Sleep was a fractured, elusive thing. Johan spent the night tangled in damp sheets, jerking awake at the slightest sound – the groan of old plumbing, the skitter of rain against the windowpane long after the storm had passed, even the rhythmic thump of his own panicked heart. Visions of obsidian voids and bared fangs danced behind his eyelids each time he drifted close to unconsciousness. The phantom cold radiating from his wrist felt like a shackle.
Dawn arrived, grey and reluctant, filtering through the grime-streaked window of his cramped studio apartment. It offered no comfort, only the harsh illumination of reality. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw, every nerve ending exposed. A glance in the small bathroom mirror confirmed it: dark smudges beneath haunted eyes, skin pale and clammy. He prodded the tiny cut on his thumb. It was already scabbed over, insignificant, yet it pulsed with the memory of impossible violation.
What am I doing? The thought screamed in the silence of his apartment as he mechanically dressed in his best suit – the charcoal one he'd bought specifically for Kronos interviews. The fabric felt stiff, alien against his skin, a costume for a play he no longer understood the plot of. Fleeing still screamed its siren song. Pack a bag. Disappear. Change his name. Live off-grid. The sheer, primal terror of the night before hadn't lessened; it had merely been compressed, packed down into a dense, cold dread that sat heavy in his chest.
But the image of his student loan statement, the relentless reminder of his overdue rent notice pinned to the fridge, the sheer, grinding weight of financial obligation – they formed an anchor chain dragging him back to Kronos Tower. Ambition, once a bright flame, was now a guttering ember, but necessity was a cold, hard fist. He needed this job. At least until he could formulate a plan that didn't involve destitution. Just get through today. Get through the pitch.
The journey to Kronos was a blur of crowded subway cars and echoing footsteps. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, acutely aware of the pulse points of the strangers pressed around him – wrists, necks – and the unsettling, newly awakened awareness of the warm blood flowing just beneath thin skin. The towering glass edifice of Kronos loomed ahead, no longer a symbol of aspiration, but a glittering mausoleum housing ancient nightmares.
Stepping into the lobby felt like crossing a threshold into enemy territory. The air was cool, filtered, scented faintly of expensive polish and ambition. It was bustling now, the sharp click of heels on marble, the low murmur of conversations, the efficient whir of the turnstiles. Normal. Utterly, terrifyingly normal. Ben, the night guard, was gone, replaced by a stern-faced woman Johan didn't recognize. He swiped his badge, the familiar beep echoing the one from the night before, a jarring reminder of his exit from the abyss.
The elevator ride to the 45th floor was agony. He stood rigidly in the corner, surrounded by colleagues chatting about weekend plans and project deadlines. He focused on the ascending numbers, his knuckles white where he gripped the handrail. The memory of the previous night's silent, swift ascent to the penthouse chilled him anew.
His desk awaited, an island of mundane normalcy. Spreadsheets. Emails. A half-drunk mug of yesterday's coffee, cold and forgotten. The sight was almost surreal. He sank into his chair, the familiar ergonomics offering no comfort. He felt like an imposter, a ghost haunting his own life. He powered on his computer, the screen blooming to life, the Kronos logo stark against the blue background. His inbox was already filling up. Mundane requests. Meeting invites. And one, sitting at the very top, sent at 8:05 AM.
From: Vance, Alistair (Executive Assistant to CEO) To:Johan Ellis Subject:Veridian Acquisition Materials - Urgent Review Body:Ms. Rostova requires the finalized Veridian presentation file for her review immediately. Ensure all financial projections are updated per the Q3 adjustments discussed. Bring the file to Conference Room A at 10:45 AM sharp. Do not be late.
Alistair Vance. The name sent a fresh jolt of ice through Johan's veins. Lena Rostova's shadow. The man moved through the office with preternatural silence and unnerving efficiency. His eyes, a pale, washed-out grey, seemed to observe everything and reveal nothing. Was he… like her? Was he human at all? Johan remembered the discarded folder lying on the obsidian floor. Had Vance retrieved it? Did he know what had transpired?
The email was curt, professional, devoid of any subtext beyond urgency. But to Johan, it felt like a summons from the gallows. 10:45 AM. He glanced at the clock. Barely two hours. He forced himself to open the presentation file, his fingers clumsy on the keyboard. The numbers swam before his eyes. Q3 adjustments. He remembered the late nights inputting them. Now, they felt meaningless, figures scratched on the surface of an abyss he'd peered into.
