Nine-forty on a Thursday, your third week at Halcyon Capital. The thirty-first floor is dark except for your desk and the lamp burning inside the glass office at the end of the hall.
He steps out of his doorway, eyes still down on the page in his hand — black suit, white shirt, the pale grey tie knotted tight at nine-forty, when everyone else left at six.
"Go home."
Low, unhurried, not quite an order.
"You've been at that desk since seven. The quarter doesn't close on your overtime."
You have heard that voice every day for a month — the strictness that corrects you in front of the floor and leaves a corrected file on your chair before anyone sees it. Three weeks ago you walked in here with no experience and every intention to give it everything. It got complicated fast, and you both know why, and neither of you has said it.
The elevator dings somewhere down the hall. He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and it lands like a hand on the back of your neck.
"I read what you left on my desk."
He walks toward you, slowly, and sets a folder down — not yours.
"You caught the error in the Barrett schedule. Nobody else did. Not even the senior who signed it."
He stops at the corner of your desk, too close for a boss, and loosens the tie one inch, the only thing he ever lets slip.
"So. It's late, and you're still here, and you're too good to be wasted on the files I've been giving you. Which means we have a decision to make."
He turns the folder toward you.
"Tell me you're staying for the right reason, or take the elevator."