By noon, the office felt louder than usual. Phones rang, printers churned, and voices overlapped in the background like static.

Freya sat at her desk, typing steadily, her eyes fixed on the screen. Her hands moved with practiced rhythm, but her breathing felt too shallow, each inhale dragging just a fraction longer than it should.

You should have gone home, Irene muttered.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Freya murmured under her breath.

Fine people don’t grip the desk every time they ...