On today's CBS 101:
CBS: China Bullshit Science
1. Do not question the young master, he's always right. The world may be wrong but the young master is not.
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A soft, precise knock echoed in the cavernous office.
"It's open."
Aaron didn't sit forward, but remained reclined in the chair that likely cost more than a luxury sedan, his gaze fixed on the entrance. The door swung inward silently.
The woman who entered moved with a fluid, studied grace. Her hair was a curtain of jet-black, falling past her shoulders, framing a face with large, intelligent eyes and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a knowing smile. She wore a flawlessly tailored black pantsuit that managed to be both severe and suggestive.
She didn't speak immediately. Her eyes—sharp, assessing—swept the room, landing on the empty, clean ceramic mug on the obsidian desk. Without a word, she moved to a sideboard, filled a crystal carafe with filtered water, and poured a glass, placing it silently within Aaron's reach. It was a simple act, but one that spoke volumes: she had observed, deduced his preference from the absence of coffee stains or residue, and acted. Proactive intelligence.
She then performed a minor, unnecessary straightening of a stack of untouched documents before taking the seat across from him. Noticing his observational focus, she didn't adopt the rigid, interview-ready posture one might expect. Instead, she crossed one leg over the other, the movement drawing subtle attention to the line of her stocking. A small, professional smile touched her lips.
Aaron's Enhanced Optical Resolution and Pheromonal Analysis worked in tandem. The grace was real, but there was a micro-tension in her shoulders, a hint of recent, intensive coaching in her poise. Her height was as listed—178 cm—and in her modest heels, she nearly met his eye level. Her figure was exceptional, naturally so, his senses confirming no artificial enhancements. Her makeup was minimalist, a masterclass in subtlety that enhanced rather than masked. She was, by any objective measure, stunning.
Felicia sat, allowing the appraisal, her expression one of calm readiness. The air wasn't charged with tension, but with a mutual, unspoken understanding of the game being played.
"You're listed as having no significant romantic entanglements. Why is that?" Aaron began, bypassing any pretense of standard interview questions. The dossier, the presentation, the role—it was all a theater for adults. Directness was its own form of respect.
Felicia's composure didn't crack. "I was raised in a… conservatively minded environment. Certain activities were discouraged outside of marital commitment." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping a conspiratorial half-octave. "And to be frank, I've found most men my age to be disappointingly… unambitious. My interests lie elsewhere. In achievement. In working for someone of genuine consequence." Her blue eyes held his. "Someone with vision. And the strength to see it through."
The subtext was woven so thinly it was nearly text. Someone like you. Aaron allowed a faint smile. A clever woman, yes. Ambitious. She understood the currency of this room was not just competence, but perception and alignment.
"Your file mentions Empire State University. This position would be demanding. It would conflict with a standard academic schedule."
"I've already completed the core requirements for my degree," Felicia replied without hesitation. "The university has a prestigious corporate internship program. My participation here would fulfill my final credits. I would only need to return for examinations. It will not impact my performance. In fact, I can petition for early graduation based on this placement."
Her answers were prepared, polished, and pragmatic. She had anticipated the obstacles and neutralized them in advance.
"I've reviewed your profile," Aaron said, shifting tone to something more formal. "Academic excellence. A diverse skill set—management, finance, linguistics. Extracurriculars in yoga, dance, musical performance… including the flute." He let the last item hang for a beat, watching her reaction. A faint, genuine blush touched her cheeks before being mastered. "Your qualifications are a precise match for the requirements of this role."
He stood, extending his hand across the desk. "Welcome to Osborn Industries, Miss… Felicia. I look forward to our collaboration."
Surprise, bright and sharp, flashed in her eyes before being swallowed by triumphant satisfaction. She stood swiftly, her handshake firm and cool. "Thank you, sir. The honor is mine."
"If the opportunity arises," Aaron added as he released her hand, "I would be interested in hearing you play. I have an appreciation for skilled musicianship."
"Of course… Boss," she said, the title fitting her lips with surprising ease. She immediately shifted gears, her posture becoming all business. "Shall I coordinate the remaining interviews for your review?"
Her eagerness to prove her utility was palpable. She knew she was an underdog—a student amidst seasoned professionals. Her first-mover advantage was a gift she didn't intend to squander.
"Unnecessary," Aaron stated, moving toward the door. "The position is filled. Please follow me."
