The office was quiet in the way that only came after midnight.
Dayo sat at his desk with the lamp angled low, casting a small circle of light across the documents spread in front of him. Nigeria schedules. Studio timelines for Frosh, Faye, and the others. A note from Sheun about the first rehearsal, already completed, the feedback positive. He had been reviewing footage from the Lagos studio for three hours, watching the raw performances, making mental notes about arrangements and production choices that would need his attention in the coming weeks.
He was alone in the building. The cleaning staff had finished two hours ago. Security was downstairs, a single guard at the front desk who knew not to disturb him. The city outside the window had slowed to a murmur, the traffic reduced to occasional headlights sliding past like slow-moving fish in a dark river.
This was Dayo's punishment for taking a long off when work was too much now he had to deal with the abandon work.
