The air inside Black Wall's office floor crackled the moment the analytics board flashed red—an anomaly spike on NovaSec's activity. Conversation died. Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked against desks. Every employee near a terminal leaned forward as the digital "mirror" deepened, peeling back layers of NovaSec's system footprint.
Whispers bled into the cold silence.
Someone at the back hissed, "They're rolling out another internal project early. I saw the data signature. If we hijack the framework and launch first, every government security outfit will buy from us instead."
A sharper voice cut in, almost hungry, "Imagine the market reaction. NovaSec prides themselves on control—one leak and their reputation shatters."
Another employee scoffed, "Control? Organization? They've been patching holes with interns. I swear they're slipping."
The room hummed. Fingers tapped keyboards, eyes flashed with ambition. Competitive heat mixed with predatory glee, but the laughter that followed was more…human. Too loud, too hopeful, too desperate.
The director raised his voice, "If any of you land access logs from their internal sandbox, you'll be promoted before the email finishes sending."
That sent the floor buzzing with renewed fervor.
Laughter rose — the kind born from adrenaline, not comedy. But the sound choked off when the director stepped forward, voice syruped with authority.
"Indirect infiltration is too slow. We're wasting time with digital probes. We need direct contact. People slip when you give them pressure — and reward."
The room leaned in.
He paced slowly, hands clasped.
"Some of you will approach their employees. Friendly reunions. Anonymous messages. A bump on the street. Tempt them, compliment them, make them doubt their loyalty." His smile edged toward predatory. "Find their cracks. The right offer will widen them."
Eyes gleamed. Internally, the competition ignited — no one wanted to be left behind.
"And remember," he finished, voice low, "NovaSec's stability is performative. Peel the paint."
He dismissed them with a flick of fingers. Bodies scattered like ravenous wolves released from a cage.
- - -
The lobby of NovaSec's tower buzzed with quiet conversation, elevator chimes, and the soft shuffle of employees heading home for lunch. Hana stepped through the security gates, badge clipped back to her lanyard, ready to escape for a late coffee.
"Hana? Hana Lee?"
She paused mid-stride. A man stood from one of the visitor chairs near the front desk, waving with bright, nostalgic energy. His name slapped into her memory a beat later.
"Kai Min-jun?" Her voice lifted, warm. They'd been teammates on a campus robotics competition years ago.
He grinned, slipping past a departing client to meet her halfway. He wore a visitor sticker on his blazer, fresh and legitimate enough to explain his presence.
"I was dropping something off for a friend upstairs," he said, nodding toward the elevators. "Then I saw you. It's been, what, years?"
Hana blinked, the initial fond surprise softening into cautious warmth.
"…It really has been years," she said, adjusting her tote strap on her shoulder. "I didn't expect to see anyone from high school here. You look—" she gestured vaguely, "—corporate."
Kai laughed — warm, polished, like he'd practiced it in boardrooms. "Yeah, corporate life keeps you running. Looks like you ended up in the fast lane too."
"Something like that," Hana replied, polite smile never slipping.
"I was about to grab coffee. You've got a minute? We should catch up.")
"…Coffee sounds nice," she said, tone unreadable. "It's been a while."
The café was all dark wood and amber lights, cozy enough to lower anyone's guard. They talked about old professors, burnt ramen nights, how adulthood steamrolled time. Kai leaned forward, fascinated by every word she said, laughing at memories neither of them had forgotten.
Only after twenty minutes did the tone shift.
"So… you're at NovaSec. That's huge. Must be intense work." His voice dipped casually, but his eyes sharpened.
"It keeps me busy," Hana said lightly.
He hummed. "Busy with… what, exactly? Network stuff? Or those AI defense models everyone's been whispering about?"
Her smile didn't change, but something behind it cooled by a degree.
"We have a lot of departments," she replied. "Mostly I fix things other people break."
"Ah." He chuckled again, rubbing his neck. "Classic Hana. The fixer."
She blinked, sipping her latte. "Yeah. Mostly infrastructure updates. Nothing glamorous."
"I don't buy that," he chuckled. "You were always one of the brilliant ones. I bet you're involved in that internal reboot project." His brows lifted, waiting.
Hana hid her pause behind a smile. "Reboot project? I wish. I stare at corrupted folders all day."
"But you know something," he pressed, elbows nudging forward. His questions grew precise: hierarchy protocols, management bottlenecks, upcoming department restructures. Each wrapped in casual tone, but veined with intent.
She laughed lightly, brushing hair behind her ear. "Kai, you're overestimating me. I don't know half of what goes on above HR's coffee budget."
