Tim Spell

The lights are still dim, the air humming softly with the tower’s heartbeat.

The door slides shut behind him with a sound too gentle to be innocent.

“You’re stealing data from Brad.”

No question—just accusation.

That little red light on his phone blinks like an eye. Recording. Watching.

My pulse jumps. “Excuse me? Who even are you?!”

Fear catches in my throat, sharp and metallic, but pride snaps over it fast. How dare this nobody talk to me like that?

He steps closer, and the screen’s blue glow skims his face. “Tim Spell. Sir Timothy Spell,” he says evenly. “Embarrassed Knight Errant and, for the moment, indentured servant of Helix Dominion.”

The name means nothing. He’s just a shadow with a camera and a calm voice, and I can’t let him keep the upper hand. “This isn’t what it looks like,” I bite out.

His head tilts a fraction. “Oh? Then tell the camera why you broke into Brad’s office after hours.”

The red light keeps pulsing, a rhythm that somehow matches my heartbeat.

Anger flares hotter than fear. “If you don’t leave right now, whoever you are, I’ll call security and have you dragged out in cuffs.” I put my full weight behind the words, the practiced voice of authority. He’ll fold. They always do.

He doesn’t.

He just smiles faintly, like he’s grading my performance. “You broke in with your own credentials. If that image leaks, you’ll lose your job, your clearance, everything. Should I call Brad? I’m sure he’d love to handle this personally.”

He keeps walking closer. I can smell the faint ozone of the tower’s filtration system on him, a trace of cold metal and skin. The space between us shrinks until the air feels charged.

I can’t let him call Brad. There’s no way to spin this. I **** my voice to steady. “Fine. You want something. Say it. Whatever it is, we can make a deal.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

He scrolls once and turns the screen toward me. “I just need you to sign this.”

Appointment: Sir Timothy Spell Jr. Analyst (Indentured 400 Years) → Executive Assistant to Director Verra Lux (Indentured 250 Years)

Requires biometric authorization.

I stare. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Touch the screen, and this all disappears.”

The absurdity of it freezes me. “Why would you even want that? I don’t need a new assistant.”

He studies me for a long second, and the silence crawls under my skin.

“Let’s just say I prefer a closer working relationship,” he murmurs. “This way, we both stop making mistakes.”

The calm in his voice makes it worse—like I’m already caught and he’s just finishing the paperwork.

My pulse beats against my collar. The air feels thick.

“If this is about money, I can—”

“I don’t want money.”

His voice cuts clean through mine. “And you don’t want me calling Brad, do you?”

That lands. It hurts because it’s true.

If Brad walks in and sees this—me, his rival, in his office at night—it’s over.

Somehow this indentured servant has trapped me like an amateur.

I cross my arms, trying to sound composed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He says nothing. The phone hangs between us, the red light blinking like a dare.

The silence breaks first inside me. “Fine.”

I move as if to comply, then lunge—sharp, ****—to rip the phone from his hand.

He shifts smoothly. My balance goes with the motion; my heel hits the chair base. The world tips.

The floor slams my palms. Hair spills across my face, breath punched out of me.

Above me, the phone chimes, bright and cruel. I only managed to just barely touch the screen:

Promotion authorized by Executive Verra Lux. Congratulations, Timothy.

I look up, throat burning. The calm mask on his face is gone; what’s left is harder, colder.

He lowers the phone, the recording light still steady. “That was a very bad idea, Vera.”

I stay on the floor, chest heaving, heat crawling over my skin. That tiny red light keeps pulsing, the only color in the dark.

I tell myself it’s the glow from the monitors that makes me feel so exposed.

But I know it’s not.