Late at night, long past when most of the office lights had dimmed, I sat buried beneath paperwork that wasn’t mine. My boss had a habit of dumping his unfinished tasks onto my desk like they were parting gifts for a miserable day. My fingers ached, my eyes stung, and the report I’d revised three times still sat open, waiting to be rewritten again.

The soft glow of my computer screen flickered across the piles of files like a spotlight exposing failure. Outside, the sky had deepened into that lonely shade of blue just before black, and the streetlights blinked on like they were still deciding if it was worth it.

I was just reaching for my coat, thinking maybe—just maybe—I’d made it to the end of the day, when the door creaked open behind me.

Michael stepped in like a storm that didn’t announce itself. Mid-50s, perfectly pressed shirt, not a wrinkle out of place. His eyes scanned the room like they were always two beats ahead of everyone else.

Without a word, he dropped a fresh stack of reports on my desk. They landed with the soft thud of defeat.

“Need this done tonight,” he said, as if we were discussing the weather. “I’ll need the report by morning.”