the obsidian proxy
Every layer screamed: We trust no one.
I presented my credentials—the highly vetted, digitally immaculate Elias Vance profile. The security guard, a man whose eyes were constantly sweeping the surroundings, ran the badge through a scanner. The delay was imperceptible to a civilian, but to me, it was a moment of agonizing vulnerability. If The Syndicate’s fabrication failed here, the mission was over, and my life was forfeit.
“Welcome, Mr. Vance,” the guard said, the moment the light turned green. “Dr. Sharma is expecting you on the fifty-fifth floor.”