His disappointment was microscopic — but she saw it. The shift was quiet, calculated.
You're one of them, she thought. They sent you.
She maintained the smile until the bill arrived. When they parted at the crosswalk, she bowed politely.
"I'm glad we caught up," she lied gently.
He waved, but his eyes watched her too long.
Night pressed in deep purple over the city as one of NovaSec's employees, Hwan Do-Jin, stumbled upon someone near his apartment block — a clean-cut man leaning against the railing as if waiting.
"Mr. Hwan, right?" The stranger's tone was friendly, voice soft like a salesman's.
Hwan slowed. "Do I… know you?"
"Ah, no, but I know talent when I see it. NovaSec must be lucky to have someone like you on their internal system integrity. Heard it's a mess down there."
Hwan raised a brow. "That so?"
"Must be frustrating," the stranger continued, walking beside him, casual stride, "seeing all the inefficiencies. Poor communication. No protection for standout employees."
They crossed a street. Hwan's heartbeat slowed deliberately. He'd been trained for this tone.
"You must get overlooked. People like you always do."
He smiled faintly, pocketing his hands. "I'm adequately appreciated."
The stranger's smile sharpened. "What if I said there's a place that would appreciate you properly?"
The stranger didn't realize NovaSec took care of its people better than most companies could even dream of. Good pay, benefits, security, support, no nonsense. Happy employees don't betray the place that treats them right. If you tried to buy a NovaSec employee, you'd learn fast — comfort and appreciation isn't something you can use against them.
Hwan stopped walking. The streetlamp painted two shadows across the pavement.
"That's very flattering," he said softly. "But you've mistaken me for someone carelessly talkative."
The stranger chuckled. "No questions asked. Just some workplace insights. We'd compensate you—handsomely."
Hwan's posture relaxed — dangerously calm. "Walk away. This is the nicest version of this conversation you're going to get."
Their eyes locked for one long, icy second.Then the stranger smiled thinly, nodded, and disappeared into the night.
Across town, software technician Yeri scrolled absentmindedly on her phone when an unknown number buzzed.
You've been on our radar. Heard you led the DreamShell initiative. Impressive. We want you. We're prepared to triple your salary.
Her breath paused. Not because of excitement — but because she'd never touched DreamShell. Someone somewhere thought she was careless.
She typed one sentence:
Wrong person. And lose my number.
Then she blocked it, leaned back, and exhaled.
That was sloppy, she thought. Desperate.
The next morning, the buzz in NovaSec's hallways was thick enough to taste. Clustered groups whispered intensely.
"I met an old friend yesterday. Haven't seen him in years. Suddenly he wants to know about workplace pressure? Please."
"You too? Some guy approached me outside my building."
"And someone texted me last night. Promised triple pay if I jump ship. Can you imagine?"
Their reactions were a kaleidoscope — curiosity, annoyance, amusement, suspicion. Under the bright office lights, nervous energy crackled.
"What do they even want?" someone asked.
"To poke at the weakest employee," another muttered. "Probe until one cracks."
"They're not getting anything from us," Hwan murmured confidently.
A voice sliced clean through the chatter — the floor manager.
"Everyone," she barked, "you are being paid salary, not gossip wages. Back to your desks. Eyes on your screens."
The group scattered instantly, but whispers clung to the air like perfume.
Meanwhile, at PR, alarms flared.
Rumors exploded across anonymous forums:
"NovaSec can't control internal leaks."
"They're bleeding projects."
"Management is a mess."
Employees huddled near screens, scrolling endlessly. Outsiders commented gleefully, analysts speculated, investors whispered over lunch.
PR scrambled — threads taken down, posts countered, tone-neutral statements prepared. But rumors spread faster than truth, like gasoline flames.
"What's our public stance?" PR asked.
"Calm," Mr. Oh answered. "We don't react. Panic breeds legitimacy. Stability erases it."
Upstairs, in the CEO's office, dusk glow painted Mr. Oh's face as he opened a secure file. Not Black Wall intel. Something deeper. Formal. Marked by a government watermark removed but still faint in the metadata.
Stripped-down transcripts. Network shadows. A flagged procedural note with his name buried in it.
His throat tightened.
He closed the folder, digitized it with secure protocol, then forwarded it to exactly one recipient.
Within seconds, his private phone buzzed.
Jae-Hyun's reply was short:
Meet me tonight. In my office.
Mr. Oh stared out over the city — glittering, shifting, oblivious.
Black Wall wasn't inside.
But something else was watching entirely.