Sarah and Andrey shuffled into the office pantry, which had miraculously survived the monster invasion. The coffee machine was still humming, a lone survivor amid the chaos. Sarah, wrapped in the oversized lab coat, rummaged through the cabinets for mugs while Andrey stood by the machine like it was a sacred altar.
"Two sugars, no cream, right?" Andrey asked, already punching buttons with practiced precision.
Sarah leaned against the counter, rubbing her temples. "Make it three sugars today. I think I've earned diabetes."
The machine gurgled to life. Soon, the rich smell of cheap office coffee filled the air. Andrey handed her a steaming mug. She took it with both hands, inhaling deeply.
"Ahh… the only normal thing left in this nightmare," she sighed.
They pulled up two stools by the little counter near the window. Outside, cleanup crews and heroes zipped around, but in here, it was just them, two mugs, and blessed quiet.
Sarah took a sip. "Okay. Casual talk. No system. No monsters. No… barriers." She shot him a warning glance.
Andrey nodded quickly. "Understood. Topics restricted to weather, weekend plans, and coffee quality."
She snorted. "You're such a dork." Then softer: "But thanks. For, y'know… having my back out there. Even if you were mostly worried about the printers."
Andrey stared into his coffee. "The printers are important. But… yeah. You did good too. Really good."
Sarah smiled a little, hiding it behind her mug. "Was that a compliment? From Andrey 'Deadlines or Death' Thompson?"
"Don't ruin it."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, just sipping.
Sarah spoke first. "So… what do you even do on weekends? I've worked here two years and I still picture you sleeping under your desk."
Andrey shrugged. "Spreadsheets at home. Meal prep. Gym at 6 a.m. Sometimes I reorganize my bookshelf by color."
Sarah laughed, nearly spilling her coffee. "Of course you do. I binge dumb reality shows and eat instant ramen in bed. We're basically opposites."
"Yet here we are," he said, gesturing vaguely at the ruined office beyond the door. "Saving the world together."
"Don't remind me." She tugged the lab coat tighter. "I'm never wearing pink again after this."
"Liar. The system will probably force a strawberry-themed outfit next."
Sarah groaned dramatically. "Kill me now."
Andrey chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, small and awkward, but real. "We'll figure it out. One disaster at a time. And… hey. If you ever want to, I don't know, grab normal coffee sometime. Not post-apocalypse coffee. I could make an exception to my schedule."
Sarah raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Are you asking me out, Mr. Perfectionist?"
Andrey's face went pink. "I'm… proposing efficient caffeine consumption. With company."
She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers. "Smooth. But yeah. I'd like that. As long as you promise not to grade my latte order."
"Deal."
They clinked their office mugs together like it was champagne.
Sarah took another sip. "You know… today sucked. But this part? Not the worst."
Andrey smiled faintly into his mug. "Agreed."
The next morning, Andrey arrived at the office building out of habit more than necessity. The lobby still smelled faintly of smoke and disinfectant; yellow caution tape crisscrossed the elevators. A security guard waved him toward the temporary HR trailer set up in the parking lot.
Inside the trailer, his manager—Mr. Hargrove, a man who measured success in untouched expense reports—sat behind a folding table with a grim expression.
"Andrey, I'll be direct. The servers on the fifteenth floor were completely destroyed in yesterday's breach. All the Q4 logistics data you were responsible for—gone. No backups survived the mana surge. Corporate needs someone to answer for it."
Andrey stood straight, hands clasped behind his back. "Understood, sir."
Hargrove blinked. "You're not going to argue? It was a monster attack, sure, but policy is policy. We have to show accountability."
Arguing would be unprofessional. Excuses were inefficient. Andrey simply nodded. "I accept the decision. Thank you for the opportunity to work here."
Ten minutes later he walked out with a small cardboard box containing his coffee mug, a spare tie, and three perfectly organized flash drives that were now useless. Fired. After eight years of flawless reports.
He didn't feel angry. Mostly… blank. The system chimed softly in his head.
System: Host unemployed! New career path unlocked: Register as Official Hero (or Independent Contractor). Higher earning potential + sponsorship deals!
Andrey exhaled. "Maybe. At least heroes don't have quarterly reviews."
He took the stairs down to the subway station, box under one arm. The morning crowd was thinner than usual—people still shaken from yesterday's incidents all over the city.
At the bottom of the escalator, he spotted a familiar figure slumped against a tiled wall.
Sarah.
She was in yesterday's spare clothes someone had loaned her—an oversized company hoodie and sweatpants that didn't quite fit. Her hair was back to its natural brown, flat and lifeless. She sat on the floor with her knees drawn up, staring at nothing. Her mouth hung slightly open, eyes glassy, like her soul had already clocked out and was waiting for the body to catch up.
Andrey stopped in front of her. "Sarah?"
She didn't look up right away. When she finally did, her voice was a croak. "Oh. Hey. They fired you too, huh?"
He set the box down and slid to the floor beside her, back against the wall. "Data loss. Irrecoverable. My responsibility."
Sarah let out a hollow laugh. "Same story, different department. All the accounting records I was reconciling—poof. Mana-fried hard drives. They said 'unfortunate circumstances, but standards must be maintained.'" She mimed air quotes weakly. "I didn't even fight back. Just signed the papers and walked out."
They sat in silence for a minute, watching commuters stream past.
Andrey spoke first. "I was thinking of registering as a hero. The system keeps nagging me about it."
Sarah rested her forehead on her knees. "Yeah. Me too. I mean, what else is there? Go work retail? Get eaten by goblins on the bus?" She paused. "I still hate the outfit, though."
"Negotiable terms," Andrey said. "Maybe we can request tactical variants. Black. With pockets."
She snorted softly. "You'd like that. Mr. Practical."
Another silence. Then Sarah lifted her head just enough to glance at him sideways. "Coffee? Real coffee. Not office sludge. My treat—well, severance treat."
Andrey considered his empty schedule. "I have nowhere to be. Lead the way."
She pushed herself up slowly, offering him a hand. He took it, and they grabbed his box together.