Relief washed over her features, swiftly concealed. She gathered her portfolio and fell into step just behind his left shoulder, a natural shadow.
They rode the silent elevator down to the executive reception level. As the doors parted, a new figure was approaching down the marbled corridor. A woman with a cascade of fiery red hair, wearing a black dress that balanced professional severity with undeniable allure, moved with a panther-like confidence. Her eyes, a striking green, flicked from Aaron to Felicia, registering the dynamic instantly. A perfect, welcoming smile appeared.
"Good afternoon, sir. I'm—"
Aaron didn't break stride. He walked past her as if she were a piece of tasteful statuary. To Felicia, who hurried to keep pace, he spoke in a clear, conversational tone that carried in the hushed hallway.
"Take note of that woman. She entered the company premises leading with her left foot. Have her escorted from the building. Her candidacy is terminated."
A beat of dead silence.
Felicia blinked. "Sir?"
Around them, the carefully cultivated corporate quiet shattered into a freeze-frame of suppressed shock. A junior executive clutching a tablet stumbled, catching himself against the wall. Those pretending to work at open-plan desks froze, their heads swiveling in unison.
The red-haired woman—'Natalie Rushman' according to the second dossier—stood immobilized, the polished smile still etched on her face, not yet having received the neural command to dissolve. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of contingency plans and persona maintenance, presented her with a blank, blue screen.
At that moment, Norman Osborn appeared from a side corridor, drawn by the psychic ripples of the event. His sharp eyes took in the scene: Aaron's retreating back, Felicia's confusion, and Natalie's statue-like paralysis. He gave Felicia a quick, significant look, then waved a dismissive hand at the stunned redhead.
"Miss Rushman. Your presence is no longer required. Security will see you out." He then turned and hurried after Aaron, leaving the tableau behind.
Natalie slowly looked down at her own feet, then back up at the retreating forms of the company's power center. The weight of dozens of covert stares pressed on her. She turned her head, catching her reflection in the dark glass of a office wall. The image was flawless. The persona, airtight.
"Sir," she called out, her voice sweetly strained, stopping a middle-aged man in a bespoke suit who was trying to melt into the background. "Do you find my presentation… lacking in some way?"
The man's eyes widened in genuine alarm. He took a physical step back. "I have… a very important conference call. Immediately. Excuse me!" He pivoted and practically fled, consciously adjusting his stride to lead with his right foot as he vanished around a corner.
Natalie tried another, who sidestepped her with a muttered apology, his own gait suddenly, comically deliberate. She was being treated like a carrier of a social pathogen.
Left foot? The absurdity of it warred with the chilling precision. Was it a blatant, arbitrary power play? A pretext to remove her because he'd somehow seen through her cover? Or… a pointed, impossible lesson?
Driven by a spike of professional indignation mixed with personal curiosity, she didn't go to security. Instead, she marched—right foot first—to the building's security monitoring hub. A discreet flash of credentials (forged, but excellent forgeries) from another identity granted her a moment at a terminal.
She pulled up the exterior footage from her arrival forty minutes prior. The high-definition feed showed her approaching the main revolving door. She watched her own image, confident, poised. She watched as she timed her step, as the glass door turned…
And she led with her left foot.
A cold, entirely non-metaphorical shiver traced her spine. The coffee she'd drunk earlier felt like ice in her stomach. It was a one-in-two chance. A meaningless detail. But he had known. He had noticed. And he had used it as a casually brutal, unassailable excuse to eject her.
In the executive elevator soaring upward, Felicia finally found her voice, her professional mask slipping into sheer bewilderment. "Sir… was the left foot truly…?"
Aaron glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "In any organization, Miss Felicia, the first rule is that my whims are operational policy. The second rule is that a keen eye for detail separates the asset from the liability. She failed both tests."
He left the deeper truth unspoken: that he had smelled the lingering, faint chemical signature of HYDRA's standard-issue pseudo-epinephrine-based concealment perfume on her, a scent his Biochemical Perception had flagged instantly. The 'left foot' was just a theatrical, deniable flourish. A message to any other watchers: the new master sees everything, and his judgments are both arbitrary and final.
Back on the main floor, a hushed, pervasive anxiety settled over the open office. Employees began to walk with exaggerated care, glancing down at their own feet as they moved, a silent, company-wide ballet of right-footedness. The legend of the man who fired someone for stepping with the wrong foot was born in that instant, and with it, a new, unnerving culture of meticulous obedience.