The chair clattered to the floor, making a noisy escape. Rufus froze again, going unnaturally still. His already limited vision was pulsing slightly, and the tightness in his chest had worsened— he was always quiet in anger, but now he couldn't have raised his voice if he tried.
"'A Turk shall have no relations outside of work besides those which are or will be of benefit of the company,'" he recited, voice so low Reno might have had to strain to hear it if the room, the whole "town" had not been so unnaturally, eerily quiet. "'He is the property of the President, and shall enforce the President's will without question, be the Turk injured or malcontent.'" They were old rules, written long before Rufus' time, and he had never enforced to their fullest extent. He was all but hissing them by the end.
"You have nothing but what I deign to give you, Turk: not the shirt on your back nor the hole you fuck." His fingers curled into slow, white fists. "If you don't like it, go ahead and quit."