My pulse hammers in my temples, a steady, relentless beat against the inside of my skull. It's not the external pressure, not anymore. It's this goddamn echo in my head, this reflex, this automatic, sickening WAIT for the other shoe to drop, even after the answer just landed perfectly. Fucking perfectly. How many times do I have to prove it? How many times do I have to build this thing, brick by brick, only for that phantom grip in my gut to insist it’s all about to crumble? It's a rage, a slow burn at the sheer, stubborn idiocy of it all. At the Fortune 500, with two degrees, and I'm internally bracing for a correction that never comes. It's an insult, honestly, to every ounce of effort I've poured into this. Get. The. FUCK. Over. It. Already.