The girl in the faded camo jacket and worn backpack walked into the upscale office and immediately drew scornful stares. One employee chuckled, «Did survival camp drop her off by mistake?» Another added, «She must think this is an army base.» Emily said nothing, simply sat quietly in the corner like she was waiting for orders.

But by noon, when the rooftop shook under the roar of rotor blades and a real Black Hawk landed, she was the one called by a tactical code name. Emily Carter was 22, with pale rosy skin that caught the light like she’d just come in from a cold morning. Her brown hair hung loose, soft but untamed, falling past her shoulders, in a way that said she didn’t care about mirrors.

Her brown eyes were sharp, watchful, like she was scanning the room for threats nobody else saw. She was pretty, but not in the loud, polished way of the women around her, just quiet like a sunrise you don’t notice until it’s there. Her faded camo jacket, a black t-shirt, khaki pants, and scuffed sneakers looked like they’d been through hell and back, not like they belonged in Nucor Media’s Manhattan office, with its glass walls, chrome desks, and air that smelled like expensive cologne.

Her cloth backpack, frayed at the seams, hung off one shoulder, heavy with whatever she carried inside. The receptionist, Jenna, with a sleek ponytail and a blazer that probably cost a month’s rent, barely looked up from her screen. «Name?» she asked, her voice clipped.

«Emily Carter. I’m the new intern,» Emily said, soft but steady. Jenna’s lips twitched a half smirk, and she pointed to a corner chair.

«Sit there. Someone’ll get you.» The office was a hive of Monday morning chaos: phones buzzing, heels clicking on hardwood, people tossing around words like «brand alignment» and «Q4 targets» like they were throwing punches.

Emily sat where she was told, her backpack on her lap, her hands still but alert. She watched the room like she was memorizing it, noting the fire exits, the way people leaned into conversations, and the rhythm of their movements. A woman in her mid-thirties, Tara, with a laugh that cut like a knife and a blazer tailored to perfection, leaned over to a guy named Josh, whose smartwatch kept flashing notifications.

«Survival camp recruiting collaborators now?» Tara said, loud enough for Emily to hear. Josh, with gelled hair and teeth too white, grinned. «She probably got dropped off by the wrong truck.» The laughter spread, quick and sharp, like a spark catching dry grass. A few heads turned, eyes sliding over Emily like she was a stain on the glass.

She didn’t flinch. She just shifted her backpack, her fingers brushing the worn straps, and stared out the window at the gray November sky, where the city’s skyline loomed.

Right then, a junior account manager named Derek, all slick hair and overpriced loafers, sauntered by with a coffee in hand. He stopped, looked Emily up and down, and let out a low whistle. «What’s this, a field trip from boot camp?» he said loud enough for the nearby cubicles to hear. People snickered, heads popping up like meerkats. Derek leaned against a desk, smirking.

«You know, we’ve got a dress code here. Did you miss the memo, or is this your way of standing out?» Emily kept her eyes on the window, her fingers tightening slightly on her backpack strap. «I’m here to work,» she said, her voice low but firm.

Derek laughed, turning to Tara. «Uh, work. She looks like she’s ready to dig a trench.» The room buzzed with amusement, a few people clapping like it was a performance.

Emily didn’t respond. She just stood, adjusted her jacket, and walked toward the supply room, her steps steady like she was navigating a minefield. The laughter followed her, but she didn’t look back.

The team introduction happened at 9:30 in a conference room, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a mahogany table that gleamed under the lights. Greg, the team leader, was a wiry guy in his 40s, with a squint that made him look like he was always sizing you up. He ran through the intros like he was reading a grocery list, barely pausing when he got to Emily.

«Emily Carter, temp intern, logistics or whatever,» he said, flipping to the next page of his notes. Emily stood, her voice clear, despite its softness. «I’m here to assist with operations and supply chain coordination.» Greg cut her off with a wave. «Never mind, just have her audit supply inventory.»

He pointed to a stack of clipboards by the door, like she was an afterthought. A woman in the back, Vanessa, with a diamond bracelet and a scowl that could curdle milk, whispered to her neighbor, «A fancy office like this hires military interns now?» The room chuckled, the sound cold and jagged.

Emily picked up a clipboard and walked out, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. Someone muttered, «What’s with the army surplus vibe?» And the laughter chased her down the hall.

As Emily disappeared into the hallway, a project coordinator named Rachel, with a bob haircut and a habit of twirling her pen, leaned over to Greg. «You sure about her?» she asked, her voice dripping with doubt. «She doesn’t exactly scream team player.» Greg smirked, tapping his pen on the table.

«She’s temporary, probably some diversity quota thing. Let her count pens and stay out of the way.» The room nodded, a few people exchanging knowing glances.

Rachel stood and walked to the door, peering out at Emily, who was already flipping through the clipboard pages with a focus that didn’t match the room’s dismissal. Rachel turned back, her voice loud enough to carry. «Hope she’s better at inventory than she is at first impressions.»

The laughter was softer this time, but it stung just the same. Emily, out of sight, paused for a split second, her hand hovering over the clipboard, then kept working, her face unreadable.