The last thing I need is my fitness tracker judging me too.
Look at the orc standing in a too-small office wearing a too-small suit, promising to fix problems I haven't admitted I have.
"I have a three o'clock meeting," I say, my voice clipped and professional, already mentally pivoting back to the safety of my calendar and its neatly segmented blocks of time.
"Then I will walk you there," Thraka announces, as if this is both logical and non-negotiable.
I blink at him. "That's not necessary. I know where the conference room is. I booked it myself. Six weeks ago."
"I insist." He picks up his briefcase. Waits by the door like some kind of massive, green gentleman. "I must learn the layout of this fortress. And you must learn that I am not a problem to solve. I am an ally you did not know you needed."
I don't need allies.
I need my schedule to stay intact and my blood pressure to return to something that won't trigger a medical intervention.
But Thraka is already holding the door open, and Pemberton made it clear this wasn't optional, and somewhere beneath the irritation and the stress and the cold calculation, something small and buried wonders what it would be like to have someone on my side who thinks corporate warfare should involve actual war cries.
"Fine," I say. "Follow me. And don't break anything else."
His laugh booms through the corridor.
"I make no promises, anxious one. But I will try."
We walk back toward the elevators, and I feel every eye in the office tracking us like we're some kind of bizarre parade.
This is going to be a disaster.
A complete, unmitigated disaster.
My Fitbit agrees.
But for the first time in three years, I have no contingency plan for what happens next, and the lack of control should terrify me.
Instead, it feels almost like relief.
2
THRAKA
The metal box swallows us whole.
That's what the elevator is, truly. A metal box that moves between floors using some kind of sorcery the humans refuse to explain properly. Orla pressed a button marked "3" with the kind of precision she applies to everything, her finger barely making contact before retreating as if the panel might bite back.
The doors slide shut with a soft hiss that reminds me of a serpent settling into its den.
I do not like it.
The walls are too close. The air tastes recycled, flat and lifeless like water that has been boiled too many times. Overhead, lights hum with the frequency of a dying mosquito, a sound that crawls inside my skull and sets my teeth on edge.
Orla doesn't seem to notice. She stands perfectly still, spine straight, staring at the digital numbers above the door as they count upward with agonizing slowness.
1... 2...
I shift my weight, and the floor creaks beneath me. The briefcase, clutched in my other hand, feels suddenly too light,too empty. I brought snacks for emergencies, but this metal prison would be a poor place to die if the mechanism fails and we plummet to our deaths.
At least I would die well-fed, my stomach full of the jerky and trail mix I'd so wisely packed this morning.
"Stop fidgeting," Orla says without looking at me, her eyes remaining fixed on those glowing numbers as if willing them to move faster through sheer force of corporate determination.
