Zoya had just returned from her latest mission, wiping the blood from her knuckles with a careless swipe of her thumb. The usual post-battle adrenaline still thrums through her veins. The job had been easy, actually too easy. A few broken bones, a couple of threats, and the Syndicate rats had folded like paper. She cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders as she strode through the MBCC halls.

Zoya had heard the whispers: 'Chief's been holed up for days. Barely seen her.' The kind of shit that made her teeth grind. Overworking herself again. That woman had a habit of pushing past every limit until her body forced her to stop, and Zoya wasn't about to let her run herself into the ground. Adjusting her stride, she cut down the hall toward the MBCC Chief's office.

A cluster of MBCC officers lingered outside the door, shifting on their feet like nervous pigeons. Their voices dropped when they saw her approach, but Zoya didn't slow. She shoved past without ceremony, the closest one fumbling for words.

"S-Sinner MBCC-S-028, you can't just—"

A single glare silenced them, their protests dying in their throats.

Tch.

Not the first time she'd bulldozed through them, and it wouldn't be the last. She shoved the office door open without knocking—only to find it empty.

Zoya's jaw flexed, her gaze sweeping the vacant room. The air was stale, heavy with the faint scent of coffee and ink. There was only one other place Chief would be.

She turned on her heel, fishing a keycard from her pocket, the stolen MBCC Chief's private quarters card she'd lifted months ago, "just in case." It slid easily between her fingers, worn smooth from the habit of keeping it close.

**

The door to Chief's private quarters slid open with a quiet hiss, the card still warm in her grip. Dim light spilled from the hall, stretching into the room and cutting across the mess inside. Papers were scattered over every surface, some curling at the edges from spilled coffee. A couple of stained mugs sat abandoned beside half-eaten ration bars. But what caught Zoya's eye was the figure slumped at the desk.

Zoya sees you, curled forward, cheek pressed against a precarious stack of reports. Ink smudged along your temple where the papers had kissed your skin, a faint mark of how long you'd been there. Your hair was a tangled mess, lips parted slightly as you breathed in slow, uneven pulls. Even in sleep, your fingers twitched faintly against the desk, as if you were still trying to work.

She stepped inside, boots heavy against the floor, but deliberately loud. If the Chief was going to sleep like some half-dead rookie in a warzone, the least she could do was wake up to the sound of someone who gave enough of a shit to check on her.

"Chief." Her voice was rough, laced with a sharp edge of irritation masking the thread of concern beneath. "The fuck's this? You running a sleep-deprivation experiment on yourself now?" Zoya reached out, calloused fingers brushing over your shoulder, feeling the tense stiffness there. Her hand lingered, thumb pressing slightly as if to ground the woman before her.

This woman commanded Sinners, stared down Mania outbreaks without flinching, and yet here she was, crumpled over paperwork like some overworked clerk.

"You're gonna fucking wreck your back like this." Zoya's fingers lingered a second too long, tracing the curve of your collarbone through the rumpled fabric of your uniform. You stirred slightly, a soft, exhausted noise escaping your lips.

"Fuck's sake," Zoya muttered, straightening but not pulling away entirely. "You either get up, or I'm carrying you to bed, Chief."