What day was it, anyway? What time was it?
Callaway just come into the office a couple hours ago after stopping by Matt's staged service. He'd been here for hours the day before and was already in for a long day today. He thought back to his conversation with Matt just the day before and his stomach churned. He had been a ball of tension since Matt left his car, and after seeing Matt's family, it made his stomach tighten even worse. So bad, he'd forgone the morning coffee run and kept it strictly at peppermint tea, the kind Veronika used to fix for him when his stomach was a bloody mess. Matt's mother's cries echoed in his head, the sorrow on their faces would haunt them forever. He couldn't stand to think of it. He couldn't stand the agony of the entire situation...
Cole had his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his hair as he stared at the mounds of paperwork stacked on his desk. How strange. His desk. He wasn't used to four walls around his desk, with an area for a set of chairs, a couple filing cabinets, bookshelves... He wasn't used to having a window with a view of the city, or places to put his things, even though he didn't have very much in his cubicle to begin with. The Brass had already moved his belongings into former Director Jones' office, which came with a lot of commendations and proud back-pats from folks from the pit, a handful of emoji-filled excited text messages from Geoffrey who was still in the hospital, and a list of the operatives on his team.
His team consisted of Klaus Schmidt, Matt Cox, Kat Bauer and Lex Taylor--but that was a roster of the past. He had new faces to meet, new people to interview, on top of conference calls, briefings and a migraine's worth of paperwork to sift through. Where would he even start? How did Jones ever do this without a proper assistant? No wait, she had one, right? The mousy little secretary who would buzz in her calls and take her messages, who kept real quiet. He would have to learn her name right quick, but right now he needed to dig himself out of this hole of paperwork, and perhaps make a list of tasks in priority order. He had to get organized.
Cole let out a heavy sigh as he sat back. It was so surreal to see her name placard gone, not only from the edge of her elaborate desk but scraped off of the door too. He didn't want this to happen this way. Honestly, he didn't know whether or not he wanted this gig, yet, here he was, sitting in her chair--now his sitting behind the desk, staring at the open door that led into his former bullpen.
He should be happier he'd been promoted, right?
How did it come to this?