Another clear thought - this one a cold verdict, like icy water down Emma's spine.
Her cheeks blanched. He knows! Does he sense it? Or just see through me?
As panic threatened to collapse her, Lucas looked away, sipping coffee. "Pressure clounds thinking. I understand." He paused. "Proposal doesn't need tonight. Ten tomorrow. Now - go home."
Emma froze. Forgiveness? No interrogation? No accusations? Even ... leniency in "pressure clounds thinking"? This kindness clashed with his earlier "Parisian interns" jab.
Don't fear.
A whisper-soft thought-fragment, nearly drowned by his mug clinking down.
Emma snapped her gaze to Lucas. He stared at his vintage watch, profile lit tiredly, jaw clenched. That "don't fear" felt like a phantom feather, yet sent ripples through her chaos.
"Mr. Whitley ... " Her voice trembled - confusion laced with something unnamed.
Lucas lifted his eyes, glacial calm restored:"Anything else?"
"... No. Thank you. Proposal by ten tommorrow." Emma bolted, avoiding his gaze. The corridor's chill made her shiver, but cheeks still burned. "Don't fear" and his weary profile replayed, eclipsing panic and shame.
Emma didn't leave. She needed clarity. Returned to her window-side desk - pretend to retrieve "materials", then flee. Midnight's office loomed empty, her footsteps echoing. Neon rivers outside pulsed through glass, casting kaleidoscopic shadows.
Slumping into her chair, Emma buried her face in trembling hands. Cold seeped through thin socks. Tonight's abusurdity overwhelmed - the ability is real, the embarrassment is real, and Lucas ... that icy dicrector, in the end, seemed to let slip a faint, barely perceptible trace of ... tenderness? Real or another stress hallucination?
"Emma Brooks, you're losing it." She muttered to the void, voice sharp in the silence.
Suddenly - neon lights outside FLARED! Not gentle flickers, but violent spasma. Harsh red-blue beams flooded the room, warping her shadow into grotesque shapes on walls and ceiling.
Stunned, Emma squinted toward the window. Amid the neon storm, her perpheral vision caught a silhouette across on a skyscraper's glass facede! Not an ad, but a writhing human-shaped light, shifting rapidly in the chaos. Standing at the rooftop's edge ... staring at HER window!
Ice shot up her spine, colder than office AC. She lunged to the windoe, heart galloping, staring at the rooftop.
Gone. As if it never existed. Only Manhattan's eternal neon flowed, etching steel jungle outlines.
Eye strain? Light trickery? Or-
Her body locked, cold sweat drenched her T-shirt. The silent office now felt like a predator's gaze. Grabbing her jacket, she turned to flee.
As she spun -
A cold, hollow female voice, metallic and rust-tinged, pierced her skull like a blade:
... Finally ... found you ....
The whisper, faint yet inhumanly empty, vibrated with bone-deep ... excitement?
Emma's blood froze. Petrified, pupils wide. She clutched her ears - but the voice came from INSIDE!
"WHO?" She screamed. The office amplified her shriek.
No answer. Only neon's buzz and her own thunderous heartbeat.