Everyday Trauma: The Dark Art of Manipulation

Sorin woke earlier than usual, still rattled by yesterday's deep dive into analyzing people's every twitch and microexpression. He could almost feel the city's pulse now—catching subtle glances and nervous tics everywhere he looked. It was equal parts exhilarating and unnerving.

He pushed off the couch, leaving Ravenor snoring in the other room. At least the cramped apartment felt a little less claustrophobic in the morning light. Pulling on his jacket, Sorin recalled how Ravenor had pressed him to find new ways of dealing with debt. You can't survive forever on petty manipulations, his mentor had said. A real income could buy you breathing room.

Which was how Sorin found himself outside a dingy mid-rise office building an hour later, heart hammering. A friend-of-a-friend had dropped a hint about a "junior sales rep" position with flexible hours—Sorin hoped it'd be enough to cover rent if he impressed the right people.

He glanced at his phone: an informal meet-and-greet was set for ten. Time to see if I can read an interviewer as easily as I read that college kid in the café. He swallowed the tension building in his gut. This was more crucial—no messing up.

The waiting room on the third floor looked plain: a worn carpet, a scuffed front desk, and a single potted plant that seemed half-dead. Sorin took a seat, quickly scanning the environment. A receptionist typed away at a corner desk, occasionally sneaking glances at him. There were no other candidates here—maybe that's good or maybe it's a bad sign.

Moments later, a door opened and a short, bespectacled man in a rumpled shirt stepped out. "Sorin Vex?"

"That's me," Sorin said, rising.

"Trent Farlow," the man introduced himself, offering a quick handshake. "Let's chat in my office."

Sorin matched Trent's lean forward posture—Mirroring—as they walked down a narrow hallway. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," he said, voice steady. "I'm eager to learn more about the position."

"No problem," Trent replied, leading Sorin into a cramped office stacked with file boxes. He gestured to a chair. "We need help, so if you've got a knack for sales, this might work out."

Sorin settled in, letting his eyes flick around discreetly—cluttered desk, coffee-stained papers, sticky notes with half-legible reminders. Signs of disorganization or overwork? Trent himself looked mildly stressed: dark circles under his eyes, tension in his jaw. Sorin recalled Ravenor's words about reading posture and microexpressions. He's fatigued, maybe worried about turnover. A potential angle.

"All right," Trent said, rummaging for what looked like a half-finished resume printout. "Tell me about your experience."

Sorin inhaled. "I've done some customer-facing roles—retail, light telemarketing. I handle pressure well, and I'm good at connecting with people." He paused, noticing Trent's stiff posture. "Especially if they're stressed."

Trent let out a short laugh. "Heh, well, we definitely have stress. We're short-staffed, and upper management is pushing sales quotas."

Sorin took note of microexpressions: a flicker of annoyance, the corners of Trent's mouth tightening. He's annoyed at upper management. Might be a good place to anchor an idea. "I get that. It's tough when corporate demands don't match reality. If you have the right person, though, they can lighten the load."

Trent grunted, flipping through his notes. "What makes you that 'right person'?"

Sorin leaned forward—Mirroring Trent's partial slouch, but keeping a confident tone. "I'm hungry for results. I also pick up on client moods quickly—Active Listening is a big part of how I communicate. Helps me adapt, you know?"

Trent's jaw relaxed a bit. "Adaptability is good. We can't afford training someone for months if they can't keep up."

A mild spark of insight hit Sorin—Scarcity. "Right. I've had a couple other offers too," he lied smoothly, "but they don't seem as hands-on. I prefer a place where I can jump in fast, learn under pressure. If that's what you need, I'm your guy."

Trent's brows rose. Sorin noted the flicker of interest—Trent might fear losing a candidate to a competitor. Bingo. "Other offers, huh? But you still came here first?"

Sorin offered a small grin. "I heard good things. Figured I'd check the best option first. No point settling if I can find a team that fits me better."

Another short laugh from Trent, that tension in his jaw easing again. "Well, not sure we're the best, but we do push results fast. How soon can you start if we take you?"

Adrenaline spiked in Sorin's chest. "Immediately, if you want. I'm serious about making an impact."

Trent scrawled something on a notepad, eyes flicking to Sorin's face. A quick microexpression—hesitation? "We'll do a probation period, of course. But I like the sound of your readiness. Let me talk to the floor manager."

