Wednesday bled into Thursday like an overlong meeting.  

The kind where time stopped pretending to move forward and just looped quietly in fluorescent light.

Evan Reid sat at his desk long past sunset, half drafting, half deleting a new internal campaign memo. The office was empty except for the hum of ventilation and the soft click of the elevator every few minutes—proof that someone else was still trapped in the same building.

He told himself he was waiting for clarity. In reality, he was waiting for an excuse to stop thinking about Clara Voss.

The day after the “Human Briefing,” she’d been distant—visible but unreachable, her schedule sealed behind calendar blocks and curt messages. The kind of silence that made people whisper more than words ever could.

At 8:42 p.m., his inbox pinged.

**From:** Clara Voss  

**Subject:**  Re: Clarity Initiative — Future Positioning  

*Still awake?*  

He stared at the single line for several seconds before typing back.  

*Unfortunately, yes.*  

Her reply came almost immediately.  

*Good. I’d rather discuss this before it gets filtered by committees.*  

Then another message, seconds later.  

*Meet me upstairs. Conference 4A. Bring the current copy deck.*  

He debated pretending he hadn’t seen it. Then curiosity won, as it always did. He gathered his laptop, took the elevator up, and stepped into a floor that felt like midnight disguised as marble.

Clara was there—no jacket, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair slightly undone in a way that would have been unthinkable during daylight hours. She was leaning over the conference table, reading a printout lit only by the glow of a desk lamp.

“You really don’t sleep, do you?” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Rest is a reward,” she replied without looking up. “I don’t believe in unearned luxuries.”

He sat opposite her. “And I don’t believe in functional brain cells after 9 p.m. So we’re at philosophical odds.”

That earned the faintest smile. “I read your notes,” she said. “You said we should ‘humanize the brand by removing apology.’ I want to know what that means.”

“It means,” he said, leaning back, “we stop pretending our company’s perfect and start speaking like we’re people. Not saviors, not heroes. Just competent humans who don’t condescend.”

Clara considered that. “People don’t like being reminded companies are human. Humans make mistakes.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And trust starts when we admit that.”

She met his eyes—steady, unreadable. “Do you always believe what you sell?”

“Only when it’s true.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then I rewrite it until it is.”

That made her laugh quietly—the real kind, low and surprised. “Dangerous philosophy.”

He shrugged. “It’s the only one that keeps me employed.”

They spent the next hour editing lines together. Her comments were sharp but surgical, his responses dry enough to keep her from realizing how much he enjoyed it. Every small exchange had a pulse—professional, rhythmic, almost intimate.

When the last file was closed, the room fell into that rare kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, just honest.

Clara closed her laptop and said softly, “You’re the first person in a long time who argues with me and doesn’t lose their balance.”

“Maybe I already lost it,” he said.

She looked at him then—really looked—and for a fleeting second, she wasn’t the CEO or the strategist. She was just someone exhausted, amused, and dangerously alive.

“Go home, Evan,” she said finally. “Before I start believing this is normal.”

“Too late,” he said. “You’re already human.”

Her expression faltered—not quite anger, not quite defense. Something closer to being caught. Then, calmly: “Don’t mistake vulnerability for friendship.”

“I won’t,” he said, standing. “But you might.”

He left her there, staring at the skyline like she was rewriting it.  

Back on the lower floors, Lena’s message waited on his phone:  

*Rumor is the Zurich board wants to expand the Clarity Initiative. Guess who they’ll want leading it?*  

He didn’t answer. He just typed out a new draft message, hesitated, and saved it as a draft instead of sending:  

*You don’t have to be perfect to lead, Clara. Just honest. That’s what people follow.*  

He closed his laptop.  

Somewhere upstairs, the CEO probably reopened hers.  

And between the screens and sleeplessness, their sentences were starting to sound like replies to each other.