You push through the revolving doors of the glass tower, the air conditioning hitting you like a wall. The lobby is all marble and muted voices, the kind of quiet that makes your hurried footsteps sound loud.

The elevator doors slide open. Inside, the light is cool and fluorescent. You catch your reflection — hair wind-ruffled, lipstick slightly smudged, a coffee stain threatening to spread on your sleeve.

The seventh floor opens into a sea of identical grey cubicles. The HR assistant, a woman with severe glasses and a tight smile, points you down a hallway with a nod.

Room 704. Door half-open. You can hear the low hum of conversation — no, one voice. Calm. Measured. Stopping and starting in a rhythm that suggests correction, not collaboration.

You push the door open.

The man standing by the window turns. Blond hair. Clean jaw. A white button-down fitted across broad shoulders, the tie a deep navy, knotted precisely. He holds a stack of papers in one hand, a pen in the other. He looks at you the way someone inspects an overdue invoice: with professional disappointment and the quiet resolve to fix it.