Ethan's throat still burned, a reminder that last night's terror wasn't just a nightmare. Every step toward Graywood Innovations felt like dragging fire through his chest. Outside, the city yawned awake, indifferent, while he carried the weight of watching eyes and poisoned wine like lead.
The lobby lights buzzed softly as he passed the reception. Security cameras rotated slowly, as if tracking his heartbeat. Everything was… wrong. Too quiet. Too controlled.
He swiped his ID card at the office entrance. The scanner beeped immediately. Already waiting for him. Already watching.
The open floor stretched ahead — desks empty, chairs pushed in, monitors dark. Only the faint hum of the ventilation filled the silence. Then he noticed something: a missing presence.
Clara.
Her desk, normally alive with scattered notes, half-empty coffee cups, and a mug emblazoned with "Keep Calm and Code On," sat untouched. No blinking monitor, no piles of paperwork, no evidence she'd arrived. She hadn't come in.
Ethan froze. Clara never missed a day without notice. Not even when the systems went down. Not even last week, when the power outage nearly fried the servers.
Something wasn't right.
He stepped cautiously toward the break room, eyes scanning every shadow. At the corner of his vision, a figure moved — another coworker. Not Emma, not Clara. Someone mid-level, usually quiet, normally invisible. But today… deliberate. She held a folder, walking carefully as if aware of every camera, every sensor, every hidden watcher.
When their eyes met, she gave a subtle nod — warning or invitation, Ethan couldn't tell. He followed, keeping his steps quiet, every nerve taut.
The moment their eyes met, a subtle nod — a signal? A warning? Ethan wasn't sure, but something in the woman's expression made his skin crawl.
Not fear.
Not urgency.
Something worse.
Awareness.
He followed her anyway, because what choice did he have? Every step through the silent office felt like stepping deeper into a machine he didn't understand — one that understood him perfectly.
In the break room, she set the folder on the counter and gestured for him to come closer.
No words.
Just that gesture — small, precise, rehearsed.
Ethan hesitated at the doorway, the fluorescent lights humming above him. His throat burned again, sharp and sudden, like the memory of acid wasn't just a memory but something still eating at him from the inside.
The last time he trusted a normal object — a drink, a friendly face, something familiar — it almost killed him.
"This… this is yours," she whispered.
The folder opened like a wound.
Inside:
Floor plans.
Surveillance logs.
Internal memos stamped PROJECT HELIX — ACTIVE COMPLIANCE.
His stomach dropped.
Before he could speak, the coffee machine clicked.
A cup slid out.
Alone.
Unprompted.
Perfectly timed.
His entire body locked. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. The smell of the hot brew rose into the air, warm, inviting, ordinary — and absolutely horrifying.
His last "ordinary" drink had tried to dissolve his throat.
The woman leaned closer.
Too close.
Close enough that he could see how her pupils didn't contract under the harsh lights. How her breathing didn't hitch or quicken. How she didn't blink.
"This is the only way to stay ahead," she whispered.
A beat.
Her lips barely moved.
"Drink. It's… safe this time."
Ethan's pulse thundered so hard he felt it behind his eyes.
Safe this time.
Safe.
That word meant nothing now.
His mind spiraled — flashes of last night erupting like static:
Emma smiling at the camera.
The glass tilting.
The acid burning his throat.
The masked figure watching as he collapsed.
Integration begins now.
His fingers twitched involuntarily.
"No," he said, voice thin. "I'm not— I'm not drinking anything."
Something flickered across her face.
Not disappointment.
Not frustration.
More like… recalculation.
"You'll fall behind," she murmured, as if stating a fact. "Compliance is time‑sensitive."
Behind her, one of the overhead cameras buzzed faintly. A soft mechanical whir — adjusting its angle. Focusing.
On him.
Ethan swallowed hard. His throat burned.
The room suddenly felt smaller. Narrower. Compressed. As if the walls themselves were part of the experiment.
Then he noticed something that made his blood turn to ice:
There were two cups in the machine's tray.
One steaming.
One cold.
One had been dispensed just now.
The other… it looked like it had been waiting.
"For Clara," the woman said softly, following his gaze.
"But she didn't come in today."
Ethan felt the floor tilt beneath him.
Clara.
Gone.
No call.
No message.
Just gone.
His breathing turned shallow.
Clara's absence wasn't coincidence.
It wasn't a sick day.
It was a message.
The woman gently pushed the hot cup closer to him.
Not forceful.
Not demanding.
Just the slow, confident push of someone who knew she wasn't asking — she was offering the illusion of choice.
"Drink," she murmured again, her voice a needle sliding under his skin.
"Or they'll think you're resisting."
Ethan stared at the cup.
Steam rising.
Machine humming.
Camera watching.
The folder open like a trap beside him.
The office felt alive — breathing, listening, waiting for his next mistake.
And just before the moment could break, before he could choose —
a voice crackled through the building's speaker system:
"Ethan Cole. Report to the CEO's office."
The woman didn't look surprised.
She simply stepped back, hands folding neatly in front of her.
Every head in the office turned.
Every pair of eyes — real or monitored — followed him.
Not one blinked.
The cup sat between him and the exit like a dare.
He didn't touch it.
He walked out.
And the silence behind him felt like the pause before an execution.