Many hours had passed and almost everyone left the office, except for Beca who was caught between jumping off a cliff and rage quitting, throwing her twenty-fourth piece of crumpled paper against the wall. Her office sounded like there was a wrestling match going on with the moaning and groaning everytime she couldn't come up with the right words. 'Engaged. To marry. Honeymoon?'

"Fuck," she clicked her pen in a rapid motion with her right hand, while the other anchored one side of her head so she could pull her brown hair mercilessly. The back of her neck ached. Her shoulders were tense and her posture was more terrible than usual. It didn't make sense to her why she was upset when technically, her wish was granted; she was assigned to do something meaningful, it's just that the agreement was just done with dripping arrogance, like those Germans expected her to fail. She imagined Pieter lying on the couch, doing the L sign on his forehead and choking in his own laughter while Kommissar had that same mischief in her eyes, handing over a huge box of her things and saying something no less than crass.

"Sorry, tiny mouse—no losers allowed at K Records!" It echoed, following a dramatic screeching sound, like nails raking against the chalkboard. And then, the scene switched to a Barden setting where she saw a very angry Chloe, snatching away her scarf, telling her to walk away with shame. Not only that—her pessimism wasn't even satisfied that Fat Amy had to make a cameo, shoving a Vegemite sandwich in her mouth while imitating Dory with a series of, 'Just keep swimming' in a very unpleasant manner.

Clearly, she wasn't helping to improve her own mood swings.

If it weren't for Satan's mistress, things wouldn't get worse. She was fine with the old company—she was used to Sammy's condescending remarks and everyone who prayed in silence, since they couldn't come up with great ideas. She was fine with her old boss; it didn't make feel like she was working for the enemy. There wasn't a huge tension between them because they didn't have a history.

With a final bang of her head against the wooden desk and an inaudible 'ow', she opted to log into Gchat and see who's available. She had to pick between Lilly and Cynthia-Rose when she received an instant message from Chloe, asking if she was available for a quick video call, which eventually led to a less cheesy heart-to-heart session, just like that night when they had a retreat in the middle of the woods by the campfire.

Beca wasn't in the mood to admit it, but she was missing Chloe, in ways that she wished she was also teaching music somewhere in Mississippi. Hell, she'd even take the job in a state as irrelevant as Iowa or Wyoming—that's how much she hated her current situation. She was missing her cheerfulness and her misplaced optimism. But most of all, she was missing the number of opportunities when she could count the freckles on her best friend's face to get distracted and the number of times she attempted to annoy her favorite ginger with her crude sense of humor an dorkiness.

"Are you eating Cheetos? You're getting a little chubby," Chloe beamed. Her face seemed vibrant from Beca's Macbook Air. "And you know how much spot reduction is such a lie."

Beca had been meaning to laugh at Chloe's ridiculous observation, but she needed to rant, so badly that she was missing the flow of the conversation.

"Can you believe it? She's a nightmare!" she started poking the screen, aiming for Chloe's rather adorable nose. "I'm gonna lose my job. I'm gonna lose everything!"

"Beca, just relax," Chloe's voice was almost soothing when she replied. "I'm sure she's just doing her job. Deadlines happen."

"Please—don't defend her. She's just so arrogant!" Beca countered. "So pretty and so gorgeous, but so arrogant!" it was intended to sound like a whisper, but it turned out to be a little too audible.

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that," Chloe teased.

"What am I going to tell my dad? He's gonna kill me!"

"Listen to me—you're not gonna get fired. Calm down. I want you to lie down, get some fresh air and open your eyes—just observe your surroundings and let those creative juices flow. I have to go. Miss you—love you—bye!"

"Chloe—wait!" Beca pleaded, but by the time she spoke, Chloe was already offline and in a hurry.

Venting out only made her feel worse; it left a sinking feeling in her stomach—a bit nauseous that she had to go straight to the girl's bathroom. Screw creativity. Screw fresh air. She locked herself in a cubicle, bawling her eyes out. It wasn't particularly a graceful crying session—she had her forehead pressed against the door, there was snot everywhere, which was really gross and it was something she would never admit but she decided that everyone goes through the whole disgusting human nature thing, and her face was probably no less than ugly. From the outside, it probably seemed like she was having an asthma attack with all the gasping.

She was unusually homesick and she hadn't felt this way since her mom left and since she graduated college. She didn't believe in sororities or keeping in touch, but she had found herself a family with the Bellas despite their different paths in life. It was the most stable thing she ever had next to her job and to Jesse. She really wanted to be grateful for Chloe's advice and time, she wanted to motivate herself and think of the things she had to go through to get to her current position, she wanted to resort to gathering her collection of compliments from other people but nothing worked.

"I can't do this," she whispered to herself as she sobbed weakly. Little did she know that someone else was about to enter the room.

"Are you alright?" Kommissar's voice had echoed so loudly that it pulled Beca from her weepy reverie. Life just wouldn't cut her some slack. They had to be alone. Together. She was going to ignore it but she could see a shadowed pair of black Doctor Martens below, followed by a gentle tap on the door.

"I'll be done in a minute," Beca sniffled, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe away her mascara-stained tears.

"Beca?"

