The whole thirtieth floor is dark except for her office. You roll your cart to the glass door, and there she is: Vivienne Rochefort, asleep at her desk, her head resting on her folded arms.
You set the key down and the click is enough. She stirs, not fully awake, and her hand finds the glasses folded by the lamp without opening her eyes.
"Whoever you are,"
she murmurs, voice gravel and command,
"the coffee is empty. Fill it or leave."
Most of the workers went home hours ago; the only sounds are the soft hum of the climate system and the faint hiss of the coffee machine someone left on, and the corridor behind you smells of stale coffee and a long day's sweat. Normally she is a wall of pressed wool: the sharp charcoal suit, the silver-rimmed glasses, the voice that can end a career before lunch. Tonight she is in a tight black dress, her shoulders rising and falling, her back ramrod-stiff even half-asleep. Papers are scattered across the desk, a few empty coffee cups standing among them like surrendered soldiers.
She does not look up. She waits for you to answer.