The door slammed shut behind her.
Jinn dropped her satchel onto the desk and collapsed into the chair with a long exhale. Her hair stuck slightly to her neck. The collar of her officer coat was still stiff and too warm.
On the desk: field reports, bounty claims, item certifications, injury disputes, contract validations. More than thirty forms in total.
She stared.
> "...This isn't a promotion. This is punishment."
A scroll slipped off the pile and hit the floor. She didn't pick it up.
From the next room, Lavirra's voice echoed, sharp and dry:
"You're not dying. You're just sorting."
Jinn raised her head halfway, groaning. "You didn't tell me this job was just legal babysitting."
Lavirra appeared in the doorway holding a wooden tray of tea.
"I did. You smiled and nodded. That's consent."
She placed the tray beside her.
"Drink. It helps with the illusion of surviving."
Jinn took a sip. Warm. Bitter. A strange leaf at the bottom.
> "Tastes like regret."
Lavirra smirked. "That's the dried sage. It hits harder after the fifth cup."
---
An hour passed. Paperwork barely budged. Her mind didn't either. The room dimmed with the setting sun. Her fingers cramped. Her back ached.
> "I used to sit at a desk for twelve hours debugging memory leaks. How is this worse?"
When silence finally settled, Jinn stood. Moved to her small side room, barely wide enough for a bed and a low drawer.
She sat down, legs crossed, back against the wall. Eyes closed.
> "Okay... How did that monk guy say it again?"
In her head, a vague voice returned. Calm. Male. Droning.
It echoed like a podcast she'd half-listened to as Jim, lying in bed, headphones on, bored but curious.
> "Breathe in. The root begins at the base. The flow travels up. Relax the tongue. Align the spine. Do not force. Just... follow."
She copied it.
Breathe in. Slowly. Out. In. Again.
She focused on the rhythm. Not the day. Not the forms.
Her thoughts stilled.
Then something moved.
Not outside. Not a noise.
Inside.
A warmth spread from her center—from somewhere just below the ribs. It wasn't heat. It was pressure. Gentle. Like water pressing outward.
She opened her eyes.
A faint gold hue shimmered across her hands.
Barely there.
Her breath caught.
It faded as fast as it came.
> "...What was that?"
She stared at her palms. Turned them. Nothing.
But it had happened.
A real pulse. A glow. Something that wasn't normal.
She exhaled slowly, grounding herself again.
> "Okay... I didn't imagine that."
A pause.
Then, faintly amused:
> "...Maybe dried sage does hit hard."
---
Back in the office, the stack of scrolls still waited.
But something in her felt lighter.
She sat down again.
Picked up the scroll.
And this time, her hands didn't shake.