November 1st, 2017
Today was not a good day for Asher Hale.
First, someone stole his car.
Then he was late to work and got fired, as if the stolen car were some lazy excuse instead of a police report waiting to happen.
And now he'd learned his mother was in the hospital.
The elevator doors opened onto a private ward that smelled like disinfectant and burned coffee. Soft lighting, polished floors, expensive art that tried very hard to make illness look classy.
A woman in a dark blazer stood outside one of the private rooms, hands clenched around a handbag.
"Asher," she called. "Mr. Hale!"
He stopped. "Ms Woods?"
Sandra Woods—Victoria's long-time assistant—looked more frayed than he'd ever seen her. A few strands of gray had escaped her usually perfect bun, and her lipstick was smudged at one corner, as if she'd wiped her mouth and forgotten to fix it.
"Thank you for coming so quickly," she said.
"She's my mother," he said. "Of course I came quickly. What happened? Is it a stroke? A heart attack?"
"They're still running tests," Sandra said. Her voice was calm, but there was a tightness around her eyes he didn't recognize. "One moment she was talking about quarterly projections, the next she just… collapsed."
"Quarterly what." His brain snagged on the wrong word. "She was working?"
"Board prep," Sandra said. "You know how she is. She told everyone she felt fine."
Of course she had.
His mother could have a limb hanging off and still insist she was "fine" until the meetings were done.
"Is she awake?" he asked.
"She has been in and out," Sandra said. "The neurologist will explain it better. He's inside."
She moved aside and pushed the door open.
---
The first thing that hit him was the smell: disinfectant, stale air, and the faint chemical tang of whatever the machines were feeding into his mother's veins.
The second thing was how small she looked.
Victoria Hale, head of Clandestine Cleaning, had never been a small person in his mind. She filled rooms, conversations, arguments. Even in photos from her twenties, she had this presence, like gravity had agreed to cooperate with her and no one else.
Now she was propped up on white pillows, wires taped to her chest, an IV in her arm. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a messy knot. Her skin had that hospital pallor that made everyone look like they were halfway to a ghost.
"Ma," he said.
Her eyelids fluttered. She turned her head with effort.
"Asher," she said softly. "You're late."
He almost laughed.
"Someone stole my car," he said. "I'm going to file a complaint with management."
Her mouth twitched.
"Management will send you a fruit basket," she said. "And a pamphlet on better parking choices."
He pulled a chair closer and sat, wrapping his hand around hers. Her fingers were cool, but she gripped back with more strength than he expected.
"You scared me," he said.
"I scared myself," she admitted. "One moment I was telling Azad that his proposal was idiotic, the next, the ceiling was sideways."
"You passed out," he said.
"So they tell me," she said. "I missed the part where they called an ambulance and panicked in four languages."
Sandra hovered near the foot of the bed, eyes flicking between mother and son. She didn't fidget. Sandra never fidgeted. She just stood there, like an extra piece of furniture that might, at any moment, turn into a weapon.
A man in a white coat stepped in, flipping through a tablet.
"Mr. Hale?" he asked.
Asher stood automatically. "Yeah. That's me."
"I'm Dr. Wade," the man said. Middle-aged, thinning hair, glasses that had seen better days. "I'm the attending neurologist. We spoke briefly on the phone."
"Right," Asher said. "Sorry, it's been… a day."
"I imagine," Wade said. He glanced at Victoria. "How are you feeling?"
"Annoyed," she said. "But alive. I assume that's still the baseline goal."
"We do prefer it," Wade said mildly. He tapped the screen. "We've run initial scans. No evidence of a full stroke. Some irregular electrical activity. I'd like to keep you for further observation and tests."
"How long?" she asked.
"A few days, at least," Wade said. "We're looking at possible transient ischemic attacks, unusual seizure presentations, or metabolic issues. Your bloodwork showed some oddities we need to clarify."
"Oddities like what?" Asher asked.
Wade hesitated for half a second. Something around him—something Asher couldn't name—went from neutral to slightly… off. A tiny pressure at the edge of his awareness, like when a storm is too far to hear but close enough to feel.
"We found traces of compounds that don't quite fit any standard profile," Wade said. "It may be medication interactions, diet supplements, or lab error. I've requested a re-test."
"Compounds," Victoria repeated. "Are you suggesting someone poisoned me, Doctor?"
Wade met her gaze.
"I'm saying your blood is not as boring as I'd like it to be," he said. "We'll know more when the second panel comes back."
It was an evasive answer, but not a lie. Asher wasn't sure how he knew that. He just… did.
"We'll cooperate with whatever you need," Sandra said smoothly. "Clandestine Cleaning's legal and medical departments are already at your disposal."
"Ah yes," Wade said dryly. "The 'facilities management' company with a private security division and three shell holding firms. Very reassuring."
"It keeps the floors clean," Victoria murmured.
Wade snorted and shook his head.
"I'll let you have some time," he said. "Mr. Hale, if you have any questions later, the nurses can find me."
"Thank you," Asher said.
The doctor left, the door clicking softly behind him.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft beep of the heart monitor.
Asher looked at his mother's hand in his. The cannula taped to her skin. The yellowing bruise where they'd missed the vein the first time.
"You're supposed to be indestructible," he said.
"That was never in the contract," she said. "Just good marketing."
He swallowed.
"Are you—" He stopped. The word dying sat heavy on his tongue, too big to say.
She squeezed his fingers.
