Global Dynamix never fails to give me the heebie jeebies.
I give my name to the robot receptionist, who tells me to sit down and wait this time instead of issuing me a press badge. I try not to feel slighted by the somewhat patronizing tone it used, and I thank her anyway.
So, I loiter around the lobby, adjusting my blouse and modest skirt, which I thought made me look more respectable, even though I paired them with my usual shit-kicker combat boots. Finally, a young man in a crisp suit approaches me. He’s Asian with kind eyes that seem out of place in this evil conglomerate, dark, immaculate hair, and good posture.
“I’m Kevin,” he says, extending a hand. “Dr. Van Veen’s assistant. How are you this morning?”
“Good, I guess. You? How are you? Are you good?” I’ve never been very good at small talk, and it shows.
“Excellent. Can’t go wrong with a sunny fall day in Manhattan. Will you come this way?”
Kevin leads me through a series of security checkpoints (luckily, I removed the hidden daggers from the soles of my boots) before joining me in a glass elevator that shoots upward so fast, my ears pop.
The floor is quiet with deliberate serenity that feels oppressive. Kevin guides me down a corridor lined with abstract art that looks like a toddler drew it and probably costs a fortune and stops outside a frosted glass door.
“Dr. Van Veen will be with you shortly,” he says, gesturing me inside. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Sparkling? Still?”
I decline them all, and he disappears, leaving me alone in what appears to be a private conference room. The concrete city sprawls beneath the tall windows, and the furniture is minimal and expensive—a glass table, leather chairs, nothing personal.
I’m studying the view when the door opens behind me.
“Miss Baxter.” Julia Van Veen enters like she owns not just the room, but the entire city beyond the glass. She’s wearing dove grey today, a silk blouse and tailored trousers with modest heels that put her at least six feet tall. Her silvery-blonde hair is slicked back from her face, giving her an edgy, androgenous look, and those pale eyes sweep over me with the same clinical precision I remember from the gala. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for the invitation.” I accept her handshake—firm, dry, and a little too tight. “This is quite a view.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She moves to stand beside me at the window, her gaze tracking over the city below. Her perfume is subtle, but it tickles my nose. “I’ve spent thirty years looking at this skyline. Watching it change. Watching it nearly fall. Watching us rebuild it, brick by brick.” She glances at me. “Do you know the term ‘fail forward,’ Mia? It’s IT speak. It’s when you have an issue duringan upgrade, and there’s no clear path back to the last good state, which means you have no choice but to keep moving on and rebuild the system. Whatever works, you keep; what doesn’t, you discard. I know things haven’t been great this last century in Great Britain, but over here, we had to fail forward until we were successful. I think you could say we succeeded.”
I nod cautiously, prepared to agree with her instead of telling her what I really think, which is that I’m not sure the system was rebuilt to serve the people the last one fucked over. “Well, it seems Global Dynamix was certainly instrumental in failing forward,” I comment.
“Instrumental.” Her lips curve into an icy smile. “Such a diplomatic word. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Diplomacy. Saying the right thing at the right moment.”
“I would like to think so,” I say with a shrug, not wanting to take the bait. “It’s part of the job.”
“Mm.” She turns to face me fully, and I feel like a butterfly being examined before the pin goes in. “You have a talent for making people comfortable, I’ll give you that. For getting them to reveal things they might not otherwise share.”
“I try to listen more than I talk.”
And I see more than I say I do.
“A rare quality. Shall we begin the tour?” she asks, gesturing toward the door. “I thought we might start with some of our research facilities, give you a sense of what we’re really working toward here. The context that never makes it into the press releases.”
I follow her out of the conference room and into another glass elevator, this one descending rather than ascending. The numbers tick down—fifty, forty, thirty—and Julia stands in silence beside me, her reflection ghostly against the city beyond.
“I understand you and Vanguard have become friendly,” she says, not looking at me. “During your interviews. You have a nice…rapport.”
My pulse jumps, but I keep my voice steady. “He’s been very generous with his time.”
“He has, hasn’t he?” A pause. “Nate can be quite attentive when something catches his interest. It’s one of his more charming qualities—and one of his more dangerous ones.”
My brows knit together. “Dangerous?”
“Intense focus is useful for a superhero, less so for personal relationships.” She finally turns to look at me, her eyes seeming colorless. “He has a tendency to become fixated. On things. On people. It can be overwhelming for those who aren’t prepared for it.”
“I appreciate the warning,” I say carefully. “I can handle it.”
“It’s not a warning, my dear. It’s merely context.” The elevator stops. “For what I’m about to show you.”
The doors slide open to an area that’s noticeably different from the sleek corporate aesthetic above. It’s more institutional, with harsh fluorescent lighting and numbered doors that suggest laboratories rather than offices. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something else, something metallic that makes my nose twitch, though that could just be her perfume.
