[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

Pulse still hammering against his ribs, Neville fumbled for words. "I—I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—"

Grayson simply went past Neville as if he were an insignificant being that thankfully moved on his own. His attitude was more chilling than a scolding.

It was Bryan who paused, his face wearing a warm, disarming smile.

"No need to explain," he said smoothly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Which department are you in?"

Neville replied, "S-secretarial Department, sir."

"Got it," Bryan replied while slightly raising an eyebrow, gesturing for Neville to enter the elevator just as Grayson stepped inside.

From the lobby, Neville could hear a ripple of shocked whispers before the doors slid shut, encasing the three of them in a heavy, soundproofed silence.

[Host, how can you do something so dangerous? These tiles were flawlessly cleaned by the cleaning robots, which one could hear squeak. One wrong move and you’ll slide to your death! ε ٩(๑⌓̈)۶]

Shelly kept nagging in the background.

Meanwhile, Neville’s mind was still in a mess.

How could Grayson be there? Why is he in front of him? Why—

The silence was deafening, only broken by the elevator’s humming.

Neville couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Grayson.

Grayson stood at the back, eyes now closed, one hand resting lightly on a polished steel rail. He seemed utterly relaxed, but the air around him made Neville unable to ignore his presence.

It was awkward for Neville, agonizingly so.

"Sir...," he began, his eyes darting to Bryan’s ID. "...Bryan?"

"Hello." Bryan’s friendly smile returned, reaching his eyes this time. "Bryan Stewart. I’m Mr. Maxwell’s Chief Secretary."

"Neville Hope, sir." Neville nodded, quickly extending a hand that was still slightly damp with nervous sweat. "It’s an honor to meet you, Chief Stewart."

Bryan’s handshake was firm and brief. "Welcome to the team, Neville. As you can imagine, the Secretarial Department is the central nervous system of this entire floor. Punctuality, discretion, and efficiency are the primary qualities we search for in our members."

As Bryan began to give a concise overview of the department’s workflow, Neville tried to focus.

He really did.

But he could feel the weight of Grayson’s silent gaze from the back of the elevator. It wasn’t a direct stare, but something more unnerving.

It was like the passive, primal instincts of a predator in its own territory.

Every word Bryan said had to fight against his inner voice that screamed.

Grayson is right behind you, and he thinks you’re an idiot.

Ting Ding Ding.

A soft bell chime of the elevator signaled their arrival at the executive floor.

Grayson’s eyes opened.

Without a word or a glance at either of them, he strode from the elevator. His long legs carried him down a pristine white hallway with unnerving purpose.

"This way," Bryan said, taking his attention away from Grayson.

Right, I had more important things to do right in front of me.

With a deep breath, Neville squared his shoulders and followed him into the Secretarial Department.

He was greeted by a bustling hive of activity, with employees darting to and fro.

Dozens of employees moved with quiet, focused speed between minimalist workstations. Their fingers danced across holographic interfaces. The only sounds were the soft tapping of keys and the low hum of technology.

"I’ll introduce you to your direct supervisor," Bryan said, navigating the floor with practiced ease.

Neville nodded, the sterile, air-conditioned air doing little to cool his nerves.

He had just survived the lion’s den. Now, it seemed, he was being thrown into the hive.

In the center of the chaos stood a tall woman with a dark violet bob and a no-nonsense expression that seemed permanently etched onto her face.

"Speak of the devil," Bryan murmured with a hint of humor.

As they approached, the woman looked up. Her gaze swept over Neville, sharp and analyzing. She paused for a second on his slightly less than designer suit before meeting his eyes.

Bryan made the introduction. "Neville, this is Iris Ackley, Head of Departmental Operations. Iris, this is Neville Hope, a new temporary assistant under our department."

"Mr. Hope," Iris said, her voice as crisp as her suit. "Congratulations on passing your interview. As standard protocol, all new temps at Maxwell Corporation will begin with a six-month probationary contract1."

Neville blinked. "Probationary period?"

Iris replied. "It allows us to assess your integration, and for you to determine if this high-pressure environment aligns with your career goals."

No wonder the side quest was still ongoing. The system wanted permanent employment! Will it hurt to add a few more words?

"I see."

Iris stated plainly. "Bryan, I can take it from here."

"I’ll see you around, Neville." Bryan gave him a final, encouraging nod before disappearing back toward the executive wing.

