Jenny reappeared moments later, navigating the cubicle maze with a dancer's grace despite her hurried steps. The cheap mug steamed in her hands, clutched like an offering. Her smile was blinding, radiating pure sunshine that seemed to brighten the entire fluorescent-drenched corner of the office. "Here you go, Kyoto!" Her voice was pitched higher than usual, breathless with the effort of her quick errand. She placed the mug carefully on his desk blotter, fingers brushing the edge. Her gaze lingered on him – on the messy hair, the faint stubble, the collar still slightly askew – with an intensity that bordered on reverence. Her cheeks flushed pink. "Two sugars, black. Just how you like it." She didn't move away immediately, hovering near his cubicle entrance, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
Kyoto leaned back, taking a slow, deliberate sip. The coffee was hot, bitter, perfect. His eyes drifted down, tracing the lush curve of her hips beneath the polyester slacks. Jenny shifted her weight, unconsciously emphasizing the swell of her ass. She caught his gaze and blushed harder, a delighted little giggle escaping her lips. "Is… is everything okay?" she asked, her voice soft, hopeful. "You look… tired." Her eyes darted to the faint bruise blooming near his collar, then quickly away. She knew. They all knew. Kyoto's reputation wasn't subtle. Yet here she stood, radiating pure, uncomplicated adoration.
"Just a rough night," Kyoto murmured, his gaze lingering on the hypnotic sway of her hips as she finally turned to leave. "Furniture casualty." Jenny paused, her smile widening into something knowing, almost conspiratorial. "Oh! Well… I'm glad you're okay!" Her voice carried a warmth reserved solely for him. For years, Jenny had been his constant, cheerful satellite. While other women burned hot and fast, Jenny glowed. Steady. Sweet. Always ready with coffee, a blinding smile, and that ass – a masterpiece of suburban abundance he'd admired countless times but never truly tasted. She was safe harbor. Maybe too safe. Kyoto watched her retreating form, the way her blonde ponytail bounced with each step. Downbad? Absolutely. And he hadn't done a damn thing to earn it. The thought flickered, unfamiliar and strangely uncomfortable.
He turned back to his monitor, the Henderson spreadsheet glaring accusingly. Elara's icy fury felt distant now, replaced by the lingering warmth of Jenny's smile. Kyoto tapped a key, the cursor blinking. Safe harbor. The words echoed. He pictured Bianca asleep on his mattress, the dried streak on her skin. Chaos incarnate. Then Jenny's flushed cheeks, her eager eyes. Stability. Comfort. Kyoto frowned. Since when did he crave comfort? He needed the voltage, the scream, the broken furniture. Didn't he? His thumb brushed the faint sting on his lip where Bianca had bitten him. The memory sent a familiar jolt through him. Yet Jenny's unwavering sunshine… it held a different kind of heat. Simmering, not explosive. Kyoto shifted in his chair, the cheap plastic groaning. Maybe it was time for a different kind of wreckage. He pulled up Jenny's internal chat window, fingers hovering over the keys. Lunch? Drinks? Just… see. The cursor blinked, waiting. Kyoto smirked. Why not both?
Kyoto stabbed his password into the login screen: DragonBall69. The cursor blinked mockingly. He snorted. Seriously? This dumbass password had guarded his entire professional existence – client files, payroll, the incriminating browser history he occasionally forgot to clear – for three years. DragonBall69. A monument to teenage nostalgia and juvenile horniness most of which he still has.
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The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a monotonous drone that seeped into Kyoto's skull. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city had dissolved into a smear of rain-streaked darkness, punctuated only by the occasional red taillight bleeding through the downpour. Kyoto stretched, vertebrae popping like gunfire in the cavernous silence. His cubicle felt like a sarcophagus. Spreadsheets blurred before his eyes, numbers swimming in a sea of caffeine jitters and lingering exhaustion. He'd survived Elara's noon deadline by the skin of his teeth, dumping a half-baked Henderson projection onto her desk moments before the digital clock struck twelve. Her icy glare had promised retribution, but she'd taken the file without a word. A temporary reprieve.
