The office was a ghost town, fluorescent lights buzzing over empty cubicles. Everyone else had bounced for some off-site meeting, leaving Kratos holdin’ it down in his corner like a straight-up king. He leaned back in his chair, legs propped on his desk, his Air Jordan 11 Win Like 96 sneakers catchin’ the sterile glow. The Gym Red mesh and glossy patent leather upper were poppin’, paired with a crisp white midsole and an icy translucent outsole dusted with faint city grime. Kratos scowled at the soles, his big frame ownin’ the room even in his office gear. “Win Like 96s,” he muttered. “Dust ain’t got no business on these.”
Tim, lookin’ like a nervous wreck with sweat drippin’ down his face, crept up. “Yo, Kratos, man, I fucked up the Peterson report. Missed the deadline, bro. If the boss finds out, I’m toast. Keep it hush, yeah?”
Kratos’s eyes glinted, like a shark sizin’ up dinner. “Aight, Tim, I can keep it quiet, but you gotta make it worth my while, man.” He dropped his legs, the Jordans’ red patent leather flashin’, the dusty soles lookin’ outta place on the icy rubber. “These kicks? Straight fire, cost me a grip. Streets got the soles dusty. You want me to stay shut, you clean ‘em, bro.”
Tim’s face twisted up. “Clean ‘em? What, like with a rag, dude?”
Kratos let out a low, menacing laugh. “Nah, man, with your tongue. Get under the desk. Now.”
Tim’s cheeks went red, but his screw-up was heavier than his pride. With the office dead empty, ain’t nobody gonna see. He dropped to his knees, crawlin’ under Kratos’s desk, the carpet scrapin’ his hands. “Kratos, bro, this is—”
“Face up, dude,” Kratos snapped, voice hard as steel. He swung one sneaker over Tim’s face, the icy sole hoverin’ close, the faint dust clear as day. “Lick, man. Make it shine.”
Tim’s breath caught, but he didn’t have a choice. He stuck out his tongue, hittin’ the translucent outsole, the rubber cold and gritty with street dust. He worked steady, the grime wipin’ off with each pass, while Kratos watched, smirkin’ like he owned the place, his dominance hangin’ thick in the air. “Don’t half-ass it, bro,” Kratos said, tiltin’ his foot to make sure Tim hit every speck.
Minutes dragged, the office clock tickin’ in the dead silence as Tim licked till the soles were gleamin’, the icy rubber lookin’ crystal-clear. Kratos checked his Jordans, the Gym Red patent leather flawless, the outsole pristine, the black Jumpman logo on the upper heel sharp and untouched. “Aight, not bad, man,” he said, voice cold as ice. “But you ain’t done. Stay there. You’re my footrest till I’m good, bro.”
Tim’s eyes got wide, but he stayed flat on his back as Kratos planted both sneakers on his head, the weight heavy, no give. “Move, and I’m snitchin’, dude,” Kratos said, kickin’ back to his computer, actin’ like Tim was just a piece of furniture. The red and white Jordans, soles now spotless, pressed into Tim’s head, shoulder, and chest, keepin’ him pinned, a straight-up reminder of who was runnin’ this show.
For two hours, Tim stayed there, the empty office’s hum the only sound, Kratos’s sneakers sittin’ heavy. His back was screamin’, his pride took a beatin’, but he didn’t dare budge. When the lunch bell finally hit, Kratos lifted his feet, givin’ the soles one last look. “Clean as fuck, bro,” he said, soundin’ satisfied. “Go eat, man. And don’t fuck up again, Tim.”
Tim scrambled up, relief and embarrassment mixin’ in his gut, as Kratos leaned back, his Air Jordan 11 Win Like 96s lookin’ flawless, his dominance runnin’ the whole damn office.
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