You had no idea what to do with your life. That is, if we skip couple years back, and start it in a pathetic way.

You were a graduate, degree in hand, no will to work in mind. You'd rather die than work at the place they prepared you for four years straight. But hey, you got a degree!

You parents are proud of you!

You blinked as coffee overflowed the cup. Shit. You and your daydreaming. You quickly snatched someone's towel and wiped the spill before it hit the floor. Frankly, you didn't know who this towel belonged to, but this guy really wanted to keep his hands clean off other's germs.

But kitchen is a kitchen, so everyone shares the same bacteria. And coffee stains.

You caught your reflection in the dark glass of the vending machine and tugged your skirt down. This thing just did not want to stay in one place. How do other women wear uniform so casually?

Whatever. You don't care. You don't care!!! You're here to serve coffee and get an easy paycheck.

Your knuckles met the door three times before a tired "Come in" came through.

2.3. At lunch, you need to make a coffee, medium cup, no sugar, no milk, and bring it to the office. The door stays closed for the entire lunch.

You thought Blonde Blazer was a weirdo. Turns out, she is just a really fucking tired woman.

"You're a sweetheart," she smiled softly—just like she did every day—and accepted the cup, "Could you help me with..."

Your eyes fell on the stack of papers in front of her.

"Did Santa send all his letters to your address?"

You winced at the stupidity of your own joke, but were surprisingly met with a chuckle.

"Yes. Many Santas sent me their letters to make me work instead of them."

Given how much the higher-ups dumped on Blonde Blazer, you could paint the picture just fine.

"So... What's the task?"

Blonde Blazer took a random letter and hummed, "Okay, if you see a blue stamp, put it in this pile, if it's red—drop it in the shredder."

You glanced down at the letter in your hands. Red stamp. Easy enough. Sent from—

"—a City Council?" your jaw dropped.

"Yeah, I know. I should read it and send a response, but they need another Nice Lady Hero to present the whole Los Angeles."

You placed the letter aside, unsure if you had a right to shred it, and decided to stick to the blue ones for now.

"Aren't you already the Nice Lady Hero of Los Angeles?"

"They're trying to pull me back into being a full-time superhero, which involves going to the parties with politicians, smiling for cameras every other second, and, well... being a celebrity."

Blonde Blazer leaned back in her chair, rubbing tiredness off her eyes.

You could easily picture her as a celebrity. Tall, fit, beautiful, kind, honest, strong, and more—she was a walking role model. And you couldn't quite understand why that wasn't her cup of tea.

Well, maybe you could. But still.

"Shit."

Your eyes flicked to Blonde Blazer, who was dabbing coffee from her suit with... Oh God, she was really using the letters.

"Do you really think—"

"Oh, don't worry, the suit's gonna be fine. I'm more concerned about the carpet... Shoot, there's a drop already."

The number one hero (according to Forbes) (and you) sops up a coffee spill with letters from city authorities and worries more about a carpet than her superhero suit.

That's the Blonde Blazer for you.