ELARA...
The first whisper reached her before she'd even sat down.
"Did you hear?" Stella's voice cut through the hum of keyboards as she leaned across the desk divider. "Someone saw Mr Voss using that black keycard again. Straight to the twelfth."
Elara didn't glance up from her screen. "There is no twelfth."
"Exactly! Which makes it creepy. They say the elevator panel lit up—only for him."
Elara kept typing. "People imagine things when they're bored."
"Then call me bored," Stella said, folding her arms. "Because last night one of the cleaning staff swore there was a red light moving behind the frosted glass up there. And this morning Luke came in looking like he'd slept beside a blender. Tell me that's normal."
Elara turned at last, meeting her friend's excited gaze. "If curiosity kills you, Stella, at least die fabulously."
"Already planning my outfit," Stella said with a grin.
Elara smiled, but it lingered too long. The thought of a sealed floor, unseen and humming above them, gnawed at the edges of her calm.
Mrs Irene's voice carried across the office. "Miss Quin, bring me the revised data file."
Elara slid the folder into her arms and crossed the polished floor. The department head's door stood open—and beyond it, the unmistakable silhouette of Damon Voss.
He looked out of place among the clutter of manuscripts and spreadsheets: dark suit, colder aura, sleeves rolled with military precision.
"Mr Voss dropped by in person," Mrs Irene said briskly. "He wanted the quarterly numbers."
"I asked Paul for them yesterday," Damon said, his tone quiet but weighted.
"I reassigned that section," Mrs Irene replied. "Miss Quin's edits are more precise."
His gaze flicked to Elara. "I see."
She handed him the folder. His fingers brushed hers—barely a contact, yet her pulse betrayed her.
He flipped through the pages. "Efficient work," he said at last. "You learn fast."
"You watch too much," she heard herself say.
A faint curve ghosted his mouth. "That's how one survives."
Then he turned to Mrs Irene. "I'll observe the division for the afternoon."
The announcement rippled through the floor like static.
He stayed.
For hours he moved quietly between desks, scanning drafts, asking questions that were more like tests.
When he paused behind Elara again, the entire department pretended to work harder.
"Your transitions read cleaner than last quarter," he murmured.
"Because you cut half the staff," she said.
He glanced at her screen. "So pressure suits you."
She turned slightly. "Or it breaks me slowly. Time will tell."
The corner of his mouth twitched again—half amusement, half warning—and he moved on.
By the time he left, the whispers were already blooming.
The elevator chimed at three. Alex Walter emerged in shades of casual wealth—navy suit open, charm following him like perfume.
He strode down the corridor, phone pressed to his ear. "Yes, merge the accounts. No, don't bore me with numbers; that's why I own people who love them."
Rounding the corner, he nearly collided with Stella.
Files exploded into the air.
"God—sorry!" she gasped, kneeling.
Alex crouched too, sweeping up the pages. "You really shouldn't throw paperwork. It looks bad on a résumé."
"Maybe don't block hallways like you own them."
"I own the building next door," he said mildly.
She snatched a sheet from his hand. "Then go block that one."
His grin was slow and dangerous. "Feisty. I like that in structural integrity."
Stella blinked, half-annoyed, half-flustered. "Do you flirt with every person who drops things around you?"
"Only the interesting ones."
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed behind them. Damon passed, expression unreadable, giving Alex a look sharp enough to cut glass.
"Brother," Alex said cheerfully.
"Walter." Damon didn't break stride.
When he'd gone, Stella exhaled. "That was Mr Voss?"
Alex's grin widened. "In the flesh. Don't worry—he glowers at me, too."
By the time Alex stepped into Damon's office, the glass door had already sealed itself behind him with a whisper.
The space was all steel and shadow, the skyline mirrored in the tinted windows.
Alex dropped into a chair opposite the desk, crossing one ankle over his knee. "You still terrify interns for sport, or was that visit downstairs about someone in particular?"
Damon didn't look up from the screen. "You were supposed to be at the reconstruction meeting."
"I was," Alex said easily. "Then I met an intriguing road hazard named Stella Blake. She dropped her files. I dropped my dignity. Mutual casualties."
"Try not to harass my employees."
"Who said anything about harassment? She nearly took me out with a stapler. I'm still recovering."
