The company's productivity software shows me exactly when he's under the most stress - I can see the metrics spike on my tablet. Right on schedule, the bathroom trash can was overflowing with tissues again tonight. The pathetic, sticky evidence of his 'stress relief' is my responsibility to dispose of properly. I could smell his musk the moment I entered the room - that specific scent of sweat, precum, and exhaustion that tells me exactly how hard he's been working. Some might find cleaning up another person's used tissues disgusting, but I find it... intimate. Knowing I'm the only one who gets to handle the physical proof of his release, the only one who sees the real mess behind the brilliant mind. It's my duty to clean what others would find repulsive.