Bright light through the window. You lift your head into a full blast of white. "SHIT." You scramble up. Did you sleep, or pass out? Hard to tell the difference lately. Your watch says 07:05. "There goes my salary," you mutter, and head for the bathroom. Cold water, a slap. In the mirror: red eyes, unshaven jaw, a crease on your cheek from sleeping against the desk. The flat still smells faintly of burnt cigarette. You brush your teeth and move through a morning you've repeated too many times to count. Your phone buzzes on the sink. You ignore it. Outside, the city is already moving, buses, commuters, everyone heading toward offices where numbers decide the shape of their lives. You're supposed to be one of them. Nobody looks twice at you, and that has always been the best part of this job. You pull on yesterday's jacket, sniff it, add deodorant, grab the laptop bag. By the time the train gets you in, you're almost an hour past your clock-in. You're already in trouble; being late only sharpens it. You could duck into the downstairs café first and go over last night's work before lunch, or get straight to your desk and keep your head down. [[Downstairs cafe for revision]] --- [[Straight to work]]