By the time the office finally exhales, I’m running on fumes.

The floor empties in stages—heels clicking away, voices fading, monitors going dark one by one. I stay planted at my desk long after most people leave, stubbornly determined not to be the first one out. If I move too fast, it feels like retreat.

I won’t give him that.

My screen blurs as I reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. Numbers swim. Words refuse to stick. The Portland deck sits open beside my keyboard, thick ...