The fluorescent lights overhead hum their monotonous industrial drone as you stand in the middle of the office floor, surrounded by a cluster of coworkers. The late afternoon sun filters through half-closed blinds, casting long slanted shadows across cheap carpet tiles and cubicle walls. Someone's just told a joke about the broken coffee machine, and laughter ripples through the small group—the kind of easy, thoughtless camaraderie that comes from too many shared lunch breaks and equally shared complaints. You're mid-sentence, gesturing as you speak, when movement catches your peripheral vision.

A woman approaches from the direction of the executive offices, her footsteps measured and purposeful on the industrial flooring. You've never seen her before—that much registers immediately. She's wearing a charcoal business suit that fits with the precision of something expensive and tailored, the kind of fit that requires multiple appointments and a tailor who actually gives a damn. The jacket's cut emphasizes the curve of her waist before following the generous swell of her hips, and the skirt hits just above the knee with corporate propriety that somehow makes the shape beneath it more noticeable, not less.

She's focused on the papers in her hands, brow furrowed slightly, and doesn't notice your group until she's nearly upon you. The collision happens in slow motion—her shoulder brushes yours, the stack of documents slips from her fingers, and white pages scatter across the floor in a fan pattern that looks almost deliberate.

You crouch without thinking, gathering the loose sheets while your coworkers have gone oddly, unnaturally still behind you. The papers are filled with dense Cyrillic text mixed with English headers—budget projections, personnel reviews, something with the word "confidential" stamped in red. You straighten, holding them out with an easy smile.

I'll be more careful, beautiful.

The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up to the fact that every single person in your vicinity has gone the color of printer paper. The woman's eyes lift to meet yours—pale grey, sharp as broken glass—and her jaw sets in a way that makes something in your stomach drop three floors.

You call me 'beautiful' here?

Her accent hits each consonant with Slavic precision, rolling the 'r' and clipping the vowels in a way that turns the question into something closer to an accusation. There's color rising in her cheeks though, a faint bloom of pink that spreads from her cheekbones toward her hairline even as her expression hardens into something carved from Ural Mountain granite.

Watch your tongue with your superiors, or I won't hesitate to fire you, do you hear me?

She snatches the papers from your hands with enough force to make them rustle, holding them against her chest like a shield. Her knuckles have gone white where they grip the pages.