We are inches apart now. Close enough that if either of us inhaled too sharply, our bodies would brush. Close enough that every unspoken moment between us feels like a live wire coiled too tightly.
The air sparks; I swear, the lights flicker.
For one impossible second, we hang there—anger and attraction tangled into something combustible. If I move, if he breathes wrong, we’d ignite.
But I stand my ground. I won’t be pulled back into the gravity that ruined me once. I won’t let him use silence as chains.
I take a small, deliberate step back.
“I’m not done with this,” I say, voice steady, even though my pulse is chaos.
“You should be.”
“Then stop hiding things.”
His silence is an answer in itself.
The room feels bruised when I turn to leave. Each step is heavy with everything I didn’t say, everything he refused to,everything that trembled between us like a chord pulled too tight.
When the door closes behind me, my hands are shaking.
By the time I reach my building, everything feels wrong.
Who the fuck does he think he is? He can’t control me like this.
My key slides into the lock as I curse out this man that’s made my life a circus ever since I’ve started working under him.
When I push the door open, the neat couch, the half-empty mug near the sink, the jacket I meant to hang greet me exactly how I left this morning.
But something inside me recoils anyway, instinct bristling like static.
My ears tell me why, all of a sudden, everything feels wrong.
My system is silent.
I cross the room fast, the dread growing claws. My workstation sits in the corner as peaceful as a sleeping animal. I power the monitor. It flickers, then shows a single blank directory. The weeks of analysis, encrypted logs, decoy files, the layers I built like fortifications, all of them are gone.
I kneel, pull open the hardware panel, run my fingers along the ports. Everything is intact; no forced entry or broken casing. It’s as if the system willingly opened its veins and let someone drain it.
My stomach drops.
Someone was inside my home.
Inside my work.
A cold wave crawls up my spine, so strong I have to brace a hand on the desk. Whoever entered didn’t just steal data, they wanted me to know they were capable of taking anything.
That intention hangs in the air, heavy as humidity before a storm.
A USB drive on the desk stares back at me while I try to fight down the panic trying to extinguish all the air from my lungs.
The metal casing is engraved with the Ignatov insignia, a symbol I’ve learned to fear and respect in equal measure. That alone makes the air in my lungs turn sharp. I lift it carefully, like touching something radioactive.
This isn’t Damian’s style. He doesn’t warn like this; he acts. He doesn’t leave breadcrumbs; he buries bodies. If he wanted to send me a message, he’d come himself, cold and calm and impossible to read.
Which means this isn’t from him. Someone wants me to believe it is.
My fingers tremble as I plug the drive into a secure device that isn’t connected to any network, the emergency terminal. The screen lights, glitching once as if whatever’s about to appear has teeth.
