Plans of

The elevator doors closed with a whisper that sounded too much like laughter.

By the time I reached my floor, the polished calm of the tower had turned sour in my throat. My office door slid open; the smell of stale coffee and recycled air hit me like guilt. I dropped my tablet on the desk and stared at the mess of reports I’d left behind.

The numbers waited there, accusing, a silent jury of my own making.

I replayed the meeting in my head—the glance Brad gave me, that small, practiced smile when he handed the evidence back. He’d known. Somehow, he’d known before I spoke. The files had been perfect traps, ready to spring. I could almost hear his voice: Take this one, Verra. You’re better with clients like these.

And I’d believed him.

I opened the account again. The data glowed across the dark glass, a flawless trail of my own credentials. The transfers were real. The approvals mine. But the logic refused to hold; there had to be a missing piece. He must have—something. A script, a reroute, a buried proxy. He was clever enough for that. Or careless enough to pretend.

I sat back and rubbed my temples until the reflection on the glass blurred. The headache from the night before throbbed behind my eyes. Sleep deprivation made the edges of things too sharp, too bright. It wasn’t helping.

I’d been here before—different targets, same plan. A late-night audit, a quiet look through someone else’s files “for accuracy.” Everyone did it; the smart ones just didn’t get caught. Helix didn’t reward trust, only results.

I keyed the intercom. “Emily.”

Her voice came back small, tinny. “Yes, Executive Lux?”

“Let me know when Brad leaves his office.”

A pause. “It’s nearly twenty-two hundred.”

“I’m aware.”

“…yes, Executive Lux.”

The line clicked off. Outside, the floor had gone dark except for a few scattered work lights. Through the tinted glass I could see her silhouette hunched over the terminal, patient as ever.

I watched the minutes crawl by. The tower’s hum changed pitch as night-cycle cooling engaged; the building always felt more alive after hours. It remembered things in the dark.

Finally the intercom lit again. “Brad just left,” Emily said softly. “Should I—”

“Go home, Emily,” I interrupted. “Your no longer needed.”

The light winked out. Her footsteps faded toward the elevator.

I stood, straightened my jacket, and glanced once at the reflection in the window—still immaculate, still in control.

Then I shut down the lights and and took out a data crystal.

If Brad wanted a war, I would give him one.