The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights was a dull, insistent thrum against her skull, a low-frequency drone that had been chipping away at her composure for the last hour. Ziva sat ramrod straight, her spine a line of rigid defiance against the cheap ergonomic chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if it were a booby-trapped device. Outwardly, she was a study in stillness: hair pulled back with customary severity, dark eyes focused on the blinking cursor on the screen, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor the only betraying tell. But inside, a maelstrom churned, a furious, hot gale threatening to tear through the fragile scaffolding of her self-control. She was one second from snapping.
The day had begun innocently enough, a typical Tuesday filled with the mundane. But Tuesdays, Ziva had long learned, held a peculiar malevolence. It started with the coffee machine, sputtering out a lukewarm, bitter excuse for a beverage. Then came the endless stream of inane emails, each subject line a new assault on her diminishing patience. A coworker, bless his oblivious heart, had decided it was the perfect day to hum show tunes slightly off-key, a monotonous, nasal drone that burrowed into her ears like an ice pick. Each incident was a pebble, dropped one by one, into the already brimming cup of her tolerance.
Now, it was the report. A labyrinthine mess of cross-referenced data, conflicting entries, and what appeared to be deliberate obfuscation from a particularly inept department. The cursor on her screen blinked with mocking regularity, highlighting a field she had corrected three times already, only for it to revert to its erroneous state. It felt like a deliberate act of sabotage, a cosmic joke played at her expense. Her jaw was clenched so tightly her molars ached. She could feel the pulse thudding a frantic rhythm in her neck, a drumbeat for the impending storm. Her breath, usually a deep, controlled measure, was shallow, catching in her throat like a trapped bird.
A new email pinged. She didn't even look. Her eyes were locked on the blinking cursor, willing it to stop, to just stop. Her vision narrowed, the periphery blurring into a hazy indistinctness. All she could see was that infuriating, pulsating line. Every fibre of her being screamed for release. She imagined herself reaching across the desk, grabbing the monitor, and heaving it through the reinforced glass window. She pictured the satisfying crash, the sudden silence, the bewildered faces. A small, dangerous smile touched the corner of her lips for a fleeting moment, quickly suppressed.
The coworker’s humming stopped. For one glorious, silent second, Ziva felt a fragile peace descend. Then, a voice, bright and oblivious, pierced the quiet. "Having trouble with that, Ziva? Just give a shout if you need a hand!"
It was the straw, the feather, the microscopic atom that finally brought her to the brink. The sheer, unadulterated ignorance of the question, after hours of this silent, internal battle, was a physical blow. Her fingers curled into tight fists, the nails digging crescent moons into her palms. A searing heat bloomed in her chest, rushing up her throat, threatening to erupt as a guttural scream. The words formed on her tongue, sharp and venomous, ready to lash out, to dismantle, to obliterate. Her eyes, fixed on the blinking cursor, dilated, reflecting a primal fury. She could feel the thin membrane of her self-control stretching, straining, about to rip.
One second. That’s all it was. One excruciating second where the beast within roared, demanding to be set free. Her breath hitched. Her muscles tensed, poised for explosive action.
Then, just as the dam was about to burst, a memory, cold and clear, flashed behind her eyes: the look of disappointment on a mentor’s face, the consequence of a single, impulsive act of rage. The echo of her own voice, years ago, promising herself unwavering discipline. The image of her own reflection, resolute and composed, not volatile and unrestrained.
The beast snarled, but she pushed against it, a desperate, internal heave. She closed her eyes for a fractional moment, taking a breath so deep it felt like her lungs might crack. When she opened them, the cursor was still blinking, but the world had gained a faint, almost imperceptible edge of colour again. The heat in her chest receded, replaced by a cold, trembling exhaustion. Her hands, still clenched, slowly relaxed.
She picked up the phone instead, her movements deliberate, almost robotic. Her voice, when it came, was tight, strained, but steady. "Yes," she managed, the word a threadbare shield against the internal storm. "I'm having a little trouble with this report. Could you tell me who is responsible for the final data input?"
The snapping was averted. For now. But the tremor remained, a subtle, lingering testament to the battle she had just fought, and barely won. Ziva was calm, yes, but it was the calm of a dormant volcano, its magma still churning just beneath the surface, waiting for the next crack in the earth.