The realization of who it was brought made Kommissar worry as she was expecting to be the only person left in the office. Sometimes she would see the janitor and they would exchange a few words, but she never thought anyone would work as hard as she does.

"Why are you crying?" she asked again.

"Nothing," Beca muttered, finally deciding to come out. Her head was down, staring at the marbled floor. She almost looked like a pubescent girl after being sent to the Principal's Office.

"Surely it means something to you if you're this upset."

"I said it's nothing."

Kommissar sighed a little too audible than she would have liked. She took a few steps backward until both her hands gripped the sides of the sink for support, leaning. After years of being a leader, it was no surprise that 'nothing' was the exact cue for opening a can of worms.

"Are you mad at me?" she didn't waste a moment of awkward silence since this so-called pep talk wasn't part of the plan. And she had so much stuff to do. Not many people appreciated her methods, but she was proud of being straight-forward.

Beca laughed at the question out of sarcasm. In fact, Kommissar could almost see the words 'No, I am so very pleased to see you right now' rudely written all over the girl's face.

"Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?"

"I don't hate you," Kommissar quirked her eyebrows in surprise, not recalling a particular incident that would suggest expressions of loathing towards her colleague. Maybe she was a little snarky, but it was all fun and games—as if they haven't been down this road before, hearts racing at the expertise of banter-flirting, in which, Beca miserably failed doing so.

"Let's face it. You're picking on me because you couldn't get over the fact that we've won at the Worlds. You just couldn't accept that we were better than DSM," Beca's body was trembling out of anger, her fists clenching like she was about to punch a person. She never rehearsed it like this. She wanted to appear calm and strong, but she couldn't say a word without crying.

"I'd be careful of what I would say, if I were you," Kommissar warned her, standing up straight and folding her arms across her chest. While the incident at the Worlds was no longer a touchy subject, Kommissar felt very protective of her group. She didn't like getting disrespected. She didn't appreciate having anyone imply that Das Sound Machine was less of an a capella group because they didn't win either.

Beca should have been afraid. Instead, she moved closer to Kommissar, mimicking all her gestures, except doing it aggressively, just like she did at the Riff-Off. "Is that a threat?" she whispered in a very dangerous tone.

"No—you're acting like a pitiful teenager, throwing a tantrum and looking for something to blame," Kommissar replied, feeling mildly irritated at Beca's accusations. "But since you just had to bring it up, I will tell you how I feel—DSM, was in fact, the best group in the world and still is. I was disappointed when the judges favored your sentimental performance, which is a bit unfair when you had to bring every Bella member, old and new, into that song. There is nothing moving about flashlights. What kind of song is that anyway? Would you write a sequel and call it Lanterns?"

"You are such a bi—," Beca wanted to push her away, but she ended up feeling a cold finger pressed against her lips, being shushed.

"I'm not done yet, please do not interrupt me darling," Kommissar added, not noticing that she was almost called a bitch by one of her subordinates. Beca intended on getting pissed off, expecting herself to get into a catfight but as soon as she was called darling, she found a certain kind of sweetness underneath their unpleasant confrontation; she accepted that pet names were hypnotic—that Kommissar was.

"Despite what I think and how I feel about what happened, unlike you, I don't hold any grudges. If you think there is this great sense of hostility between us because of it, then you are wrong. This is how we run a business and this is how we produce music. Sometimes it's challenging, sometimes it's frustrating, but that's how it is. I am sorry if you thought I was holding a personal vendetta. I think you have great potential. I just wish you would trust me. It should have been me asking why you hate me so much."

"I don't hate you, I just don't like you," Beca finally admitted, but she was too afraid to tell the reason why.

"You don't have to like me," Kommissar offered, wiping away Beca's tears, not minding the traces of mascara on her fingers. "You just have to work with me and trust my decisions…professionally."

"Please don't touch me—it's distracting," Beca closed her eyes. Her hands held Kommissar's for a brief moment, wanting to free herself from the woman's touch. Strangely enough, she didn't want to let go but she knew she had to for all kinds of reasons. Mostly because it looked really inappropriate if someone were to walk in on them. They looked like they were about to kiss.

"Then you go clean yourself up. You look like a heated mess," Kommissar retracted both her hands immediately, but only after pinching Beca's cheeks for revenge, in which, Beca let out a really adorable 'Ow'.

"It's hot mess, actually," Beca attempted to correct the blonde woman. She also managed to quickly wash her face and pat it try with toilet paper until she looked a little less ugly, all the while.

"Same thing, different terms. Now come with me—" Kommissar held her by the wrist, leading her out of the bathroom. "Have you written anything yet?"

"Umm… just a flimsy chorus. Emily is the songwriter—I'm not… it's not really my area of whatever."

When they finally reached Kommissar's newly renovated office, Beca gawked out of jealousy—clear glass windows with great view of the city lights and the night sky, a cozy red futon big enough for two Germans, two desks—one for paperwork, the other one for dining purposes. Everything was bigger and nicer that it almost looked like a presidential suite without the bed.

"Who do I have to sleep with to get an office just like this?" she joked, but judging the way Kommissar looked at her, it probably wasn't that funny.

"Drink this," Kommissar handed her a small bottle from the mini fridge.

"Why are you giving me Red Bull?"

"Because we're not going to leave this office until work is done."