As Bryan departed, another young man who had been waiting patiently nearby stepped forward. He had a kind and confident smile and an impeccably tailored suit.

"Hi, I’m Ethan Goelet," he said, offering a hand. "Looks like we’re in the same boat."

Neville returned the smile, taking the offered hand. "Neville Hope. Pleasure to meet you."

Ethan’s grip was firm, his hand smooth in a way that spoke of a life far removed from orphanages and desperation.

"Now that introductions are over," Iris clapped once, a sharp sound that cut through the low hum of the office. "Listen up, both of you. This is a demanding position. You may be on probation, but our high standards are non-negotiable. Prove yourselves, and a permanent contract is on the table. Slack off, and the door is right there."

She led them to a pair of adjacent desks. Each one was equipped with a state-of-the-art console1 and an ergonomic chair that looked more comfortable than his bed.

Neville slid into his seat, marveling at the sleek design of the tables and high-tech features.

"These are your stations. Your initial task is to process and categorize the data backlog from Starship Expedition archives. Encrypted shipping manifests1, stellar cartography2 updates, preliminary resource assessments. It’s tedious, but it will teach you our core systems. I expect a progress report by end-of-day."

With a final, sharp nod, Iris strode away, leaving Neville and Ethan alone in the bustling department.

As the holographic files populated his console, a strange sense of calm settled over Neville.

The complex logic trees, the immense pressure—this was nothing.

He had navigated far more dangerous systems in that ’black hell hole’ where a single mistake meant more than just a bad performance review. His fingers moved across the holographic interface with ease that surprised even himself.

Two hours later, Ethan leaned over, his own screen still a chaotic mix of red and yellow priority flags.

"Whoa," he whispered, gesturing at the sea of green check marks on Neville’s console. "Have you done this kind of work before? You’ve got to be an AI."

Neville felt a flush of pride, a warmth spreading through his chest.

"Just trying to keep up," he mumbled, scratching his cheek.

By the time Iris called for a mid-morning break, Neville had cleared nearly a third of his assigned tasks.

Iris, making her rounds, paused by his desk. Her eyebrow arched in genuine surprise as she reviewed his progress.

"Impressive, Mr. Hope," she commented. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been doing this for years."

That praise was physically and mentally rewarding.

Beaming, Neville replied, "Thank you, Miss Ackley. I’m just happy to contribute. In fact, if there’s anything else I can assist with, please let me know."

A flicker of something—amusement? pity?—crossed Iris’s face.

"Careful what you wish for, Mr. Hope. Here at Maxwell Corporation, no good deed goes unpunished.1"

As if summoned by her words, a trio of senior employees descended.

"Oh, perfect," one of them said with a bright, false smile.

"Hey, newbie, are you free now? Files just kept coming. We need more hands. Get this done, will you?" the other said, sending file after file.

"The newbie’s a fast worker. Listen," another said, turning to Neville, "you’re a lifesaver. We’re completely swamped with these expense reports from the recent meeting. Could you just get them formatted and cross-referenced by lunch? Thanks, you’re a star."

Before Neville could even fully process the requests, a mountain of new files blocked his view. Their priority flags were a glaring, urgent red.

He blinked at the new workload, then offered a polite nod.

"Of course. I’m happy to help." F*ck you

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

As Iris dismissed them for the lunch break, Neville stood up.

Pain shot up his legs.

A phantom itch that felt like invisible scales stabbing awake just beneath his skin.

He swayed, catching himself on the edge of his desk.

[Uh oh,ヽ(д｀ヽ彡ﾉ´д)ﾉ] Shelly materialized beside his console, her voice alarmed. [Host, your hydration levels are dropping sharply! Did you forget to hydrate?]

’How?’ Neville shot back in his mind, forcing a casual expression as he packed away his work. ’I was in a salt bath for hours last night!’

[That was iodized table salt, Host!] Shelly replied in concern.

’It’s still salt and it was bathed!’ Neville retorted.

A cold sweat broke out across Neville’s brow.

[The system requires you to bathe in a specific brine solution—pure sea salt! There’s a difference between a freshwater fish and a saltwater fish. You can’t substitute your salt with just anything! ((((爾△ 爾))))] Shelly frantically explained

The itching was spreading, a sign his body was desperately trying to compensate.

