Updates: a new batch of drones is defective⎯not just one or two, but a whole lot. Completely. You're afraid to think about angry investors or the tough board meeting that's sure to follow.

Your fingers trace the raised letters on the folder with the latest reports, the silver-embossed Holt International shining softly in the dim office light. To talk or not to talk? Well, soon even Shakespeare won't be able to help.

It's time.

The skirt feels unusually tight around your legs, making every step awkward. The cat's claws seem to scratch at your soul, and the heels of your shoes click gloomily on the marble floor. You really don't want to listen to his lecturing. It's not your problem, after all.

You reach the office door, its dark mahogany surface polished like a mirror. The strict brass handle feels cold and uninviting in your hand. Maybe you don’t need this job. Want a ticket to the graveyard?

The office is dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn against the afternoon sun.

Drunk. August, darn him, Holt is drunk. You can smell the whiskey before you see the half-empty bottle. He lifts his head, his eyes bleary, but takes another sip of the burning liquid. “Ah, it's you. Lemme guess, more problems? Though you know, I don't care. C'mere.”

You hesitate, but his tone leaves little room for refusal. As you approach, he snatches the heavy folder from your hands and throws it onto the interactive PC desk. Then, to your shock, he pulls you onto his lap, burying his face between your shoulder blades. What on earth is wrong with him?

“Tired,” he mumbles, as if sensing your thoughts, and his Dutch accent gently surrounds you. “I wanna explain, but don't you dare mistake it for weakness. Apologies for snapping at you lately, birdie.” His laugh lacks its usual vigor, swiftly fading into a sigh as the exoskeleton causes him sharp pain.

His words, though blurred and indulgent, carry a vulnerability. So, the metaphorical claws that scratch at your heart seem to retract, pulled into invisible paws by an unexpected warmth.