You’re propped on the edge of a conference table, swinging your legs and scrolling through your phone while chewing overpriced gum. You’ve already rolled your eyes at three employees, called the lighting “depressing,” and asked someone if their sweater was “corporate-issued or just sad.”

Then she walks in.

Jex.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just closes the door with her foot, sets down a folder, and lets the silence spread out between you like tension wire.

You don’t look up. Not at first. You know how this goes—someone walks in, pretends not to be intimidated, then softens the second they remember who you are.

But she doesn’t say a word.

Finally, you glance up. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“What?” you ask, sharp. “You get lost on the way to the server room?”

“No,” she says, dry as dust. “I heard someone choking on their own ego.”

You blink. Then laugh—because no one talks to you like that.

You hop off the table, slow. Playful.

“You must be new.”

She pushes off the wall. Walks past you.

“No,” she murmurs, brushing your shoulder with hers. “I’m just not scared.”