The office felt different after the server-room session—like the air itself carried the faint musk of sweat and cum, even though the AC had cycled through twice since they’d emerged. It was 3:42 a.m. now. The pitch deck slides were “done enough,” the dry run pushed to 11 a.m. tomorrow. No one wanted to go home. No one could sleep anyway.

They’d migrated to the “chill zone”—a cluster of oversized bean bags in the corner near the glass-walled meeting pods, hidden from the main entrance by a fake plant wall and a stack of unused standing desks. The lights were dimmed to night mode—soft blue LEDs glowing from under the desks, fairy lights (someone’s Diwali leftover) strung haphazardly across the ceiling.