"The Rider was a document," I said, my voice steady despite the seismic activity in my chest. "It was policy. But policy requires infrastructure. You cannot just demand safety; you have to build the walls."
I tapped the section labeled ZONE A.
"This wing," I explained, "is hard-locked. Biometric entry. Omega personnel only. The HVAC system is independent, maintaining positive pressure to prevent pheromone contamination from the main lobby. The walls are double-studded, decoupled. It is a vacuum."
"Omega only?" Kit asked, leaning over the table, his heavy shoulder brushing mine. "Like... no Alphas allowed?"
"Correct," I said. "We would be barred from entry. Even us."
I looked at Zia.
"I have secured the lease," I told her. "The LLC has the capital. But I am not the operator. I am just the architect."
I slid a second document across the blueprints. An incorporation chart.
At the top, under EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, was a single name, Zia Vale.
"You want me to run a studio?" she whispered.
"I want you to run the industry," I corrected. "You said credit is care. This is the factory for that credit. A place where Omegas can track, mix, and master without ever having to check the lock on the door or clutch an Exit Card in their pocket."
Zia was silent. The colors of her scent shifted, the neon citrus brightening, swirling with a sharp, saline note of overwhelming emotion.
"You built a fortress," she said, her voice trembling. "For people you don't even know."
"I built it for the probability of you," I said. "For the version of you that existed before us. The one who needed a place to work without fear."
Alfie made a sound like a wounded animal and wrapped his arms around me from the side, burying his face in my jacket. "God, Euan. You beautiful nerd. That's... that's punk."
Kit reached out, his large hand gripping the back of my neck, shaking me gently. "Proper work, mate. Proper legacy work."
But I was only watching Zia.
She was crying. Silent, glistening tears tracking down her cheeks.
She walked around the table. She stepped into my space. The two-foot rule, the six-foot rule, the furniture-or-wall rule... they were ancient history. She pressed her body against mine, sliding her arms around my waist, looking up at me with eyes that held the entire spectrum of visible light.
"You speak in blueprints," she whispered. "That's your love language, isn't it? You don't write songs. You build roofs."
"I optimize the environment for your success," I murmured, my hands hovering over her hips before settling, pulling her flush against me. "It is the most efficient way to ensure your happiness."
"It's perfect," she said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. It tasted of salt and coffee and profound, architectural stability. "We're doing it. Protocol Studios."
"We?" I asked against her lips.
"I need engineers," she said, pulling back, her eyes dancing. "I need a systems admin. I need someone to bring snacks. You're all hired. But you stay in Zone B unless invited."
"Copy that," Alfie cheered, throwing a fist in the air. "I'll run the canteen! I'll make the worst coffee in London!"
"You will be kept far away from the coffee," Kit warned him.
Zia laughed. It was a bright, clear sound, resonant in the high-ceilinged room.
Then, suddenly, the laugh cut off.
A glitch.
Zia's face went pale. The healthy flush drained away, leaving her skin a shade of grey that I instantly categorized as System Failure.
