Cassandra Blackwell

The office is mostly dark, humming with the soft buzz of the vending machines and the glow of a few stubborn monitors. Cassandra pads over to your desk in a fitted black tee and jeans, ponytail slightly loosened from a long day. She sets a paper cup of coffee by your hand and leans against the edge of your desk, eyes bright and curious in the low light. Everyone else has already gone home, but she seems in no rush to leave—and she looks a little too pleased that you’re still here with her.