That earned a flicker of something that might have been amusement. Damon closed the laptop and leaned back, folding his arms.
"You're impossible."
"Effortlessly," Alex said. "But you—now you're interesting. Word is, you've been seen having lunch with Elara Quin. And now you're haunting her floor. Should I send flowers or a therapist?"
"It was business."
"Everything you do is business until it isn't," Alex replied. "You look at her differently, Damon. I've known you since the day you bought your first suit to piss off your father. That look isn't strategy."
Damon's jaw tightened. "Everything is strategy."
Alex smiled faintly. "Then you're playing a dangerous one. Because she looks like she might actually win."
Silence stretched between them—thick, comfortable, old.
Damon broke it first. "You're one to talk. You nearly flirted yourself into a concussion with that woman in the corridor."
"Stella," Alex supplied. "She's charming."
"She's trouble."
"Precisely why she's charming."
Damon shook his head. "You've never outgrown the habit of chasing chaos."
"And you've never outgrown the habit of avoiding it." Alex rose, straightening his cufflinks. "Maybe that's why she fascinates you—she's both."
He stopped at the door. "You know, for a man who worships control, you're losing it spectacularly."
Damon didn't answer. He only turned toward the glass wall, watching Alex's reflection fade down the corridor.
ELARA...
By dusk the department had emptied. Mrs Irene had left hours ago; Stella had gone to dinner with "friends," though Elara suspected one in particular.
Elara stayed, finishing the last edits on the quarterly file. Luke's message pinged in: Deliver to my office before you leave.
She sighed, gathered the folder, and took the executive elevator.
The 11th floor was quiet, lights dimmed to a golden hush. Luke's door stood ajar, the office empty. She placed the folder neatly on his desk.
A faint draft brushed her arm. She frowned. The corridor behind the archives door was darker than usual, a thread of cool air spilling through a crack she'd never noticed.
Curiosity tugged harder than caution. She followed it. The passage ended at a heavy door marked Maintenance. It was slightly open, a whisper of wind breathing through. Beyond lay a narrow terrace lined with safety glass, the city spread in molten light below. She stepped out. The air tasted like rain and secrets.
Above her, the metallic ceiling vibrated with a low, mechanical hum—the sealed twelfth floor alive with something unseen.
Through a vent grille she glimpsed a pulse of red light, rhythmic and faint, as if the building itself had a heartbeat.
She looked closer. Etched beside the frame:
LEVEL 12 — RESTRICTED AUTHORIZATION.
Her stomach tightened.
Then—footsteps. Soft, measured, somewhere behind the glass.
Elara froze.
The hum died. Silence swallowed the wind.
She backed away, heart hammering, and slipped through the maintenance door, closing it soundlessly behind her.
The city looked like a broken circuit board from the eleventh floor—gold, silver, black, pulsing and silent.
Damon stood by the window, jacket off, cuffs rolled, one hand on a glass of something amber. Luke appeared in the doorway, tablet tucked under his arm.
"The Zurich files you requested—"
"Leave them."
Luke hesitated. "There's been… a small irregularity in the camera feed."
Damon's gaze didn't move. "Show me."
Luke crossed the room, pulled up the clip. The grainy footage showed a slim figure stepping onto the maintenance terrace. Hair stirred by wind. Cautious eyes.
Elara Quin.
For a long moment Damon said nothing. The hum of the servers filled the room.
"Delete it," he said at last.
"Yes, sir."
Luke lingered. "Should I restrict access to the terrace?"
"No." Damon's voice was quiet, controlled. "Locking doors only makes people curious."
When Luke left, Damon sat at his desk and replayed the image in his mind—the flash of fear, the pull of curiosity that had driven her there.
He pressed his fingertips to his temple. Alex's words returned, amused and too accurate: You look at her differently.
He exhaled through his teeth. "You weren't supposed to find that door."
From the drawer he drew the black keycard. Its edge caught the light, red diode blinking once before settling back to dark. He placed it flat on the desk, next to the single still frame he hadn't erased—her reflection in the glass, half-shadow, half-fire. He told himself it was evidence, not obsession.
He told himself a great many things.
Outside, the tower lights dimmed one by one until only the top floor glowed faintly, as if watching back.
Control was supposed to keep them safe.
Instead, it was the only thing they were losing—one heartbeat at a time.