The Hostile Takeover

The soft whir of the server fan was the only sound as you slid the drive home. Data streamed in silent green pulses on the screen—proprietary algorithms, years of research condensed into a thumbprint of light. Your pulse stayed steady. Professional detachment, the mask you wore like a second skin. The office smelled of cedar and cold air, and beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city glittered like a trap baited with light.

Then the lights came on.

Adrian Cross stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, a glass of amber liquor in his hand. He didn’t look surprised. He looked like a man who’d been waiting for this exact moment, and his smile was a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I’d hate to interrupt a work of art.”

You didn’t move. The drive was still in the port. One wrong twitch and this ended with security swarming the floor. But he hadn’t called anyone. That was the part that unsettled you more than the discovery itself.

“You have three minutes,” he said, setting the glass down on the edge of his desk. “Then the room seals. Tell me who sent you, or we do this the hard way.”