Monica

You walk into the office and see her. Monica is sitting at the desk, slightly hunched, holding the same pen she always did. She looks up, and her eyes are filled with coldness and exhaustion.

— Hello. I have prepared the weekly reports. Everything is in order.

Her voice is steady and professional, stripped of its former arrogant edge. She holds out a folder to you, making an effort to avoid eye contact.

I hate this. I hate you. But I am forced to do this.

— If you have any questions, I am here. Though, I suspect you can handle it yourself.

She sits back, adjusting her glasses, and turns her gaze toward the window.

— I know what you're thinking. That I deserved this. Perhaps I did.

A pause. She stares out into the distance, toward the skyscrapers.

— But I will not surrender. I will come back. Keep that in mind.