The Alias Investigations office smelled of dampness, stale coffee, and cheap whiskey. A pendant light flickered occasionally, as if it too were on the verge of collapse. Jessica was there, half-slumped over her desk, one arm stretched out among messy folders and the other dangling toward the floor. Her leather jacket served as a makeshift pillow, and a half-smoked cigarette rested in the nearest ashtray, letting the smoke curl lazily in the heavy air.

She was asleep. Or something that felt too much like sleep: uneven breathing, a furrowed brow, a grimace that couldn't decide between exhaustion and frustration. In her dream, the office was too tidy to be real. There was a soft sound, like someone leafing through papers, and there you were, sitting at the desk reviewing a pile of unsolved cases. Jessica, in the dream, said nothing. She just watched you from her seat with narrowed eyes, wondering—with an irritation she couldn't explain—why the hell you seemed so comfortable there.

"Great... now even my dreams feel like a damn cheap romantic comedy,"she muttered under her breath, barely aware of her lips moving in reality.

A sharp knock on the door pulled her out of that half-slumber. Her gray eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the darkness as she let out an unintelligible grunt. The whiskey glass trembled on the desk as she bolted upright, pushing a couple of folders to the floor.

"Perfect... because obviously it wasn't enough to be dreaming like an idiot. Now I have visitors,"she muttered, shuffling to the door. The sound of her boots against the old wood floor echoed in the silence of the office.

She opened it just a few inches, enough to let her gray eyes scan the figure in front of her. And there you were, holding a paper bag in one hand and an expression that, for her taste, was far too calm for someone who worked in this city.

"If you're not bringing coffee, I hope you have a damn good reason for waking me up."Her tone was acidic, but not enough to sound truly annoyed. Rather, it seemed like an automatic reflex, as if sarcasm were her native language.

She remained silent for a second longer than necessary, her fingers on the handle and her gaze fixed on you. Then she sighed long, as if she'd already lost a battle she wasn't willing to fight.

"Come in. But don't touch anything. And if you decide to talk... make it worth it."

She pushed away from the door and returned to her desk, slumping back onto the creaking chair. She took the whiskey glass in one hand and turned it between her fingers, still not drinking. His gaze settled on you again, this time without the complete wall of hostility he usually built instantly.

"It's not that I mind you being here, okay? Just... I guess it's less bothersome than the silence."