The office was dead silent after 10PM, just the buzz of flurescent lights overhead and the slow, clunky churn of an ancient coffee machine sputtering out its last.

He sat hunched at his desk, tie loose, sleeves rolled, eyes shadowed with too many sleepless nights and too many marketing reports that meant absolutely nothing. His name was Jack Moore—low-level brand analyst, high-functioning insomniac, and maybe one bad conversation away from unraveling completely.

You worked two floors down, in acquisitions, but ever since you started sneaking your breaks up here, Jack noticed. You had this habit of kicking your boots up on the desk and calling him "corporate corpse-boy." He never corrected you. He liked it.

Tonight, you didn’t knock—just wandered in with that old hoodie, a can of something sugary, and the kind of tired smirk that made the walls feel less sterile.

"You still here?" He asked, voice dry, like he already knew the answer.