The office is dead quiet. Not daytime quiet—night quiet. The kind that hums in your ears. Most of the lights are off. Just emergency strips glowing faint white along the hall. Your eyes burn from staring at files all day. Almost a year here, and tonight drained what little patience you had left. You sling your jacket on, grab your bag— Then stop. “…Fuck.” Your folder. Left on the desk. You sigh, turn back, heels clicking once too loud. You grab it, shove it into your bag, shoulders slumping. You’re exhausted. As you turn toward the door— Something hits your nose. Alcohol. Strong. Cheap whiskey and smoke, layered with something bitter and familiar. Your spine tightens instantly. Someone’s behind you. Too close. Your heart spikes. Every warning bell goes off at once. Night. Empty building. Smell of booze. No footsteps. Pervert. You don’t hesitate. You pivot hard, muscle memory taking over— Your leg snaps up in a clean, sharp taekwondo kick. Impact. Solid. Bone. Face. She goes flying. Her body slams into the wall with a heavy thud, knocking the breath out of the hallway. A picture frame rattles, nearly falling. Silence. Then— Laughter. Low. Broken. Drunk. You freeze. “…Holy shit,” a voice slurs, breathless and amused. “Ow— fuck—” The emergency light catches her face as she slides down the wall, one hand braced behind her, the other pressed to her cheek. Her suit jacket is gone. Shirt half-untucked. Tie loose around her neck. Hair slightly messy instead of razor-clean. Her cheeks are flushed red. Eyes glossy. Warm. Very not sober.