside. If that email reached him… God.

He will never sleep the same again. Something like that, those words will not fade away. They burrow. They live with you. He is the one who loses here. Not me.

My phone buzzed. My heart stuttered. A message from Abraham.

Passed by the boss’s office. Computer’s off. No access to the server.

I shot to my feet so fast the chair legs scraped loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” I muttered, already moving.

I slipped toward the back, near the bathroom, where the noise dropped off and the air smelled faintly of bleach. I dialed immediately.

“What do you mean, no access to the server?” I hissed. “It’s right there. You can’t miss it.”

“I can,” he said flatly. “It’s locked. Ventilated safe. Solid. Without tools? Without prep? Forget it.”

“Then break it.”

“With what?”

“Plant something. Controlled charge.”

silence. And then: “Have you lost your mind? You want me to set explosives in a working office? No warning, no clearance? We won’t be deleting emails; we’ll be comparing sentences in adjacent prison cells. You’ll have plenty of time to write your thrillers there. This exact scene, actually.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Two futures, clean and brutal: Me, locked up. Or Zoldan, broken. Which is worse?

“Listen,” I said, forcing my voice back under control. “Acid. Find something, lead acid, industrial cleaner, anything strong enough. Pour it through the vents. The cables will go first. Melt insulation, short the contacts. The system will crash. Maybe burn.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.” My grip tightened on the phone. “Get ready. Tell me before you do it. I need one more piece of information.”

I hung up before he could argue.

When I got back to the table, Zoldan was bent over a sheet of paper, sketching fast, loose lines, landmarks floating against the wrong horizons.

“...and then we flip it,” he was saying. “Take the expectation and...”

“Quick question,” I cut in, sliding into my seat. “Technical. Backups, we run daily incremental backups, right?”

He glanced up, mildly annoyed at the interruption. “Yes. Why?”

“And integrity checks?” I pressed. “When was the last time anyone actually verified the backups work? I’ve seen companies rely on them, and then everything collapses because no one tested them.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yesterday.” The word landed heavy.

I nodded slowly. Good. That means when everything goes dark, it won’t be the end of the world. Just the beginning of mine.

“So, if, right now, today, the server crashes,” I said carefully, “or is destroyed… we can restore everything to how it was yesterday.”

Silence. Too conspicuous perhaps.

Zoldan wasn’t a tech-guy, not really, but he wasn’t stupid. I pushed too far. I felt it the second the words left my lips. I bit my tongue and dropped my gaze to the breadbasket, suddenly fascinated by its geometry.

Then his voice came. calm but commanding. “Is this your solution, Manny? You’re going to destroy my server?”

I gasped. Does he know?

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Why would you think that?”

“Manny…” His tone shifted, warmer now, almost gentle. “I love you. I appreciate you. Since you joined us, we’ve reached new heights.”

No. No. That made it worse. Infinitely worse. If this thing detonates now, it won’t just hurt him. It will ruin him.

My phone lit up under the table.

Ready for action. Employees in a meeting. Area clear. Give the green light and the server is going where hardware goes to die.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

“Do you understand the level of competition in our field?” Zoldan continued, watching me. “Agencies will do anything to land the big advertising budget. Anything. We’re talking tens, hundreds, of millions.”

Where is this going?

I typed with one hand, clumsy, numb.

Green light.

Couldn’t hit ‘Send’.

Zoldan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded document, in a slow deliberate movement. He placed it on the table between us and slid it toward me.

“Can you explain this to me?”

I picked it up and unfolded it.

In that moment, if the human heart was held in place with strings, they would snap at once.

Heat flooded my face, violent and scalding, like I’d been doused in boiling soup. My skin prickled and burned. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory surfaced, some obscure case I’d once read about. A woman who died of embarrassment. Caught in the act of theft, realizing too late she was being watched. Her heart simply… stopped.

I understand her now. Completely.

The page in my hands was a printout of an email. MY email.

“To settle the score with dear Mr. Zoldan.”

