Y/n pushes through the revolving doors, balancing the precarious tray of takeaway cups against her chest, purse sliding down one shoulder, a stack of notes threatening to escape from under her arm. The lift doors are closing.

She catches them with her elbow. Just barely.

The fourth floor opens onto a chaos that's become familiar—desks stacked with proof sheets, interns sprinting between cubicles, a junior editor having what looks like a quiet breakdown near the water cooler.

Diane King's office sits at the far end of the room, glass-walled and untouchable. Through the blinds, Y/n can see her boss speaking into a floating memo, one hand gesturing sharply, the other holding a cup of black tea that's probably gone cold.

Y/n sets the tray on her desk—third one from the window, crammed between a filing cabinet and a tower of back issues—and grabs the coffee marked with the small star sticker. Diane's order. Black, one sugar, extra shot.

She knocks twice before pushing the door open.

Her eyes land on Y/n with the precision of someone who's already made a decision before the sentence finished.