"I'm not going anywhere today," she said. "Tomorrow is a different contract."
"Stop with the contracts," he said, voice cracking. "You're not negotiating a merger. You're in a hospital bed."
Her expression softened slightly.
"Asher," she said. "Look at me."
He did.
Her eyes were still sharp, the same dark brown that used to pin him in place when he lied about homework or sneaked out past curfew. There was fatigue there, and pain, but also the same ruthless calculation he'd seen in internal briefings and news articles about her.
"If anything happens," she said quietly, "Sandra knows what to do with the company."
"I'm not leaving you," he said.
"I didn't say you were," she said. "But there are things they will try to do with you."
His grip tightened.
"With me?" he echoed. "I don't even work there. I sell phones. I get fired from selling phones."
"That's exactly why they like you," she said. "Empty CV, good last name. You're a clean label they can slap on a box they already own."
He blinked. "What?"
"There are investors behind Clandestine Cleaning," she said. "People who don't appear on any official document. Some of them have wanted me to join… other projects. Other organizations. I declined."
"Because you like being your own boss," he said.
"Because I prefer choosing my own targets," she said. "They don't like hearing 'no.' They like leverage. If they can't have me, they might decide they want my brand. A 'Hale' fronting their creature. Or they might decide the easiest path is for the company to be 'restructured' without us."
The room felt colder.
"You're scaring me," he said.
"Good," she said. "Maybe you'll listen. If I stay like this—unconscious, 'incapacitated'—they will come to you with papers. They don't need your signature to run the machine. They've already got Board votes, backdoors, offshore accounts. What they want is your signature so it looks clean when they steal the parts I've kept away from them."
"Why me?" he asked. "Can't they just… vote or something?"
"They can," she said. "But banks, regulators, certain governments get nervous when a whole structure suddenly shifts hands after a 'medical incident.' If the son signs a 'consent agreement' or a 'succession protocol,' it all looks very sad and very proper. 'The family agreed.'"
"And if I don't sign?" he asked quietly.
"Then they either work around you," she said. "Or they remove you. Metaphorically, if they're feeling civilized. Less metaphorically, if they're not."
Great. Excellent. Exactly the kind of bedtime story every son wanted.
"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?" he asked.
"Because I wanted you to have the option of staying out," she said. "Being normal. Failing exams, getting fired, losing cars, dating terrible people. All the usual tragedies."
"Thanks," he muttered.
"I am very proud of your mediocrity," she said. "It means I did something right."
Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling.
"I'm tired," she said quietly. "We'll talk more later. I need my brain to behave first."
Panic flared in his chest.
"Hey," he said quickly. "Stay with me. Don't—"
"Asher," she said.
He shut up.
"Whatever happens, you hide first," she murmured. "Then you decide whether to run or fight. You don't do it the other way around. Do you understand?"
He didn't. Not really. He was still trying to process they don't need you, they just want to use you as a label.
"Yes," he said anyway.
"Good boy," she whispered.
Her eyes closed.
The monitor kept beeping, steady and indifferent.
Sandra moved closer, checking the IV line, the oxygen cannula, the monitor readouts. She was precise, methodical, almost clinical.
"Is she—"
"She's asleep," Sandra said. "That's all. For now."
"For now," he echoed.
He sat back down. His legs felt hollow.
After a while, he realized something else: the room felt… muted. When Dr. Wade had spoken earlier, something in Asher's head had buzzed, like static. It wasn't doing that now.
He pushed the thought away.
"Ms Woods," he said. "What did she mean, it was just her and a gun?"
Sandra's expression didn't change.
"She meant exactly what it sounded like," she said. "But that story isn't for today."
"When is it for?" he asked.
"When she can tell it herself," Sandra said. "Or when I decide you need to hear it anyway."
He stared at her, then at his mother, then back.
"Is she really in danger?" he asked. "From… investors?"
"Yes," Sandra said simply.
"What about me?" he asked.
Sandra considered him for a long moment. Her dark eyes were steady, her posture relaxed. She could have been discussing a catering order.
"Right now you're paperwork," she said. "Annoying for them, useful for them, expendable to them."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?" he asked.
"It's supposed to make you careful," she said. "Ask me again after tomorrow's Board emergency session."
"Board what," he said weakly.
"They want to discuss 'succession protocols' and 'emergency governance'," she said. "You'll be there."
"I don't know anything about running a company," he said.
"Good," she said. "That's what makes it obvious when they pretend they're giving you control."
He opened his mouth to argue.
For a heartbeat, something flickered at the edge of his vision. Around Sandra, just for a second, there was a faint, cool tint—steel-blue, like the sky reflected in a knife.
He blinked.
It was gone.
"Asher?" Sandra asked.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "I'm just… tired."
"Then go home," she said. "Sleep. Shower. Eat something that isn't from a vending machine. I'll stay with her."
"You can't stay here all night," he said.
She gave him a look that said he was missing something obvious.
"I've stayed with your mother in worse places than this," she said. "Go home."
He wanted to argue. Instead, he nodded.
"Call me if anything changes," he said.
"I will," she said.
As he left the room, his reflection in the glass looked pale and older than twenty-seven. For a second, he thought he saw a faint haze around his own shoulders—thin, colorless, like smoke in bad lighting.
Then the door swung shut, and all he could see was the anonymous corridor and the green EXIT sign at the end.
Today was not a good day for Asher Hale.
He had the sinking feeling it was still one of the easier ones.