Thursday hits me like a slap I didn’t see coming.

The morning starts normal enough—printer jam, too-hot coffee, three emails from Danny at 6:07 a.m. asking for revisions I swear I’d already sent. My heart is already vibrating from nerves, because the follow-up Portland meeting is today, and everything has to be perfect.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares me for what happens when I walk into the office.

It starts with whispers.

Low. Sharp. Cutting the air like paper.

Two ...