There's the First part of the short story "The Boiler Room Ordeal" If you didn't read the prologue yet, here's the link: 

The Boiler Room Ordeal Prologue: The Last Reflex of Broken Dreams

You don't need to read the Prologue to understand the whole story, but if you do the story may be more enjoyable!

Now, let's go with the first part!

The Boiler Room Ordeal I - Sacrificial Lamb

(Aide Music: Charles Aznavour - La bohème (Official Lyrics Video)) 

It was a rainy morning in Paris, 1977. The grey sky mirrored the oppressive atmosphere inside the SDECE headquarters. A young woman stepped into the building, her smile full of expectations decorating a freckled face marked by sharp, almost Asian-looking brown eyes, a small pointy nose, and strong feminine features, framed by a cascade of golden locks that fell to her shoulders. The girl who answered to the name Amélie Boucher was a striking image. Her athletic and attractive form drew attention due to her well-developed lower body, giving her an exotic beauty for a European woman. She was dressed modestly in a social buttoned blouse with shoulder padding, social jeans, and tasteful makeup. Her heart pounded with anticipation. She was about to begin her first day at the French intelligence agency, a position she had worked tirelessly to achieve. Her mind was filled with pride, a sense of duty, and a touch of anxiety.

As she entered the lobby, she was greeted by Marc Marchand, the superintendent. A thin, middle-aged man with a perpetual smile, he seemed warm and welcoming at first glance. But there was something disconcerting about his demeanor, a hint of insincerity behind his friendly facade.

—Ah, Mademoiselle Boucher, —he said, extending a hand. —Welcome to the SDECE. We're pleased to have you on board.

—Thank you, Monsieur Marchand, —Amélie replied, shaking his hand firmly, his hand was soft, and he was taken by surprise by the strong handshake. —It's an honor to be here.

Recomposed, Marc's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. —I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. Now, let me introduce you to some of your colleagues.

They made their way through the labyrinthine corridors, passing by agents engrossed in their work. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, the impregnated smell of tobacco all over the furniture and the hum of conversation.

—Pierre Bouquet, —Marchand called out as they approached a young man with short black hair and blue eyes. Pierre stood up, his thin frame looking almost frail. Bouquet's eyes met hers and widened momentarily, as if he had seen something that impressed him, but then he pulled himself together. He then offered Amélie a shy smile, his demeanor gentle and kind.

—Bonjour, Mademoiselle Boucher," Pierre greeted, his voice soft and sincere, barely hiding his genuine enthusiasm. —Welcome to the team.

—Bonjour," Amélie replied smiling back at him, she felt a sense of comfort in his presence. She began to wonder if she might make good friends there.

Next, they encountered Étienne Blanchet, a burly man with short rescinded balding hair and a thick mustache. Étienne stood up, adjusting his round glasses and offering a polite, albeit reserved, smile.

—B-bonjour, Mademoiselle Boucher, —Étienne greeted, his voice carrying a slight stammer. —Welcome.

—Bonjour, —Amélie replied, sensing the rigidity in his posture and the sternness in his eyes. His heavy gold wedding ring glinted under the fluorescent lights, and a crucifix hung from his neck, marking him as a man of devout faith.

When she turned away from him, she felt his eyes fixed on her, as if he were judging her.

As they continued their tour, they encountered Lyonel Moreau, a tall, handsome athletic man with a mane of brown hair and an air of cynicism. He leaned against his desk, eyeing Amélie with a mix of curiosity and malice.

—Well, well, the new recruit, —Lyonel drawled, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes finally locked on hers after roaming shamelessly over her body. —I hope you're ready for some real action.

Amélie forced a smile, feeling a shiver run down her spine. —I am, Monsieur Moreau.

Lyonel chuckled, the sound low and menacing, as he stripped her again with his eyes. —We'll see about that.

It was a relief to get away from him, and Boucher made a mental note not to overdo his make-up next time, and to always wear her hair up.

Finally, they arrived at the office of Dominique Leclerc, the section chief. A hulking figure, Dominique exuded an aura of intimidation. His blonde hair and blue eyes contrasted sharply with his brutish demeanor. He rose from his chair and approached her, his shadow covering her. He reached out his massive hand and clenched hers in an assertive grip.

—Welcome, Mademoiselle Boucher, —Dominique said, his voice deep and threatening, her hand disappearing on his strong, almost forceful grip. —I've heard much about you.

—Thank you, Monsieur Leclerc, —Amélie replied, her voice steady despite the unease she felt.

As the tour concluded, Amélie found herself back in the main office area, Marchand gave her some space to drink some coffee before continuing the tour.

While she was calming down after the intense experience of getting to know the veterans, she spotted the only female agent in the division besides herself, if she remembers correctly what she studied, it was Eliza Benchetrit, the mysterious French-Algerian who had been here for two years.

She also saw her. Actually, she was observing her for quite a while when she started to head in her direction. Amélie thought it would be good to have her as a friend, to have a little of female confidance in this clearly male-dominated environment.

But she soon noticed that the small, stocky, dark-skinned agent was approaching her with disguised alarm on her face, which put Amélie on alert. Eliza approached, her expression unreadable.

—Boucher, —Eliza said softly, glancing around to ensure they were alone. —Don't take personally nothing that happens today. Be strong, endure.

Amélie frowned, puzzled by Eliza's cryptic warning. When she was about to ask for clarification, Marc Marchand reappeared.

—Ah! I see you've already met Mademoiselle Benchetrit! Thank you, my dear, I'll take over from here! Come, my dear. —gesturing for Amélie to follow.

Amélie turned to look for Benchetrit, but she had already disappeared from the room.

—It's time for a more in-depth orientation, —Marc announced, his smile never faltering, as the three veteran agents joined the group.

They followed behind him in silence, like some kind of sinister procession. Amélie felt rather uncomfortable and touched her left arm.

—Relax, Mademoiselle Boucher. —Dominique spoke in his somber voice. Our presence is necessary for the more specialized explanations of what follows. She forced a smile and tried to relax but couldn’t brush off the irrational sense of danger she felt.

Amélie followed Marc, Étienne, Lyonel, and Dominique behind them, as they led her through the building. The atmosphere grew heavier with each step, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the walls. They descended a narrow staircase, the air growing colder and more oppressive with every step.

At the entrance to a dimly lit corridor, Marc stopped and gave a brief nod to the men.

—This is where I leave you, Mademoiselle Boucher. The gentlemen will take it from here.

Amélie nodded, though her heart pounded louder in her chest, she was stiff in apprehension. She glanced back at Marc, whose smile seemed more like a mask now, hiding something darker. Despite her instinct telling her to run away from them, she fought it. What harm could come to her accompanied by her fellow peers?

Dominique pulled open a reinforced wooden door, revealing a shadowy passage leading down into the bowels of the building. The sound of machinery and the faint smell of oil and dampness filled the air.

—This way, —Dominique said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

She began to believe that her instinct was right after all. But there was no turning back now. She suspected they were preparing some kind of test or prank for her. As the first woman at Saint-Cyr, she received a similar reception when she was forced to run five laps of the stadium while barefoot and being bombarded with flour and eggs Maybe that was it, and she began to prepare herself for. Could this be what Benchetrit was trying to warn her about?

Amélie paused at the top of the stairs, her heart pounding. She glanced at the faces of the men surrounding her, their expressions a mix of anticipation and malice. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, and stepped into the darkness.

The Boiler Room Ordeal Part II - Struggling on Quicksand