The walls weren't crashing down.
They were closing in—
Quietly. Patiently. Brick by brick, laid by him.
And if she didn't find a way out now… she'd be sealed inside with him forever.
The restroom lights buzzed softly, sterile and white.
Elna stood alone at the sink, fingers damp, gripping the edge of the marble counter. Her reflection stared back at her — composed, collected, exhausted. She splashed water on her face again, hoping it would erase the feeling lingering on her skin.
But it didn't.
The door behind her clicked open.
She didn't turn.
She didn't have to.
His presence slid into the room like a shadow — too quiet for coincidence, too slow to be professional.
Neby.
His reflection joined hers in the mirror, a few steps behind.
"I see you still don't lock the door," he murmured, tone smooth as glass.
Her voice was calm, but colder. "This is a restroom, not a battlefield."
He stepped closer.
"That depends on what you're fighting."
She stiffened, but didn't move. "You shouldn't be here."
"I've never stopped being where I shouldn't," he said, closing the space between them. "Especially when it comes to you."
His fingers brushed her wrist. Not forceful — featherlight. But it was enough. Enough to unspool that tight coil she'd wound around herself since last night.
"Neby, don't, please," she said, voice barely above a breath.
"I won't hurt you," he whispered into the space between them. "But you have to know… I can't unneed you now."
His hand trailed up her arm, slow, reverent, almost like he was memorizing it.
Elna shut her eyes for one second, too long.
And in that second, he was behind her. Closer. His breath ghosting over her neck. His presence is consuming.
"You're wearing my favorite blazer," he said, his voice low, like confession. "Do you even realize how many of my nights were built around watching you wear it?"
Her heartbeat pounded like a threat in her throat. She hated how still she stood — not paralyzed, just… caught.
Caught between fury and confusion.
Between memory and survival.
He didn't kiss her.
Didn't even touch her again.
He just leaned in, placed his hands around her, onto the edge of the marble counter, caging her, his voice brushing over her skin like smoke.
"You won't win today, Elna." Then he slowly tucked the hair behind her ear and said, " But I'll love you anyway."
Then, he stepped back.
And left.
Leaving her alone with the scent of his cologne and the weight of his words sinking like lead into her bones.
The Boardroom
The boardroom was all steel and silence.
Twelve chairs. One long display. Three directors were already seated, eyes flicking to their data-glasses as numbers scrolled mid-air.
And then her.
Elna walked in, blazer crisp, lips steady, but her pulse betrayed her. Her steps were measured, but her fingers twitched at her side.
Neby was already there. Seated at the far end. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just chipped at the walls she'd spent years building.
James noticed the change immediately.
She wasn't late.
But she wasn't... her.
The Elna he had come to know could cut through a strategic report like a scalpel.
Elna fumbled the initial greeting.
She stumbled on the third slide — nothing major, just a delay.
But her voice? It wavered. Slightly. Only someone watching would catch it.
James was.
And Neby did.
James's jaw tightened. His hand hovered near the tablet he wasn't meant to use unless prompted.
The director on the right cleared his throat, waiting for Elna to continue. She nodded, inhaled—
—and froze.
A flash — cold tile, warm breath, his voice in her ear.
James stood.
"Apologies," he said smoothly, stepping forward, tablet in hand. "If I may assist, the transition model is something Elna and I worked on together."
Her eyes darted to him — shocked, then grateful, then ashamed.
He didn't let her speak.
He didn't give her the chance to stumble further.
He clicked the presentation ahead and picked up where she left off, tone steady, precise.
Not undermining her.
Backing her.
By the time he passed the speaking back to her, she had gathered enough of herself to meet the room's gaze again.
James sat down quietly.
Elna stood a little taller.
And across the table, Neby leaned back in his chair.
Watching.
Still smiling.
After the Meeting
The boardroom cleared out in waves.
Some with nods. Some with unreadable expressions. Some with clipped mutters about deadlines and deliverables.
James lingered behind, pretending to resync his tablet.
Elna had already gathered her notes, spine straight again — but he saw her fingers. Still trembling faintly at her side.
Neby stood last. His suit was flawless. His tone, disarmingly calm.
"The board report will be finalized by tomorrow morning," he said, his eyes never leaving hers."I suggest you… wait for them."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It never was with him.
He gave a polite nod to the room — one that somehow excluded James — then left, his shoes making no sound against the polished floor.
Silence settled again.
James finally walked over, keeping a respectful distance. "You okay?"
Elna didn't answer right away.
She stared at the closed door where Neby had just exited.
Then, softly — "He's not even hiding it anymore."
James tilted his head. "What?"
"The game. The… countdown."
She looked at him then, really looked.
For a second, James felt like she might break.
But she didn't.
Instead, she gave him the smallest smile, not of joy, but of resilience worn thin.
"You didn't have to step in back there," she said.
"I know," James replied. "But I wanted to."
Another pause.
Then she reached out — a simple, brief touch to his wrist. Just two fingers. Light. Grateful.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "For holding the room… when I couldn't."
James nodded. "Anytime."
She turned to leave.
But just before stepping out, she murmured over her shoulder:
"Just… don't follow me into restrooms."
A flicker of dry humor. Weak, but there.
He smirked. "No promises."
Elna paused outside the boardroom, fingers still cold despite the morning sun warming the windows.
She had survived the room. Just barely.. But she hadn't escaped it.
Because the boardroom wasn't the prison.
He was.
And now… he was tightening the last bricks.
She exhaled, steadying herself.
The walls weren't closing in anymore.
They were almost shut.