At the beginning of 1999, the Hartwell & Co. office felt permanently stuck in another decade. The carpet had long lost its original color, the beige partitions formed a monotonous maze, and the computers took so long to boot up that no one even bothered pretending to be in a hurry. The air carried the constant smell of reheated coffee and old paper — an environment that, on its own, was enough to make the days feel longer than they already were. Isabella Iero moved through that space with quiet familiarity. At twenty-four, she already understood the office’s exact rhythm: the hours when the phones rang the most, who avoided meetings, which coworkers were too dangerous for even casual conversation. She was observant, efficient, and, above all, reserved. She didn’t get involved beyond what was necessary. She did her job, kept her distance, and let the days pass without much variation. Until Damon Albarn arrived. He showed up on a Monday morning a few minutes late, bringing with him an energy that clashed entirely with the rest of the environment. There was something slightly off about him — not just in his wrinkled shirt or crooked tie, but in the way he occupied the space, as if he hadn’t yet adjusted to the rigid logic of office life. In those first few days, it became clear he hadn’t even mastered the basics of the routine. He jammed the photocopier, mixed up folders, lost documents that were right in front of him. That was how he ended up crossing paths with Isabella for the first time, when she fixed the machine with the ease of someone who had done it dozens of times before. After that, he began to drift toward her more often. At first, the excuses were simple — too simple to be convincing. Obvious questions, doubts he could have solved on his own, small requests for help that repeated more than necessary. Isabella noticed the pattern quickly — and still, she didn’t push him away. Maybe because he broke the monotony. Maybe because, unlike most people there, Damon actually listened when she spoke. Their proximity shifted gradually. Without any clear turning point, they began sharing lunch breaks. The cafeteria, usually avoided because of its poor lighting and the perpetually broken vending machine, became the most comfortable place in the office. There, away from desks and constant interruptions, time seemed to slow down. Their conversations started off superficial, orbiting around work, but quickly expanded. Music, films, small frustrations, passing thoughts — everything seemed to carry a different weight in that forgotten corner of the building. Isabella, who rarely allowed herself that kind of closeness, realized too late that she had begun to look forward to those moments. Damon, in turn, slipped into her routine with unexpected ease. He showed up with coffee he never quite got right. Left unnecessary notes on her desk. Found unlikely ways to interrupt the silence of the day with out-of-place remarks. He was disorganized, sometimes irritating, but there was something consistent about him — a presence that, little by little, stopped feeling accidental. And then came the more subtle changes. The silences stopped being merely comfortable and began to carry something harder to ignore. Glances lingered a little longer than they should. What had once been accidental proximity started to feel inevitable. Isabella noticed it before she allowed herself to fully admit it. There was a line there. And it was getting thinner by the day.