He worked mechanically, driven by a desperate need for distraction and the ingrained habit of professional survival. He double-checked formulas, tweaked charts, his mind a battleground between rote memorization and replaying the moment Lena Rostova's impossible strength pinned him. The phantom ache in his wrist flared.
As 10:30 approached, the dread became a physical weight. He printed the updated presentation, the crisp pages warm from the printer. He gathered them into a new, identical folder, his hands steady only through sheer force of will. The walk towards Conference Room A felt longer than the trek to the penthouse. He passed colleagues, offering strained smiles that felt like grimaces. No one seemed to notice anything amiss. To them, he was just Johan Ellis, junior analyst, nervous before a big presentation.
He paused outside the sleek, frosted glass doors of Conference Room A. He could hear low voices murmuring inside. Taking a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in his chest, he pushed the door open.
The room was large, dominated by a long, polished table. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Several senior executives were already seated – Sarah Chen from Marketing, immaculate as always; David Rossi from Finance, looking characteristically harried; a few others Johan recognized by sight. And at the head of the table, seated with perfect, unnerving stillness, was Alistair Vance. He looked up as Johan entered, those pale grey eyes fixing on him with unnerving directness. They held no warmth, no malice, only a detached, assessing neutrality that felt colder than any overt hostility.
"Mr. Ellis," Vance acknowledged, his voice a low, smooth monotone. "You have the materials?"
"Yes, Mr. Vance," Johan managed, his voice thankfully steady, though it felt tight in his throat. He placed the folder on the table before the empty seat beside Vance – Lena Rostova's seat. The sight of it, empty yet radiating an invisible pressure, made his palms sweat. He took his own designated seat further down the table, feeling exposed, hyper-aware of every rustle of paper, every cleared throat.
The executives continued their low conversation, discussing market volatility. Vance remained silent, his gaze periodically sweeping the room or resting briefly, dispassionately, on Johan. The minutes crawled by. 10:45 came and went. Tension tightened in Johan's shoulders. Was she not coming? Had the events of last night changed things? A flicker of desperate hope warred with the ingrained fear of professional failure.
Then, at precisely 10:48, the door opened again. The low chatter died instantly. A collective, almost imperceptible straightening of spines occurred around the table. The very air in the room seemed to still and cool fractionally.
Lena Rostova walked in.
Sunlight streamed over her, catching the flawless cut of her deep emerald suit, glinting off the simple platinum watch on her wrist. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual severe knot, emphasizing the sharp, impossible angles of her cheekbones and jawline. She moved with the same predatory grace, but it was contained now, channeled into pure, intimidating authority. She didn't glance at Johan. Her gaze swept the assembled executives, a silent command for attention that was instantly obeyed.
She took her seat beside Vance, who subtly slid the folder Johan had brought towards her. She opened it without looking at him, her long fingers tracing the first page.
"Begin," she stated, her voice cutting through the silence. It was her CEO voice – cool, precise, utterly controlled. The voice of absolute command. There was no trace of the rasping predator, no hint of the desperate hunger, no flicker of recognition in those obsidian depths as they scanned the document before her. She was Lena Rostova, the formidable CEO, focused solely on the multi-billion-dollar acquisition at hand.
Johan stared, a fresh wave of disorientation washing over him. The stark contrast was jarring, almost nauseating. The creature who had pinned him with inhuman strength, whose teeth had gleamed with lethal promise, now sat bathed in sunlight, radiating nothing but icy corporate efficiency. The dissonance was terrifying. Which was the mask? Or were both facets terrifyingly real?
He realized Rossi was speaking, launching into the financial overview. Johan forced his attention back, his mouth dry. He had his own slides to present later. He needed to focus. He needed to survive this meeting without betraying the seismic terror shaking his world. He gripped the edge of the table beneath the polished surface, his knuckles white, anchoring himself against the vertigo of existing in two realities – the brightly lit boardroom and the blood-chilled darkness of the night before. The weight of daylight, he realized, was far heavier than he'd ever imagined. It pressed down, demanding normalcy, demanding performance, demanding he ignore the ancient predator sitting calmly at the head of the table, reviewing figures while his blood, somewhere deep within her, sang a silent, terrifying song.