7:21 A.M. – Still at the Office
The sound of the copier jam alarm and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights finally pulled Clark out of unconsciousness.
His neck hurt.
His back was stiff.
His mouth was dry.
He blinked blearily, realizing he was still at his desk — head resting on a pile of legal documents, one post-it stuck to his cheek.
"…I overslept," he muttered, sitting up with a groan. "Again."
He rubbed his eyes, but paused mid-motion.
Something was… off.
He looked down.
There was a dark, neatly folded long-sleeve polo draped across his shoulders like a makeshift blanket.
Soft. Warm. Clean.
And not his.
Clark picked it up gently. The fabric was expensive, tailored, lightly pressed — like it came straight from an upscale department store or the private closet of someone with money and no student loans.
More than that…
He leaned closer.
It smelled good.
Not like detergent or air freshener — but a subtle, natural scent. Something rich and clean and strangely familiar, but not one he could place.
"…Cologne?" he muttered.
He looked around.
The office floor was empty. No one else had arrived yet. The lights were still dimmed.
Clark stared at the polo in his hands.
Who left this?
Why?
---
8:00 A.M. – Public Ice Mode Activated
By the time the rest of the staff started arriving, Clark had neatly folded the polo and placed it in his bag.
He didn't ask around.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer yet.
Zara arrived first and blinked when she saw him. "You're… already here?"
Clark gave her a half-smile. "Didn't leave."
Before she could respond, the elevator doors opened.
Diablo Von Bloodick stepped out.
He was dressed sharply, as always — black suit, crimson tie, polished shoes that made no sound when he walked. His red eyes scanned the floor, impassive.
He walked past Clark's desk without a single glance.
"Evernight. Morning report on my desk. Five minutes."
> Cold.
> Direct.
> Business as usual.
Clark sighed. "Good morning to you too, sir."
If Diablo heard him, he didn't show it.
---
10:45 A.M. – A Private Shift
Later that morning, Clark delivered the printed reports to Diablo's office.
He expected the usual gruff nod or silent dismissal.
Instead, when he placed the folder on the desk, he noticed Diablo pause for a moment — his eyes flicking toward the bag slung over Clark's shoulder.
Just for a second.
Then back to the file.
"You didn't complete the footnotes on page three," Diablo said flatly.
Clark tilted his head. "I double-checked them, sir. They're complete."
A pause.
"…Hmm."
Not a yes. Not a no.
Just… hmm.
Clark turned to leave.
But just before he reached the door—
> "Clark."
His name. Said softly this time.
Clark turned around.
Diablo didn't meet his eyes. He was still looking at the report, but his voice had changed — barely above a murmur.
> "You should take proper rest next time."
Clark blinked. "I—uh… yeah. I'll try."
No answer.
Clark waited a second longer… then quietly stepped out.
---
11:00 A.M. – Zara and Miggy Corner Him
As soon as he left the office, Zara pounced.
"Okay, spill," she whispered. "Why are you alive? We all thought he'd fire you or freeze you in carbonite."
Clark shrugged. "No idea. Maybe I'm just too pathetic to fire."
Miggy leaned in. "And where'd you get that fancy-ass polo, huh? Looks expensive."
Clark hesitated. "…Found it on me when I woke up."
Zara blinked. "Wait. Like someone put it over you while you slept?"
Clark nodded.
Miggy narrowed his eyes. "Bro. That thing has a brand name I can't pronounce. That's not from Zara or H&M. That's… CEO-tier."
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his bag.
He didn't say it.
But a quiet part of his brain whispered:
> It smelled like him.
---
Back in the Office – Diablo's POV
Diablo sat behind his desk, flipping through pages he wasn't really reading.
His eyes flicked toward the monitor, where security camera feeds ran silently across the corner of the screen.
He saw Clark at his desk, tired but focused, rubbing his neck.
He remembered the look on Clark's face last night — asleep, vulnerable, peaceful.
He remembered the moment he reached into his private closet drawer, pulled out the polo, and draped it over him silently before slipping away again.
He told himself it was practicality.
It was cold.
He didn't want the idiot to catch a fever and ruin the quarterly report schedule.
That's all it was.
Nothing more.
Right?
His gaze returned to the camera feed.
And lingered.