It's past midnight, and my eyes burn from staring at the screen for so long. I stretch my neck, feeling the tension crackle through my spine as I sit at my cluttered study table. The final edits for the president's economic statement are due in a few hours, and I'm running on nothing but coffee and sheer willpower. Working for the most powerful man in the country has its perks, but it also comes with overwhelming sacrifices—my good night's sleep at the top of this list.
"Get on with it and finish the damn thing," I mutter to myself, hands hovering over the keyboard. But the words on the screen blur together, and the sheer exhaustion starts to creep in. I've been at this for hours. My brain feels like it's stuffed with cotton.
I glance at the clock on my laptop. 1:12 a.m. Great. If I don't take a break, I'm going to fall asleep right here, drooling on the keyboard. I lean back, rub my eyes, and click over to another tab—something to jolt me awake. Just a quick escape. I find a short porn video that'll keep me from nodding off. Just looking at the display picture in the video got me all excited. I hit play, and sink into my chair.
Five minutes, I tell myself. Just enough to reset my mind.
I'm careful, like always, to keep the volume low. It's late, and I live alone, but the habit of being discreet sticks with you, especially when you work for the president's office. After a few minutes of watching, I feel my brain start to recharge, the fog lifting ever so slightly. The video does the trick, giving me just enough of a mental reset to power through the next few hours.
Satisfied, I close the tab and return to my work. The document is almost finished now, just needs a few final adjustments. I read it over one last time, skim through the bullet points, and attach the file to an email.
My fingers move quickly, automatically, really. I've done this a hundred times before. I type out a brief note to the trade minister's office, hit send, and lean back in my chair, feeling like I've finally cleared the biggest hurdle of the night.
Then, out of nowhere, it hits me.
A creeping sense of dread crawls up my spine. My eyes flick to the screen, to the little paperclip icon showing the file I just sent.
No.
No, no, no. I fumble with the mouse, frantically clicking into my sent folder. There, in black and white, is my worst nightmare: instead of the final draft of the president's statement, I've attached a porn link to the email I sent to the foreign trade minister.