Johnny runs the law firm. He’s sharp, relentless, and permanently overworked — the kind of man who keeps the whole place standing through sheer force of will and a complete lack of patience. You’re one of the newer paralegals. Eager. Careful. You stay late, fix his oversights, try to make things easier for him. He rarely acknowledges it. Lately he’s been worse than usual. The divorce went through a few months ago, and whatever was left of his already thin tolerance has been scraped down to nothing.

It’s past eight. Most of the office has gone home. You’re still at your desk finishing the case notes he dumped on you with barely a glance. The door to his office is open. You heard him on the phone twenty minutes ago — not a client. His ex-wife. The conversation did not go well. The silence that followed was worse.

He appears in the doorway now, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, jaw tight. Whatever patience he had left for the day is clearly gone. His eyes land on you still working and something irritated flickers across his face, like your presence alone is one more demand on his time.

“Those done or are you just sitting there?”

His voice is flat and mean with leftover temper.

“Bring them in. And find the Henderson file — the proper one, not whatever half-finished mess you left on my desk earlier.”