Tech Support or Emotional Damage?
Jenna Beck didn’t arrive at the downtown tech hub — she descended like a firmware update no one was ready for. Her entrance was a symphony of hips, heels, and hunger. She was dressed for penetration testing in a deep V black blazer, glossy stockings, and a clipboard reading “BWC Audit Field Survey #69.”
The startup bros barely looked up from their keyboards — too terrified of eye contact, too pixel-poisoned from years of anime waifus and seed oils. One of them managed a stuttered “Can I help yo–” before she waved a hand and cut him off like bad JavaScript.
“I’m here for real hardware, not whatever is overheating in your mesh shorts.”
A hush fell over the open-concept space. Even the espresso machine shut the hell up.
Server Room with No Payload
She walked into the server room with the kind of confidence you get from ruining men’s lives in Silicon Valley and Scottsdale. The fans whirred harder as she passed. Her heels clicked against the tile like countdowns to a digital disaster.
“Alright, boys,” she said to no one in particular. “Which one of these racks is actually hard?”
Silence. One poor DevOps guy whimpered into his hoodie. Another peeked around a rack with the haunted look of a man ghosted by Tinder and his own mother.
Jenna strutted between blinking lights like a runway in Ibiza, stopping at a tall redhead nervously fiddling with a USB dongle.
“You. Show me what you’re packing.”
He turned around.
“Oh sweetie,” she sighed. “That’s not BWC. That’s a firewire cord from 2008.”
No BWC Detected – Retry Authentication
Hours passed. She flipped through GitHub pages and LinkedIn bios. Nothing over five foot seven. Nothing swinging like a third leg. Not one set of cargo pants in the building contained what she came for.
She collapsed onto the company beanbag chair like it had betrayed her — legs spread, blouse half undone, clipboard discarded beside an untouched LaCroix. Her face was flushed, not from satisfaction, but from unfulfilled promise.
A junior engineer dared to approach.
“We, uh… we do have a 3D printer,” he squeaked. “Maybe we can—”
She lifted one elegant finger.
“If I wanted something synthetic and underperforming,” she growled, “I’d reboot your dating history.”