Sorin sensed an opening to positively reinforce Trent. "I appreciate that. Honestly, the vibe here—despite the pressure—feels like somewhere I could grow quickly. Shows you know how to handle staff, too."

A flicker of pride in Trent's eyes. "Well, I do my best. Let's see…" He tapped the desk, then stood abruptly. "Wait here. I'll see if my boss has a minute to sign off on adding someone."

The office door closed, leaving Sorin alone. He took a sharp breath, mind racing. I basically bullshitted half my confidence, but it's working. He realized how seamlessly he'd watched Trent's posture, scanned microexpression cues, and deployed Mirroring or Scarcity. Ravenor's training just made me talk circles around him.

The guilt twined with a surge of triumph. He needed money—badly. And if mild manipulations plus observational insight got him a job, so be it. Better than scraping by on scattered gigs or petty hustles.

Trent returned a few minutes later, a small smile on his face. "Lucky you, my boss is free. You want to meet her?"

Sorin nodded, standing. "Absolutely."

They walked to a corner office that looked only slightly less cluttered. A stern woman with graying hair greeted Sorin, scanning him top to bottom. He tried to read her quickly: tight-lipped expression, shoulders squared, no obvious microexpression except the faint lines of skepticism around her eyes. She offered a brisk handshake.

"Trent says you're ready to hit the ground running," she said, voice firm.

Sorin kept his posture relaxed—Mirroring her directness by standing straight, meeting her eye. "Yes, ma'am. I'm eager to prove myself."

She rifled through a thin folder. "We have a probationary slot. Pay is modest at first—commissions come if you perform. You okay with that?"

Sorin's heart hammered. Commission-based was risky, but it might be his best shot to climb out of debt. "That's fine," he said confidently. "I'm motivated by results."

The woman exchanged a glance with Trent. "We can give you a two-week trial. If you meet baseline targets, we'll formalize your hire."

Adrenaline flooded Sorin. A job. Not guaranteed, but it's something. He forced a calm smile. "I appreciate the chance."

"Great. Fill out some basic paperwork with Trent before you go," she said, already returning to her screen. "Welcome aboard, tentatively."

The hallway felt surreal as Sorin followed Trent back to the first office. They settled on some forms, scanning through a standard contract. Sorin scribbled his name, mind still buzzing with how easily he'd navigated this. He'd read the tension in Trent, guessed how to stoke his fear of losing a candidate—Scarcity—and it worked.

Trent handed him a carbon copy. "Alright, come back Monday at nine for orientation. Best of luck."

"Thanks," Sorin said, tucking the papers away. "I won't let you down."

He stepped into the corridor, exhaling a shaky breath. I just used every Tier 1 trick in the book… for an actual job. The victory felt a little hollow, but the sense of relief at having a steady income—maybe enough to hold off the loan sharks—was undeniable.

Downstairs, he found Ravenor waiting by the building's entrance, leaning against a wall with an unreadable expression. Sorin approached, holding up the contract. "Looks like I'm in, at least for a trial."

Ravenor's lips curved subtly. "All that analyzing and gentle persuasion paid off, yes?"

Sorin nodded, pocketing the papers. "I used Mirroring, anchored a sense of scarcity, read the guy's microexpressions for stress. It was surprisingly…easy."

"Good," Ravenor said, pushing off the wall. "Tier 1 is potent when merged with real-time analysis. Let's get out of here."

As they walked into the afternoon sun, a swirl of conflicting emotions churned in Sorin's gut: a thrill of triumph at securing a job through cunning, tempered by the knowledge that he'd basically manipulated these people. But it's not hurting them, right? They need staff, I need work. It's a win-win…

Yet a quiet voice warned him that if he could do this so effortlessly, what else might he do down the line? He tried to shake it off, focusing on the short-term gain: money, stability, a shot at paying off debt.

Ravenor led him down the sidewalk, the city's noise swallowing them. "Next step," he mused, "is to see how you handle actual job performance. More interactions, more chances to refine your technique."

Sorin half-smiled. "Guess so. Maybe I can anchor customers into buying bigger packages or something, right?"

A mild laugh from Ravenor. "You catch on fast."

As they disappeared into the throng of midday crowds, Sorin clutched the contract. He felt a new wave of confidence blossoming—and a faint tremor of anxiety at how easily he'd woven illusions. The stakes would only get higher from here, but for now, he had a foot in the door.