Page 3 of Break Room
The air on set felt stuffy, making my skin itch beneath my sweater. I took off my nylon jacket and held it, scratching at my chest as I hurried to catch up with the head writer.
At the end of the hallway was a sliding door labelled ‘Break Room’. The head writer slid it open in a smooth motion, pushing it all the way to the right, revealing a surprisingly spacious room. It was about 143 square feet – a pretty generous space for a break room. Unlike the stale air in the hallway, the room carried a comforting, familiar scent, like someone had been brewing barley tea or freshly roasted coffee beans.
All the prospective contestants entered the break room cautiously, keeping our distance from each other. Someone flipped a switch, and a waterdrop-shaped ceiling lamp lit up brightly.
The break room was equipped with a high-poweredmicrowave, a compact toaster, a slim yet spotless sink and an adorable ivory-coloured fridge. Three lidless containers sat on the counter, filled with an assortment of snacks, candies and jellies. One container even had mugwortinjeolmicoated with roasted soybean powder, a brand-new snack so popular that they were rare to find, even at a premium price. Next to the snack containers were neatly organised selections of tea and coffee. The tea selection boasted a renowned UK brand – luxurious and far too pricey for an ordinary office break room – and the coffee offerings ranged from the familiar sachets of instant coffee, a popular everyday option, to trendy experi mental options such as zero-sugar protein lattes. Not only that, but there was also a convenient capsule coffee machine, with various coffee capsules neatly arranged by type. But what surprised us most was the famous Italian moka pot and the high-end espresso machine. The large, gleaming silver espresso machine stood like a centrepiece on the countertop, commanding attention and instantly elevating the atmosphere of the break room.
My fellow candidates were silent, but their excitement was obvious. One of them, meticulously groomed from head to toe, leaned in to examine the small toaster with the air of someone inspecting the condition of a vacation home. Earlier, during our meeting in the office downstairs, I’d noticed him checking his own reflection on his phone every few minutes. I’d also spotted an unfortunate smudge of hair wax behind his right ear. For a moment, I considered being friendly and asking for at least his nickname, but then decided against it. After all, what was the point of getting to know anyone when any of us could walk away at any point? It could very well be me.
‘Now, everyone, please hold off on exploring until the game officially begins,’ the head writer said, subtly tugging at the elbow of the well-groomed candidate, who had lifted the toasterto look underneath it, perhaps already searching for hidden clues planted by the production team.
‘You’re only allowed to talk to each other in the break room. Did you notice the flats in the hallway? Each of you has a bedroom, a home office and a small bathroom. While you won’t be allowed outside during your stay here, the windows will give you some fresh air and will hopefully keep you from feeling too claustrophobic. Please work from your office spaces as you normally would, and you can visit the break room whenever you need a break – just like any other ordinary day at work.’
The head writer’s gaze lingered on the well-groomed candidate, as if keeping an eye on him in case he got distracted or tried anything silly.
‘The only rule,’ she continued, ‘is that you can stay in the break room for up to one hundred minutes per day. Any questions?’ She paused, waiting for a response.
Amidst the silence, the ice machine made a clattering noise as fresh cubes dropped into its tray.
‘Alright then, if there are no other questions, you can all head to your flats and take some time to decide whether or not to participate in the game.’
But no one moved. Everyone stood frozen, speechless. I was the only one making a sound – my nylon jumper rustling as I tried to keep it from slipping off my arm.
‘You said earlier that we need hints to find the mole. How do I get one?’ asked a woman with thick, pitch-black eyebrows, breaking the silence with the first meaningful question anyone had asked. Her dark brows made her eyes appear almost grey in contrast.
‘Yes,’ the writer replied smoothly, ‘you earn hints by making certain moves, which will give you a card to trade for a hint. You can then choose one of the other players, and you will receive a hint that reveals something about them.’
‘So what moves do we need to make to get those trading cards?’ the woman asked, her thick eyebrows twitching slightly as she frowned.
The head writer’s voice shifted, taking on a serious tone. ‘You need to break the rules.’
The woman scoffed, her frustration growing. ‘But you didn’t tell us what those rules are.’
‘You’ll have to figure them out. That’s where the game begins.’
Before anyone could ask more questions, the head writer took a step forward, holding out a black slip of paper she’d pulled from her coat pocket. ‘When you get to your flats, you’ll find more instructions waiting for you. Please read them carefully.’ She began ushering us out of the break room. ‘Take the night to think things over, and make up your minds by dawn tomorrow.’ She spread her five fingers wide. ‘If at least five of you decide to stay, we’ll proceed with the shoot!’ Then she turned her back on the break room.
As soon as she’d finished speaking, a staff member emerged from each of the eight flat doors, ready to guide us.
‘Ice Cube? This way,’ called out a young male staff member, gesturing for me to follow.
‘Oh, okay,’ I replied, surprised by how I’d so readily accepted being called by my alias instead of my real name.
All eight of us dispersed into our flats as our nicknames were called. The flat next to mine belonged to the documentary woman – Coffee Mix – who had already disappeared inside.
‘We’ve coordinated with your companies so that you can continue working as usual, albeit in a limited fashion,’ the staff member explained to me, stepping aside to let me enter the room. ‘There’s a separate bedroom next to your personal office where you can shower and sleep. If you decide to join the show, please sign this cast agreement and NDA, and hand them in bytomorrow morning.’ He handed me a big paper envelope. ‘If you choose to leave, please pack your belongings and vacate your flat by dawn. We will be on standby to quietly help coordinate your departure. Have a good night.’
He delivered the instructions with practised professionalism, his tone as polished as though he were reading from a manual. Then, without another word, he softly closed the door behind him, taking care not to make a sound.
I looked around my flat, feeling a strange sense of disorientation, as though some giant had plucked me up and dropped me right into my own workplace. The computer, mouse and keyboard – and even the little snake plant I kept on my desk – were arranged in exactly the same positions as they were in my actual office. Someone had painstakingly recreated every detail, down to the Post-it with my clients’ contacts, which was stuck in the very spot where I always left it. The meticulousness of it all was rather impressive.
It was only later that I noticed something unnerving: the workstation wasn’t just arranged to replicate my actual desk – it seemed to replicate the precise range of movements I would make when navigating my usual office set-up. The power button was positioned exactly where my hand would normally reach, the desk height aligned perfectly with the angle of my arms as I typed, and even the placement of items in the bottom desk drawer matched up with my hunched-over posture as I attempted to reach them. The realisation sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine.
I tossed the envelope containing the contract on to the desk and walked to the sliding door at the far right end of the wide window. Through the window, I could see an empty park below, softly illuminated by a streetlight that was capturing the falling flurries of snow in a pale halo of light. Everything else outside was eerily still and silent. I gently slid open the door to reveala small bedroom and a compact bathroom, neatly stocked with essentials. At least they hadn’t gone so far as to replicate my actual bedroom. What a relief.
The luggage I’d left downstairs had already been placed beside the bed. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on top of the covers, still wearing my sweater. Dust from the fabric swirled in the dry air. Now that I was all alone, free from the scrutiny of others, the emotions I’d been burying deep all day began to surface, spiralling uncontrollably.
I pictured the faces of my coworkers. How much fun they must’ve had referring me for this, all because I put coffee or cola in the ice-cube tray. Did it never occur to them what would happen once I found out? How awkward things would be between us?
