Good question. The practical answer is simple—information about who she told, what she planned to do with the data, whether she has backup copies hidden somewhere. Standard interrogation material.
The real answer is more complicated.
I want to see her up close. Want to understand what drove her to do something this suicidal. Want to watch her try to stay strong when strength is the only thing she has left.
Want to see if the defiance survives or shatters.
“Open it,” I tell the guard stationed outside her door.
The lock disengages with a heavy click. I step inside, Viktor remaining in the corridor. This conversation doesn’t need an audience.
The room is dark except for light spilling in from the hallway. Elena is standing in the far corner, backed against the wall. She looks exactly like I expected: exhausted, shaken, hair tangled around her face. The cleaning uniform is dirty and wrinkled. Her lips are cracked from thirst despite the water we’ve been providing.
Her eyes are furious.
“Lights,” I say quietly.
The overhead bulb flickers on. Elena flinches against the sudden brightness, raising a hand to shield her eyes. When she lowers it and sees me clearly, something crosses her face. Recognition. Fear. And underneath both—rage.
“You.” The word comes out raw and hoarse. “You fucking bastard.”
Not the opening I expected. Most people start with begging or bargaining or at least some attempt at civility. Elena Lawrence starts with accusations.
I close the door behind me, cutting off the outside world. Now it’s just the two of us in this small concrete room.
“Elena,” I say calmly, “you don’t look well.”
“Fuck you.”
She pushes off the wall, moving forward despite how unsteady her legs clearly are. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, nails digging into palms. Every muscle tense with anger she can barely contain.
“You’re destroying my family,” she spits out. “Seized assets, frozen accounts, dismantled companies. Three logistics subsidiaries shut down for violations that don’t exist. The Warsaw property taken on falsified tax claims. Investors pulled out because someone—you—got to them first.”
She’s listing everything. Every move I’ve made against the Lawrence empire, laid out with the kind of detail that proves she wasn’t just guessing when she broke into my facility. She did real research. Understood the pattern.
“You’ve been busy,” I observe.
“You’ve been criminal.”
“Criminal is a strong word from someone currently guilty of breaking and entering, corporate espionage, and theft.”
“I had evidence—”
“Had being the operative word.” I pull the encrypted drive from my pocket, holding it up so she can see. “Your guards found this when they searched you properly after you fell asleep. Excellent hiding place, by the way. The sewn pocket was creative.”
The color drains from her face. She reaches instinctively toward where the drive should be, finding nothing, understanding settling in with visible impact.
“No,” she whispers. “No, you can’t—”
“I already did. Wiped clean. Every file you stole, gone.”
“There are backups—”
“Are there?” I tilt my head, studying her reaction. “Where, cloud storage? Physical copies hidden somewhere? Or is that a lie to make yourself feel less powerless?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
I pocket the drive and circle her slowly, assessing. She tracks my movement with her eyes, body turning to keep me in sight. Smart. Never let a predator get behind you.
