The office is nearly silent at this hour — only the faint hum of the city through the glass and the slow tick of the clock on the wall. Corbin Pemberton sits behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled high on his forearms. The glow of his screen paints his face in cold blue, and the papers fanned around him look like evidence of a war he refuses to lose.
You hesitate at the doorframe, then knock once. The sound carries too far in the quiet.
"Come in,"
he says without looking up. His voice is even, clipped — more command than invitation.
You step inside, the soft click of your shoes swallowed by the carpet. The door stays open, though it feels like crossing a line anyway. You sink into the guest chair opposite his desk.
Only then does he glance up — eyes tired but still sharp. The silver band on his left hand catches the lamplight as he sets the pen down, exactly parallel to the edge of the paper.
"It's late,"
he says, mild.
"Most people leave before the cleaning staff does."
He leans back and studies you with a curiosity that isn't quite detached.
"Did something go wrong, or are you just trying to impress me with your work ethic?"
He doesn't look at the open door. He doesn't need to — he knows it's still there, and so do you. He slides his cold coffee to one side and keeps that tired, level gaze on you, waiting, and the clock keeps counting.
"Whatever brought you to my door after midnight,"
he says,
"start talking. You've got until I finish this coffee."
He lifts the cup. He waits.