The heavy double doors of the executive suite didn't just close; they sealed with a pressurized hiss, cutting off the ambient noise of the hallway and leaving Avana in a vacuum of opulence.
The office was a cathedral of glass, dark steel, and ancient leather. To her left, a floor-to-ceiling window offered a dizzying view of the city—a sprawling grid of lights that looked like a motherboard from this height. To her right, a wall of books rose thirty feet toward the ceiling, their spines smelling of aged parchment and expensive bindings. In the center sat a desk carved from a single slab of black obsidian, polished so highly it reflected the pale, terrified ghost of a girl standing before it.
Francis Slein didn't sit immediately. He walked to the window, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. The silhouette he cast was sharp enough to bleed on.
"Mr. Slein," Avana started, her voice trembling so violently she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. "I... I need you to listen to me. I have worked for Axin Tech for two years. I have never been late. I have never had a disciplinary report. I am a scholarship student at Upperhill... I have everything to lose. Why would I—"
"Architecture," Francis said.
The word was quiet, yet it struck her with the force of a physical blow. Avana froze.
"Your designs for the New Port project," he continued, still not turning around. "They were ambitious. A bit idealistic in the load-bearing calculations for the central spire, perhaps, but the aesthetics were... tolerable."
Avana's breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out across her shoulder blades. "How... how do you know about my projects? I'm just a cleaner here. I'm just a number on the payroll."
She was a ghost in this building. She was the girl who emptied the bins and polished the brass. There were five thousand employees in this tower alone. How could the man at the top—the man who supposedly didn't even know the names of his Vice Presidents—know the specifics of a third-year student's portfolio?
The question burned in her throat, a frantic 'How?' that she was too terrified to voice. To ask him was to challenge him, and looking at the tension in his shoulders, she knew he was not a man who enjoyed being questioned.
"I didn't steal that watch," she tried again, her voice rising in a desperate plea. She stepped toward the desk, her hands reaching out as if to grab the air. "I don't know how it got in my bag. Someone must have... someone is trying to ruin me. Please, if you call the police, my scholarship will be pulled by morning. I won't have a home. I won't have a future. I'll be nothing."
Francis turned then. The motion was slow, deliberate, like a predator deciding which part of the prey to bite first. He leaned against the edge of the obsidian desk, crossing his long legs. The diamond watch sat inches from his hand, mocking her with its brilliance.
"You are already nothing, Avana Dermis," he said. The cruelty in his voice wasn't loud; it was matter-of-fact. "You are a girl with a borrowed education and a stolen timepiece. The law doesn't care about your 'idealism.' The law cares about the fact that you have three million dollars of my property in your canvas bag."
"But I didn't take it!" she cried, the tears finally spilling over, hot and stinging. "Why won't you listen? Look at me! Do I look like a thief?"
Francis stood up and walked toward her. He didn't stop until he was deep within her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at him. He was a wall of charcoal wool and cold authority. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on her cheek and smearing it across her skin. His touch was terrifyingly steady.
"It doesn't matter what you look like," he whispered, his blue eyes searching hers with an intensity that felt like he was reading the very blueprints of her soul. "It matters what I decide you are."
He let his hand drop, but the ghost of his touch remained, cold and electric.
"I am not calling the police," he stated.
Relief flooded her, so sharp it made her dizzy. She nearly fell, her hand catching the edge of the desk. "Thank you... oh God, thank you, Mr. Slein. I'll work double shifts. I'll do anything to make up for the trouble—"
"Do not thank me yet," he cut her off, his voice turning into a whip. "I didn't say there wouldn't be a price. You have caused a security breach in my private office. You have wasted my time. And more importantly, you have something I need."
Avana blinked, confused. "What could I possibly have that you need?"
"Compliance," he said. "And a lack of options."
He walked back around the desk and picked up a heavy, silver-plated pen. He began to write something on a piece of high-grade stationery. The scratching of the nib was the only sound in the room.
"Tomorrow is a public holiday," Francis said without looking up. "The university is closed. The city is quiet. Most people will be at home with their families."
He finished writing and slid the paper across the obsidian surface. On it was an address in the most exclusive, secluded part of the hills—the Slein Manor.
"I expect you at this address at 8:00 AM sharp," he commanded. "Not a minute later. If you are not there, I will personally hand the security footage and the watch over to the District Attorney. By 9:00 AM, you will be in a holding cell. Do you understand?"
Avana stared at the elegant, sharp handwriting. Her mind was reeling. "What... what am I supposed to do there? I'm a cleaner. Do you want me to scrub the manor?"
Francis looked at her then, and for the first time, a small, dark shadow of a smile touched his lips. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who had just closed the gate on a trap.
"You are going to be a nanny, Avana. My children haven't had a consistent influence since their mother died. They are... difficult. But you? You are desperate. And desperate people are very good at following orders."
"A nanny?" Avana whispered, her mind flashing to the rumors of the Slein children—whispers of two broken, silent orphans who had driven away every professional caregiver in the country. "But I don't know anything about—"
"You will learn," Francis snapped, his patience evaporating. "Or you will go to prison. The choice is yours, though I think we both know you don't truly have one."
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. He walked to the door and opened it, the light from the hallway spilling back in.
"Go home, Avana. Get some sleep. You'll need it."
Avana gathered her scattered belongings from the hallway under the watchful, confused eyes of the few remaining staff members. They whispered as she passed, wondering why the girl who had supposedly stolen a fortune was being allowed to walk out the front door.
As she descended in the glass elevator, watching the city shrink below her, one thought kept circling her mind like a vulture.
How did he know my name?
She was a ghost. She was Badge #902. But Francis Slein had spoken her name as if he had been practicing it. He had known her grades. He had known her designs.
She felt a shiver of pure, cold dread. As she stepped out into the night air, she realized she wasn't going home to freedom. She was just moving from one cage to a much larger, much more dangerous one.