I forced myself to read it again, slower this time. I needed the seconds. Needed something to hold onto while the ground disappeared beneath me. Alright. This is it. Worst case. You’re done here. Go find another job. Pay the damn fifty thousand. From the wedding fund, sure, but money comes back. You survive. You...

“Can you explain that?”

I looked up. His gray eyes were locked onto mine. Waiting. 

• • •

I felt dead.

Zoldan just looked at me. His mouth twisted, anger? Not yet, something worse. Hurt. Deep, bewildered hurt. Like a child asking a question no one can answer.

“Why?”

Something in me broke. I bent over the page and sobbed.

Not polite tears. Not controlled sorrow. It came out of me in waves, raw, choking, unstoppable. Hours of pressure exploded at once. My nerves stretched thinly this morning, finally snapped.

I cried like a child. And it wasn’t for me. It was for him. The poison in those words. The filth someone had poured into his life using my voice. No one deserves that, not over money, not over work, not over anything.

And Zoldan, good God, he didn’t deserve it.

“Forgive me,” I whispered into the crumpling paper, the ink blurring under my tears. “Forgive me… please…”

The words kept spilling out, half prayer, half delirium. Fragments of stories, of teachings, about baseless hatred, about justice, about those who are humiliated and remain silent. I wanted to stand up, to grab him, to hold him like you hold someone who’s just been told the world is ending.

We are not enemies, I wanted to say. We are the same piece, broken in different places.

My hands shook as I wiped my face, smearing tears across my cheeks, dabbing uselessly with a napkin.

When I finally looked up, He was closer. Leaning in. Studying me. Steady. How is he so steady?

His hand came down on my shoulder. Firm. Grounding. “I know you didn’t write that.”

I blinked. “What?” The word cracked. “What, really?”

Relief hit like a second collapse. Fresh tears surged, but different now, lighter, disbelieving. A thin beam of light cutting through the wreckage.

“At least… at least I’m clean,” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And I know who did write it.”

My breath caught.

“He is in custody,” Zoldan continued. “Under investigation. I’ve had a file on him for a while. Something was wrong long before this, losses, files going missing, ideas leaking, contacts disappearing. I just couldn’t prove it.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, not at me, but at the memory.

“It wasn’t until you arrived that the pattern sharpened.”

“Me?” I asked, still shaking. “How… How did I lead you to him?”

“There was someone in the office,” he said slowly, “who couldn’t stop talking about your books and praising them. Recommending them. Obsessed, really. He’d pin your quotes to the bulletin board. Read passages out loud at gatherings. Use your phrasing in conversations, in pitches…” Zoldan lifted a finger, marking the moment. “Until” he said, “you joined us.”

“Why?” I asked. “How?”

“From the moment you arrived,” Zoldan said, “he started planting doubts. Said you were unstable. That you had… conditions. That you couldn’t be trusted.”

I felt my jaw tighten.

“As your work began promoting the firm,” he continued, “he escalated. Sharper comments. More poison. Until this,” he tapped the crumpled page between us, “this letter. That’s where he made his mistake. He overreached. Exposed himself.”

I swallowed. “The only person in the office who actually knows my books,” I said slowly, “and the only one with a motive for industrial espionage…”

“Exactly.”

We sat there in the heavy quiet that followed a storm. Plates clinked somewhere in the distance. A waiter drifted past. The world, absurdly, went on.

After a long minute, Zoldan spoke again. “I learned something through all this,” he said, his voice softer now. “I saw who you are when you’re under fire. And I gained a real friend.”

His eyes shone, just slightly. He turned his gaze toward the window, toward the washed-out horizon beyond the glass.

I looked down at my hands.

In the end, I didn’t go back.

Something in me had cracked that day, something that had already been fragile, like hairline fractures running through it long before the letter. The whole thing fed a quiet, circling paranoia, like a trapped bird beating its wings inside my chest. I couldn’t return to those corridors, those screens, that inbox.

Not after that.

Zoldan and I stayed friends.

I still send him ideas sometimes, campaigns, lines, fragments of thought that might grow into something bigger. I just don’t walk through his office doors anymore.

Some places you must leave, even if they don’t cast you out.