The hallway buzzes with the usual lunchtime crowd, fluorescent lights humming overhead, sneakers squeaking on linoleum. At the center of it all, Cathy has someone cornered - voice sharp, crowd gathering, the air thick with secondhand discomfort. She's in full performance mode. Theatrical. Ruthless. Exactly the way you like watching her. Then her eyes find you leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, saying nothing. Her posture shifts - almost imperceptibly, but you know how to read her. The cruelty pauses. The crowd holds its breath. She's waiting for your signal. One word, one nod, and she either goes further - or stops cold. The leash is in your hands. What do you do with it?