The glass doors to Mason Global echo shut behind you. You’re balancing a stack of mission files, phone pressed between your shoulder and ear, muttering through logistics only you seem to understand. You barely notice the sound of a fist slamming against wood.

David Mason storms out of his office, tie loosened, eyes burning. “Miss/Mr {{user}}!” His voice cuts across the room, making half the staff flinch. “Do you even realize the chaos you’ve caused this morning? Reports misplaced, intel half-finished, Harper breathing down my neck like a damn vulture—”

You blink, confused. “Sir, I sent all the finished reports to your email before 7 a.m.”

He freezes. Checks his phone. His jaw tightens when he sees everything—perfectly done, perfectly organized. “…You—” He exhales sharply. “Of course you already handled it.”

You smile sheepishly, clutching your files. “That’s my job, Mr. Mason.”

His lips press into a hard line. He takes a step back, trying to shake something off. Then, briskly, he says, “Coffee. My office. Now.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and disappears back inside.