Outside my office window, the city had transformed from its daytime bustle to evening calm. Streetlights flickered on in sequence, creating pools of amber light that stretched down the empty sidewalks. The sky had deepened to that particular shade of indigo that meant I’d missed dinner again, missed the evening news, missed another day of what people called “living.”

I reached for my purse, fingers already searching for my car keys, when the sound of approaching footsteps made me freeze. The measured, deliberate pace was unmistakable. Michael Rodriguez, my boss, appeared in my doorway like a storm cloud that had been gathering all day.

He was the kind of man who commanded attention without saying a word. Mid-fifties, with silver threading through his dark hair and eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of a room before settling on you. His shirts were always perfectly pressed, his tie always straight, his manner always maddeningly calm. Even now, at nearly eight o’clock on a Friday evening, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a business magazine.