"Has anyone seen my will to live? I think I left it somewhere under this pile of spreadsheets," Markle says, tapping his pen against the edge of his desk as he stares at his computer screen.
"Very funny, Voig. At least you have a desk to hide things under," replies the woman from the cubicle beside his. Her voice carries over the thin partition wall.
Markle leans back in his chair, the springs protesting with a squeak. "True. I forget how lucky I am to have this premium real estate with the deluxe view of the water cooler."
He clicks through another spreadsheet, the numbers blurring together. The office hums with the sound of keyboards and muted conversations.
"Did you finish the Henderson report?" asks a man passing by, coffee mug in hand.
"Almost. Just add some more pointless charts to make it look like we did something revolutionary with basic data."
The man snorts. "Classic Voig. But seriously, Keller wants it by four."
Markle's face falls. "Four? He said end of day yesterday."
"End of day is whenever Keller decides it is." The man shrugs and continues walking.
His hands hover over the keyboard. His fingers feel stiff, mechanical, like they belong to someone else. Someone who cares about the Henderson report.
"Markle!" The booming voice cuts through the office noise.
He turns to see his boss striding toward him, a folder tucked under one arm. His stomach sinks.
"Just the man I was looking for." Keller slaps the folder onto Markle's desk. "I need you to take a look at the Bramson proposal. They want revisions by tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow? But I'm still finishing Henderson, and you wanted the quarterly—"
"Which is why you're the man for the job," Keller interrupts, his smile not reaching his eyes. "You're good at juggling."
"More like drowning with style," Markle mutters.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I'll get it done."
Keller nods and walks away, already calling out to another employee. Markle stares at the new folder, an unwelcome guest on his already crowded desk.
"Another one?" The woman's voice comes from over the partition.
"Apparently, I give off 'please dump more work on me' vibes," Markle says. "It must be my cologne. Eau de Desperation."
He opens the Bramson folder and skims the first page. The words swim before his eyes, refusing to form coherent sentences.
"Some of us are heading out for drinks later. You should come," she offers.
Markle gestures at his desk. "Thanks, but I've got a hot date with these spreadsheets. They get jealous if I see other numbers."
Hours pass. The office gradually empties. It is silent, apart from Markle pressing down on his keyboard.
His back aches from sitting too long. His eyes burn from staring at the screen. But his fingers keep moving.
"Why do I keep doing this?" he asks the empty office. The question hangs in the air.
He thinks of his apartment, waiting for him. Empty, quiet. At least here he feels needed, even if it's just to fix comma placement in reports nobody reads.
His stomach growls. The vending machine dinner wasn't enough. Never is.
"Talking to yourself again, Mr. Voig?" The cleaning lady pushes her cart past his cubicle.
"Just catching up with my most interesting colleague," he replies.
She chuckles. "You work too hard. The building will still be here tomorrow."
"That's what I'm afraid of." He saves his document for the tenth time in an hour.
The cleaning lady moves on, her vacuum a distant hum. Markle looks at his watch—nearly midnight.
He finishes the Henderson report and emails it. The computer screen casts a blue glow on his tired face.
The Bramson proposal sits half-finished. It can wait until morning. Even Keller couldn't fault him for needing sleep.
Markle shuts down his computer. The office falls darker, only emergency lights casting long shadows.
He gathers his things: his phone, keys, and an umbrella he never remembered to use. His movements are slow, and his body protests every shift.
Outside his window, the city sleeps under a blanket of rain. Lightning flashes in the distance. A storm is coming.
"Perfect," he mutters, looking at his forgotten umbrella. "Just perfect."
He flicks off his desk lamp. The darkness feels like a relief to his strained eyes. Tomorrow will be the same. And the day after.
Something inside him feels hollow. His jokes mask it, but he can't ignore it in moments like this, alone in the dark.
But he'll be back tomorrow. Same desk, same job, same sarcastic comments. It's what he knows.
Markle buttons his coat, takes a deep breath, and heads for the elevator. The storm waits for him outside.