Resident Evil Oneshots

Working

The quiet hum of the laptop fills the room, its dim screen casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. Papers are scattered everywhere—half-completed notes, reports waiting to be reviewed, all reminders of deadlines that loom like an ever-present storm cloud. I can't even remember how many hours I've been sitting here, hunched over, shoulders aching. Time blurs into a monotonous flow of keystrokes and blinking cursors.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, typing with a mechanical intensity that drowns out everything else. Work has swallowed me whole—it's all-consuming, and I can't stop. Every time I think about taking a break, another task pops into my mind. There's too much to do, and not enough time.

The soft click of the door opening goes unnoticed. I don't hear her at first—I'm too deep in the fog of emails, spreadsheets, and deadlines. It isn't until I sense a change in the room, the subtle shift of someone's presence, that I feel Donna's gaze on me. She's standing quietly at the door, watching. Concern is etched into the delicate frown on her face, her eyes dark with worry.

"Y/N,"

Donna's voice is barely above a whisper, soft and steady, but it slices through the haze like a knife. I blink, momentarily disoriented, before glancing up from the screen. It takes a second for her presence to register, and even then, my mind struggles to shift gears.

"Hmm?"

I mumble, my focus already sliding back to the screen. Another report, another task. I can't afford to stop now.

"You've been in here for hours,"

she says, her voice gentle but firm.

"You should take a break. Come to bed, maybe eat something? You haven't had anything all evening."

I know she's right. There's a tight knot in my stomach that reminds me I haven't eaten since lunch—if you could even call it that—but I push the thought away.

"I can't, Donna,"

I mutter, still not fully looking at her. My eyes are glued to the flickering screen.

"There's too much to do. I've got this deadline, and if I don't finish this tonight—"

My words trail off into a tired sigh. She takes a few steps closer, her soft footsteps barely audible on the hardwood floor. I can feel her eyes on me, studying the way my shoulders are hunched, the way I barely even look up from the screen.

"You always have a deadline,"

she says quietly. Her voice is calm, but there's a thread of sadness in it now, woven in with the concern.

"You're running yourself into the ground."

"I'll be fine,"

I say, though even I don't believe it. My eyes are burning from staring at the screen for so long, and my body aches in ways that make me wonder how long I've been sitting here without moving. Still, I force myself to focus on the task in front of me, pretending that her words don't sting as much as they do.

"Just... give me a little more time, alright?"

There's a long pause, and in that silence, I can feel the weight of her disappointment settling over the room. I hate it. I hate that I'm causing her to worry, that I'm pulling away without meaning to. But the stress, the pressure—it's like a wall between us, and I don't know how to break it down.

Donna sighs softly, moving closer until she's standing right beside me. Her hand, cool and gentle, rests on my shoulder. The touch is light, but it feels like a lifeline, grounding me, pulling me back to reality. I stop typing, my fingers hovering over the keys as I finally look up at her.