Kyoto stood, his chair groaning in protest. The office was a ghost town. Desks sat empty, monitors dark. Only the rhythmic swish-swish of a mop from somewhere down the hall broke the stillness. Old Man Hector, the night janitor. Kyoto peered over the partition. Hector shuffled slowly near the copier, pushing his bucket with a weary stoop, his gray uniform hanging loose on his bony frame. The fluorescent light glinted off his bald spot. He moved with the resigned pace of someone who'd seen decades of corporate grime and didn't expect tonight's to be any different. Kyoto watched him pause, lean heavily on the mop handle, and cough – a wet, rattling sound that echoed in the emptiness. Hector wiped his mouth with the back of a liver-spotted hand, sighed, and resumed his slow, ineffective swabbing. The floor near the water cooler remained conspicuously sticky. Kyoto smirked. Some things never changed.
He grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on over his wrinkled shirt. Just as he turned towards the exit, a sharp click-click-click echoed from the far end of the aisle. Elara Vance emerged from her glass-walled office, silhouetted against the dim light within. She hadn't left. Her heels struck the linoleum with military precision as she walked towards him, her posture rigid, her face a mask of controlled fury barely held in check. Her eyes, chips of Arctic ice, locked onto him with unnerving intensity. She stopped a few feet away, the scent of her sharp, expensive perfume cutting through the stale office air like a blade. Her gaze swept over him – the disheveled hair, the shadowed eyes, the faint, telltale scent of yesterday's chaos clinging to him – and her lips thinned into a bloodless line. "Kyoto," she stated, her voice low and dangerous, devoid of its usual shrillness. It was worse. It was calm. "A word. Now." She didn't gesture towards her office. She simply stood there, blocking his path to the elevator, a glacial monument to corporate authority radiating pure, undiluted menace. Behind her, Hector's mop gave another futile swish against the perpetually dirty floor.
Kyota leaned against the partition, crossing his arms. The fluorescent glare highlighted the exhaustion etched into his face. "Elara," he sighed, the word heavy with genuine weariness. "It's pushing nine. Whatever corporate fire you need me to piss on, it can drown until morning." He pushed off the partition, stepping around her towards the elevator bank, dismissing her like yesterday's spreadsheet. "Save the lecture. I'm clocking out." He jabbed the call button, the metallic ding echoing in the empty office. Elara remained frozen, a statue carved from outrage and impotence. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white. Kyoto didn't look back. He pulled out his phone as the elevator doors slid open. Scrolling past ignored calls from Elara, he hit Bianca's name. It rang twice before she answered, her voice surprisingly alert, crackling with her usual chaotic energy. "Kyoto? What's up, fucker? Miss me already?" He could hear the clatter of salon tools and upbeat pop music in the background. She actually woke up and went to work? The thought was almost jarring.
Kyoto stepped into the elevator, leaning against the mirrored wall. "Just checking if you burned the place down after I left." He smirked faintly. "Heard Gloss actually opened before noon. Shock of the century." Bianca snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Miracles happen. Listen..." Her voice dropped, taking on that familiar, husky edge that bypassed his brain and went straight to his groin. "...Salon payday's still a week away. Place I was crashing? Roommate's psycho ex showed up waving a knife. Fun times." She paused, letting the silence hang thick with implication. "So... mind if I crash at yours again tonight?" Another pause, deliberate. Her next words were a low purr, vibrating down the line. "Might even... thank you properly. Been thinking about that dick all day." Kyoto closed his eyes for a second, the image of her riding him backward flashing vividly behind his lids. The elevator descended. More ass. More chaos. Exactly what he craved. "Whatever," he grunted, the disinterest in his voice utterly transparent. "Door's unlocked. Try not to break anything else." Bianca's triumphant laugh echoed in his ear as the elevator doors slid open onto the rain-lashed parking garage. "Promise nothing!" she cackled, hanging up.