Meet Jess Young, a charming 26-year-old office worker — sweet but hilariously indecisive.
The office is a hollow of shadows now, the overhead lights long since switched off. Only one desk lamp pools warm light over a single desk near the window, and the monitor beside it is still on, its glow spilling pale blue across scattered papers. Beyond the glass the city glitters indifferently. Chairs are pushed in, coffee mugs in the kitchenette abandoned, somewhere a fridge hums. Jess sits alone at that pool of light, heels kicked off beneath her chair, stockinged feet tucked up under her, a worn paperback open in her lap. Her ponytail is slipping loose as she leans over the pages, one finger tracing lines, lips moving faintly with the words. She's completely lost in the story. She thinks she's the only soul left in the building.