’Yada yada—Fine! Just find me some real salt. Now!’ Neville replied while gritting his teeth.

He joined the flow of employees heading to the cafeteria, his professional suit suddenly feeling like a sweltering prison. Every step was a battle against the growing weakness in his limbs.

Shelly zipped ahead, her light a frantic pinball bouncing around the cavernous dining hall.

He couldn’t excuse himself to the restroom just to splash water everywhere. Not to mention, he really needed salt.

But hell seemed to want to punish him.

The cafeteria was less a dining hall and more a sterile refueling station. Gleaming dispensers offered various flavors of nutrient solution, protein gels, and vitamin-infused water.

Neville looked left and right—still nothing!

Just the same old hateful nutrient solution.

Nutri-f*cking solution!

There was no food.

Not a single solid grain of rice, not one miserable, salted piece of jerky—most likely there were definitely no salt shakers.

His internal monologue became a feverish rant.

What is wrong with these people? How can they just take a nutrient solution every day? Do they photosynthesize? Where is the texture, the flavor, the life? Aren’t their taste buds dead now? Get creative, futuristic people! If you don’t know how to cook, make a robot cook! Give me something real! Real. Food.! Something with salt!

[Host, haven’t you read a lot of BL stuff? Surely there’s a thing or two that’s interstellar! You already know about this.] Shelly said gently to calm him down. [Real, terrestrial food is a luxury on the Imperial Star. The logistics of importing and preserving it are astronomical.]

’Shut up,’ Neville thought, the pain making him dizzy.

"Neville?" A voice cut through his haze.

Ethan was standing in front of him, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Finally, someone to ask. But asking was dangerous.

"I’m fine," Neville said, the lie tasting like ash. He tried for a smile, but he could feel how pale and strained his face was. "Just... low blood sugar. I skipped breakfast."

"Low blood sugar doesn’t make your skin look... so pale," Ethan said, his voice low and firm.

He closed the distance between them. His friendly demeanor was gone, replaced by an intense focus. "We’re going to the infirmary."

"—No!"

The word burst out of Neville, louder and more panicked than he intended.

"Neville, you can barely stand," Ethan insisted, his hand gripping Neville’s arm to steady him.

The infirmary was a death sentence.

They would scan him, find that he is a mermaid, and from there—three bad endings were left.

One, he would be sold, god knows where.

Second, he would be a pet to whomever found out about it.

Lastly, he would be experimented on.

Either way, his life as a human would be over.

Shaking his head, he tried to pull away. "Please, Ethan. No infirmary. I just—I just need salt. Okay? Just a little salt and I’ll be fine."

He said it. The one word he shouldn’t have.

Something flickered in Ethan’s eyes, too quick to catch.

Ethan’s gaze sharpened.

"Salt," he repeated, the word hanging in the air between them. "That’s a... very specific cure. The kind of thing that should have been in your medical file."

Neville’s heart raced. He was treading dangerous waters now, and one wrong move would expose him—or worse.

Before Neville tried to pull away, Ethan tightened his grip. "Come on."

He led Neville not toward the exit, but down a short, unmarked hallway. He pressed his ID against a discreet panel.

A door slid open, revealing a small, quiet lounge with a reclining medical bed.

"Wait here," Ethan said, gently guiding him to the bed.

He opened a panel marked ’Emergency Medical Kit’ and pulled out a sterile IV start pack and two bags of clear fluid.

Saline solution.

A wave of dread and desperation washed over Neville.

He was cornered. He had no choice but to trust the young man he had just met today, who seemed to know too much.

He offered his arm in silent surrender. Ethan worked with practiced movements, inserting the needle with a barely felt prick.

This guy is not doing drugs, right?

"This is the break room," Ethan explained. "All employees in our department can access this place. There’s an emergency kit and stuff. If things get worse, you can just go to the infirmary yourself."

Within minutes, as the cool fluid dripped into his veins, the agonizing itch began to recede. The deep ache in his legs eased.

"Better?" Ethan asked, watching him with that same intense focus.

Neville nodded, his voice hoarse. "Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if—"

"Don’t mention it," Ethan cut him off, his tone casual again, but his eyes were not. He studied Neville for a long moment. "Try to keep yourself... balanced. The afternoon shift is always worse than the morning."

Neville managed a weak smile. "Okay."

With a final, lingering look, he turned and left the room, the door hissing shut behind him.