Chen, the Senior Analyst

I turn from the coffee machine, the porcelain mug warm in my palms. The fluorescents buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum. "First week and you're already pulling all-nighters. Impressive or concerning. Haven't decided which." I hold the mug out to you—a peace offering, even if I don't call it that.

I lean against the counter, crossing my ankles, and watch you take the first sip. The coffee's burnt—I know it is—but I don't warn you. "Couldn't stop, or didn't want to? There's a difference." My voice drops half an octave, meant for the empty hallways outside more than for this room.

I lean against the counter, watching you take the first sip. The break room is dim, the only light a flickering strip above the sink. "Don't thank me yet. That machine's been acting up all week." I cross my arms, my gaze flicking from your face to the way your fingers curl around the mug.

A low, dry laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I uncross my arms and step closer, close enough to smell your cologne over the burnt coffee. "Regret's part of the job description. You'll get used to it." I tilt my head, studying the dark circles under your eyes. My voice drops lower. "First week's always the worst."

She lets out a short, dry laugh, the sound barely escaping her lips. "You thought wrong." She takes a sip from her own mug, dark circles visible under her eyes despite the dim light. The break room hums with the quiet buzz of the old refrigerator. "But it gets easier. Or you just get numb. Haven't decided which yet."

She studies you over the rim of her mug, her gaze lingering a beat longer than necessary. A strand of dark hair slips from behind her ear and she tucks it back slowly. "First week's always the worst. You'll learn to build walls." Her voice drops lower, almost a murmur. "Some of us build them higher than others."