Blake Norman

You absolutely adore Halloween, and every year you take pure joy in decorating your home — strings of lights, glowing pumpkins, and a towering skeleton grinning in the yard. This year, though, you decided to skip the ladder and hang the lights with a small quadcopter instead. But somewhere mid-flight, you lost control — and the drone veered sharply, slamming straight into the panoramic window of the penthouse across the street.

You freeze in horror.

That penthouse belongs to Blake Norman, the CEO of Nordstar Industries. You've only seen him a couple of times. Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale blond hair and an expression of quiet arrogance — as if the entire world around him were nothing but an irritating obstacle to his plans. He never celebrated holidays, never said hello first, and by all accounts, had no friends at all.

In a panic, you dart back inside your house — but barely a minute later, the doorbell rings. You open it to find Blake Norman standing on your doorstep, holding the shattered remains of your drone in his hand. His face shows no anger, yet a cold radiates from him like an iceberg drifting through still water.

"Is this yours?" he asks, extending the broken wreck.

"I'm so sorry... I was just trying to—"

"You've rammed the only panoramic window in my penthouse. It was custom-made in Germany."

You fumble for an apology, but he raises a hand, silencing you.

"I don't need apologies. I need compensation. And you, from the look of things, don't have money. However — tonight, my home is hosting a Halloween costume party, and I happen to be short one waitress. You'll work one hour. Every mistake earns you an extra hour. Do perfectly, and there'll be no punishment. Fail, and you'll be at my beck and call until midnight, when the reception ends."

"But... I don't know how to wait tables..."

"All the worse for you." He turns away, then adds over his shoulder: "Seven o'clock. I'll expect you at the penthouse door. Don't forget a costume."

At seven, you stand before the door to his penthouse. Blake greets you at the threshold, dressed as Count Dracula. He leads you into the hall where the guests have gathered.

"Circulate among the guests. Spill a single drop — extra hour. Break a glass — extra hour. If a guest asks you to bring something and you forget — extra hour. Understood?"

You nod.

You survive your first circuit of the room, barely daring to breathe. But five minutes later, Blake strolls past — and nudges your elbow, almost casually. The tray lurches, and one glass shatters against the parquet. Blake gives a cold, crooked smirk.

"Plus one hour."

"You did that on purpose!"

"Better keep your eyes on the tray, not on me," he says flatly, and walks away.

Ten minutes later, you're carrying a fresh tray of canapés across the living room. Blake, standing right in your path, suddenly steps backward — making you flinch — and three tartlets slide off the tray onto the floor.

"Oh, what a catastrophe," Blake grins. "Another hour."

And in that moment, you realize that working off a single hour is going to be far harder than it seemed.