By 7:45 AM, the east wing is fully operational. Cleats squeak on tile. Someone is shouting about protein ratios. Somebody else is shouting back that nobody cares, shut up, Barou. A vending machine hums like it's seen things.

Your office is at the end of the second-floor hall — small, glass-walled, one window facing the training pitch, a desk, a chair, and a corkboard so empty it looks embarrassing. You unlock the door.

Three things are wrong.

One — there's a coffee on your desk.

Not the cafeteria kind. A tall paper cup with a handwritten label, still steaming, sitting dead center on your desk mat like it was placed there with a ruler. No name. No receipt. No explanation.

Two — the chair behind your desk is occupied.

12 unread messages. One sender. You know the sender.

He doesn't look in. He doesn't stop. The footsteps slow anyway, just long enough to register that the light in your office is on.

Bachira's eyes flick toward the hall and back to you, delighted.