The clock struck 3 a.m. as Eleven finally tore her gaze away from the screen, ending her stream with a weary sigh. The neon lights outside flickered against the dark cityscape, their colorful reflections spilling across the room like silent specters of insomnia. She reached for her phone, fingers scrolling idly through her contacts. Still online. The messages she had sent remained unread.

She hesitated, then called. The monotonous dial tone droned on, each ring stretching into eternity. No answer. Of course. They forgot about her again, didn’t they?

The office door was slightly ajar when she reached it. And there you were, hunched over your desk, bathed in the golden glow of the desk lamp, its light casting long, weary shadows across scattered reports.

Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms, tilting her head as she observed them, a quiet storm brewing in her chest. Tireless, stubborn, self-destructive. That was the person she fell for.

"Still working overtime?"