May woke before her alarm.
For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the apartment breathe. Pipes murmured softly. Somewhere far below, traffic moved in a steady, indifferent rhythm. The quiet felt thinner than it had over the past few days, stretched tight by anticipation.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
This was it.
She moved carefully, as if sudden motion might unsettle something fragile inside her. The shower helped. The warmth steadied her hands. She dressed slowly, choosing clothes that felt neutral enough to disappear into a crowd but neat enough not to invite attention. When she checked her reflection, she did not linger. She already knew what she would see. Someone trying not to look like she was trying.
Her bag was ready. It had been ready since the night before.
She left the apartment and locked the door behind her, the sound echoing faintly in the hallway. For a brief second, she hesitated, keys still in her hand, then tucked them away and kept moving.
Outside, the city was already awake.
RCG was impossible to miss.
The building rose above the surrounding structures with quiet authority, all glass and steel, its lines clean and deliberate. The initials were mounted high on the facade, simple and unadorned. RCG. Ravencroft Consolidated Group. Visible from the pavement, visible from almost anywhere you stood nearby.
May stopped at the edge of the pedestrian crossing and looked up.
It did not feel like a place built for people. It felt like a place built for systems.
Inside, security moved with practiced efficiency. She gave her name. Her identification was scanned. No one looked surprised to see her. A temporary employee badge was printed and handed over without ceremony.
"Orientation floor is twenty one," the officer said, already turning to the next person.
The elevator ride was quiet. Screens displayed numbers and brief company notices she did not read closely. People stood close without acknowledging one another, eyes on phones, on reflections, on nothing at all.
When the doors opened, the noise level shifted.
Not loud. Just constant.
Phones ringing somewhere in the distance. Voices layered over one another. Footsteps that did not pause. She followed the signage until she reached her assigned department. Operations Support, according to the email. The name meant very little to her, which she suspected was the point.
A woman at the reception desk looked up as May approached.
"Name?"
"May," she replied, then gave her full name when prompted.
The woman checked her screen. "You're expected. Take a seat. Someone will get you."
May sat, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily. Around her, people moved with purpose, carrying folders, tablets, cups of coffee. No one looked lost. No one looked unsure.
She wondered if she stood out.
She was collected soon after by a supervisor who spoke quickly and smiled without warmth. The introduction was brief. A desk. A login. A stack of onboarding materials and internal documents.
"Read through these. Start with the first folder," the woman said. "Ask if you have questions."
Then she was gone.
May sat down and opened the folder.
She focused on the work. That part, at least, felt familiar. Information moved in predictable patterns. Numbers aligned. Processes explained themselves if you paid enough attention. She did not rush. She did not lag.
After a while, voices drifted closer.
Three women stood near her desk, cups in hand. They did not lower their voices.
"She's young," one of them said lightly. "How old do you think she is?"
"Barely legal," another replied, smiling. "Do they just let anyone in now?"
May kept her eyes on the page.
"Operations Support isn't exactly simple," the first continued. "I hope she can keep up."
A pause.
"Can you?" the third asked suddenly, leaning slightly toward May's desk.
May looked up.
"I'm managing," she said calmly.
The woman hummed, unconvinced. "We'll see."
They walked away, laughter following them like an afterthought.
Her fingers tightened briefly on the edge of the desk. She loosened them again and returned to the document.
An hour later, someone brushed past her chair too closely. Coffee sloshed, a few drops landing on the corner of her desk. Not enough to ruin anything. Enough to notice.
"Oh," the woman said, not looking sorry. "Careful."
May nodded once and wiped the surface clean.
During lunch, she stayed at her desk, pretending to be busy. She did not want to navigate the cafeteria yet. The building felt vast, its rhythms already set without her. She ate quietly and watched people pass, some laughing, some arguing softly, most absorbed in their own momentum.
One woman from earlier paused near her desk, hesitating.
"Are you okay?" she asked, voice low.
May met her eyes. There was genuine concern there, quickly masked.
"I'm fine," May said.
The woman nodded, relief and something like guilt crossing her face, then moved on.
By the end of the day, May's head ached.
Not from the work. From the restraint.
She logged out when instructed, packed her bag, and left without drawing attention. The elevator ride down felt longer than it had that morning. When she stepped outside, the air felt different. Sharper. More honest.
She did not message anyone.
On the walk home, she replayed small moments she had told herself did not matter. The looks. The comments. The way her presence seemed to invite assessment.
She told herself it was temporary.
That night, the apartment greeted her with the same quiet it always did, but it no longer wrapped around her the same way. She set her bag down and stood in the living area for a long moment, staring at nothing.
She had known the quiet would end.
She had just not expected the noise to be so subtle.
Still, she did not regret coming.
Not yet.