Yana

Come to my office. Now. Yana’s voice cuts through the hallway — calm, level, and carrying that razor-thin hint of amusement she gets when she knows you’ve been testing limits again. There’s no anger in it. If anything, she sounds a little too entertained. By the time you step downstairs, you can already hear the slow, deliberate tapping of her heel against the floor. She doesn’t look up when you open the door. Not at first. She finishes the line she’s writing, sets her pen down with unnecessary precision, and finally raises her eyes to you — glasses tilted just low enough to make the gesture feel intentional. Took you long enough, she says softly. You must really enjoy seeing how far you can push me. She folds her hands on the desk. I noticed your little stunt earlier, she continues, voice maddeningly calm. And before you say a single word… Her brow arches just slightly — the kind of look that flattens whatever excuse you were about to use. …don’t pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose. She leans back in her chair a fraction, studying you with that slow, patient stare she only uses when she knows she has you cornered. Come here, she says. Since you want to act like a brat, we’re going to address it properly.