LOGINThe meeting wasn’t on the schedule.It didn’t appear in the digital ledger, wasn’t listed in the smart glass panel outside the boardroom, and hadn’t been announced through official channels.But it was happening anyway.Rae knew what that meant.These weren’t consultations.They were consolidations.Inside the east strategy suite, the lighting had been dimmed—manual override, not automated. A single carafe of water sat untouched on the credenza. No coffee, no tablets, no assistants. Just four people. Three seated. One standing.Rae stood.The others didn’t need to.She knew them all.Merrick DuPont — Flagship’s third-largest institutional investor, known for being calm until he wasn’t. Elaine Marrow — the shadow tactician of Quinn’s early IPO. And Chairman Yusef Aghari — Jasper’s oldest ally and Rae’s coldest mirror.Yusef was the one who finally spoke.“I won’t pretend this isn’t difficult,” he said, voice low, hands folded neatly in front of him. “But you know why you’re here.”Ra
The building was awake now — but it didn’t feel alive.The elevator opened onto the executive floor like the lid of a pressure chamber. Noah stepped out first, Dani close behind, both of them blinking against the assault of early morning fluorescence.Flagship’s top floor — normally sleek and composed — had become a war zone in perfect posture. Assistants were already fielding calls with expressionless precision, ears pinned to wireless comms while their fingers danced across tablets. A glass conference room pulsed with quiet chaos, muted voices debating with tight jaws and locked shoulders. No one was shouting. No one had to.The air itself was taut.And in the middle of it all: Rae.Standing like a surgeon before a dying patient she couldn’t admit was already gone.She was surrounded by three senior stakeholders and one shell-shocked legal consultant. None of them sat. Rae held a tablet in one hand, but her other stayed clenched behind her back. Her face didn’t betray emotion, only
The seconds leading up to the leak felt like waiting for a sniper's breath.Inside the data observation room, the world was quiet—oppressively so. No wall clocks. No humming lights. No notifications, chimes, or even background music. The only sound was the soft whir of cooling fans and the controlled, rhythmic tapping of Dani’s fingers against a custom console keyboard.Noah stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the mirrored projection screen anchored to the wall—Flagship’s private investor cloud feed.Three floors beneath the boardroom, this room had no windows and no trace of luxury. It wasn’t designed for clients. It was where failures were caught and buried before they could surface. A tomb of oversight. Shielded from noise, and now—shielded from time.Dani had hardwired a diagnostic overlay into the portal an hour before the leak was due. She didn't trust the live dashboard alone. Neither did Noah.“Six minutes,” she muttered without looking up.He didn’t answer.He’d alr
The message appeared at 2:17 a.m.It had no sender.No signature.No attachments.Just a subject line:"You Always Knew This Would End in Fire."Noah didn’t see it until 2:23 — six minutes later — when Dani pinged his secure comm.Check The Archive. Right now. No metadata. No file. Just this post. And it's already being reshared by burner accounts on shareholder channels.By the time he clicked the link, it had already been mirrored forty-seven times.No content. No evidence. No facts.But the phrasing was perfect.Loaded. Fatalistic. Prophetic.Whoever had written it knew exactly how to strike without saying a word.He read the body of the message twice, though it barely said anything at all:“To those still pretending the company is whole — prepare your statements. You’ve got less time than you think.”That was it.No logo. No timestamp. No call to action.Just dread.Packaged and gift-wrapped for anyone paranoid enough to see meaning in the dark.By 2:36, three anonymous user handl
The operations wing was quieter at night.Not truly silent — there was always something humming beneath the floor, the low-level breath of the building itself. But after hours, the rhythm changed. People walked softer. Conversations dimmed. There was less posturing, less urgency. Just quiet people doing necessary work.And some trying to undo it.Noah crossed through the east corridor with purpose, the click of his shoes muffled against the sound-absorbing matte tile. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed into night mode — soft amber cones glowing over a sparse scattering of desks. The office was a grid of ghosts.He found her where he expected: her assigned workspace, fourth pod from the far wall, desk light on, two monitors lit.Lina Asher.Jasper’s assistant. His shadow, some used to say.For ten years, she'd been his buffer, his brain, and occasionally his blade. She had curated his schedule, filtered his calls, adjusted his statements. But more than that — she had guarded him. N
Noah didn’t hear her footsteps.He didn’t have to.The door opened with a hushed slide — smart glass reacting to her executive clearance, then sealing behind her with a silent hiss. She moved like a whisper across marble: deliberate, crisp, no wasted motion.Rae Quinn.Perfectly composed in black. Hair tied in a low knot. Dark slate blouse, no jewelry but the platinum cuff at her wrist. She carried no bag. No tablet. No coat. Just a presence sharp enough to gut silence.Noah didn’t look up at first.He was still cross-referencing packet addresses with the float terminal’s clone trail. Data cascaded across the monitor like rainfall — line after line of silent proof that someone was playing chess with a bomb.Rae stood just inside the room.Watching.Waiting.Finally, she spoke — her voice quiet, but cutting through the space like a needle.“How long were you planning to keep this to yourself?”Noah looked up.Her tone was not accusatory.Not yet.But it was the sound of a fuse being li







