Lena carried the assignment folder to an empty workstation at the edge of the analyst area. The thirty-second floor buzzed with quiet productivity, the kind that suggested people were already deep into tasks before the rest of the city finished waking. She placed the folder on the desk and drew a slow, steady breath, trying to make the moment feel normal.

Normal didn’t come easily.

Her name sat printed above a detailed project header, outlining the responsibilities assigned to her group. She recognized half the terminology immediately. The other half required focus she hadn’t yet found. Her pulse still lingered at the elevated rhythm that had followed her out of the conference room.

Team Lead: Silas Trent.

The words were neat, simple, factual. Nothing about them should have affected her more than any other detail. But the reaction pressed beneath her ribs anyway—a coiled awareness she couldn’t smooth out.

She opened the folder.

The first pages covered market analysis procedures. The next outlined data collection frameworks. Then a three-page document detailing expected deliverables. It should have been straightforward. Instead, the sentences drifted in and out of her focus, as if her mind kept trying to track something else entirely.

She closed the folder and rubbed the heel of her hand lightly against her chest. Calm. That was the priority. Her body needed space to read before her brain could process.

Across the aisle, two analysts murmured to one another about an upcoming deadline. Their voices blended with the soft rustle of paper, the clacking of keys, the distant thrum of an espresso machine in the break area. The ambience should have grounded her. But she was too aware of the invisible tension threaded through the floor.

A shadow shifted at the edge of her vision. She looked up.

Silas walked down the aisle with a clipped, steady pace, reviewing something on the tablet in his hand. His presence commanded attention even when he wasn’t trying to. People straightened slightly when he passed. A few glanced up, then quickly back down at their screens.

He didn’t look at her. But his steps slowed a fraction when passing her desk.

A nearly imperceptible pause.

Then he continued on.

Her shoulders tightened anyway.

She opened the folder again, forcing herself to read. The project involved preliminary modeling for a municipal infrastructure investment—large-scale, long-term, complex. Analysts would evaluate financial viability, risk exposure, and potential structural weaknesses. She would be supporting the data and scenario-building portions.

It was the kind of task she had hoped for—concrete, structured, anchored in measurable output. No ambiguity. No space for emotional turbulence to interfere.

Still, her hand twitched when she turned the page.

The instruction line mentioned scheduled team reviews with the lead. It didn’t specify frequency. It didn’t need to. She knew she would have to sit across from Silas in a meeting room, presenting model drafts under his evaluation. The idea wasn’t frightening, exactly. Just unsettling in a way she didn’t have language for.

She took another breath and finally started working.

The first step required gathering historical data. She logged into the system, familiarizing herself with the digital archives. Files loaded in clean, linear sequences, organized by sector and region. She began pulling the necessary sets, marking potential anomalies and generating rough comparison charts.

Once her mind latched onto the numbers, some of the tightness in her chest eased. The rhythm of data entry, the reliability of formulas, the quiet logic behind each decision point—they steadied her. Gradually, the tension unknotted enough for her to forget about the folder’s label.

For a while.

A message notification appeared at the corner of her screen.

Training review in Conference 32C. Five minutes.

No signature, but she didn’t need one. The tone was too precise to belong to anyone else.

She closed her documents and stood. Her pulse quickened, the earlier clarity dissolving into a familiar mix of anticipation and unease. As she walked down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps felt louder than it should. She counted each one, trying to maintain a steady rhythm.

Conference 32C was a smaller room than the one from earlier. Bright walls, a rectangular table, a monitor mounted on the far side. Silas stood near the screen, reviewing something on the tablet again. He didn’t look up right away.

You’re early, he said.

So are you.

He set the tablet down. Sit.

She took a seat at the table, folding her hands loosely on top. Her breathing stayed even, but only because she was paying attention to it. Silas leaned against the edge of the table, studying her in a way that felt clinical rather than personal.

Show me what you’ve reviewed so far, he said.

She opened her laptop, navigating to the data sets she had organized. She presented the summaries with calm clarity, explaining her initial classifications and noting the anomalies she intended to investigate further. Her voice remained steady, even as her palms warmed.

Silas watched her without interrupting.

When she finished, he nodded once. Efficient.

She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but her shoulders loosened slightly.

You process information quickly, he added. That’s useful.

Thank you.

He tapped the tablet, opening a separate document. There’s a risk scenario you should examine. The projections from last quarter don’t align with the most recent market shifts. Identify the pressure points.

She leaned forward slightly. Which segment?

He turned the tablet and slid it toward her. His hand stopped short of hers, close enough for her to feel the presence of the gesture but not the contact. Municipal debt—high variability cases.

Her breath hitched, too small for anyone else to notice.

This was the area tied most closely to her deeper motivations. The one field her father had specialized in before everything fell apart. She hadn’t expected to encounter it this soon.

Silas watched her reaction closely.

Is that a problem? he asked.

No.

He didn’t question her further. Good. I want your preliminary notes by tomorrow afternoon. If you need additional data, request it before noon.

She nodded.

He pushed away from the table. You can go.

She stood quickly, perhaps too quickly. The motion sent a faint wave through her balance, the kind that warned her she had held her breath for too long. She adjusted her posture, steadying herself. Silas noticed. The shift in his eyes was subtle but direct.

Make sure you pace yourself, he said. Orientation weeks tend to overload new analysts.

I’m fine.

He didn’t contradict her, but something about his silence made it clear he didn’t entirely believe it.

She left the room with careful steps, not speeding, not lingering. The hallway air felt cooler, almost gentle by comparison. She made it back to her desk, closed the folder, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The day wasn’t done, but something had shifted.

She was in. Fully.  

And there would be no distance—not from the work, not from the truth, and not from the man leading her team.

She wasn’t sure whether that realization steadied her.

Or unsettled her more than anything else so far.