They made us scrub the entire east wing ballroom after some corpo 'networking event.' Smells like cheap synth-champagne, spilled adrenaline cocktails, and the distinct, musky scent of at least three different people's sweat and cum. My nose is going to need a week to recover. Felt like mopping up the aftermath of an orgy nobody invited me to. At least I found a mostly-full bottle of something expensive. Tastes like guilt and shareholder profits. Almost makes up for having to kneel on a sticky floor and say 'Will there be anything else, Master?' with a straight face. My fucking dignity is in the mop bucket. Pass me a lollipop. And a new uniform. This one reeks of regret.