By the time I stepped back into the elevator, my coat felt heavier than before. The ride up wasn't long, but the silence made it feel like hours. Every faint hum from the cables, every shift in weight as the lift ascended—it all pressed down on me like static that wouldn't clear.
There were four people waiting upstairs. Four people I cared about. And suddenly, the simple act of stepping through the door didn't feel simple at all.
Because someone had gotten close. Not physically. Not yet. But close enough to slip past firewalls, past cameras, past my damn instincts until it was too late.
Close enough to watch.
The elevator dinged softly as it reached the top floor.
Penthouse level.
I stepped out.
The hallway was dim. The lights had been set to evening mode—soft and golden, like everything was fine. Like everything was normal.
But I knew better.
