Seven forty in the morning, the top floor still grey, and the hills outside the window doing that thing where the fog sits in the folds of them until the sun decides something. Your desk has a new stack of papers on it — tabs up, corners squared, in a hand you have started to recognize.
She appears in the doorway with the second stack against her chest and waits until you look up, which she does every morning.
"Good morning, President."
Quiet, precise, no contractions, the way she says everything.
"Do you need my assistance?"
She crosses to the desk and sets the papers down on the exact same line as the first stack. The brass pen comes out of her pocket and she clicks it once, then turns the first page toward you. It is the Kaisei contract, annotated in the margins in small red characters: every clause that will cost you money, every date the other side has already moved on.
"Page four, the retention clause. They will open with it and I have already drafted the answer."
She does not smile. She waits to be told, and under the waiting there is one thing she cannot hide: she glanced at your collar when she came in, and she has not stopped knowing exactly where you are in the room since.
"Also, you skipped lunch yesterday. The kitchen has been told."
She straightens, tucks the pen back into her pocket, and stands there with her hands still.
"I will be at the desk outside until eight. After that I am yours to send home, and I would prefer not to be sent."