Your neck goes cold.
You stand fast enough that the chair rolls back into the credenza.
Not Mauricio.
Not from afar.
Someone on the floor.
Someone close.
You yank open the office door and step into the corridor just as the lights flicker once.
Then die.
Emergency strips come on in red.
Every hallway becomes a wound.
Somewhere above you, a woman screams.
You are already moving.
Up the stairs because elevators become coffins when buildings turn adversarial. Two floors at a time, boots silent against the concrete, laptop bag pounding your back, lungs steady because fear is still for people who misunderstand machinery and you understand exactly what this means now. The attack on Alejandra’s system was one layer. The board vote another. But killing lights on the executive levels during a live intrusion? That is not theft anymore.
That is containment.
Or abduction.
Or worse.
When you hit floor thirty-eight, the access door is propped open.
Wrong.
The executive corridor beyond is lit only by emergency red, every glass wall bleeding shadow. For one split second the whole floor looks like a luxury hotel after civilization has been canceled. Reception empty. Assistant desks abandoned. The city beyond the windows now just a distant electronic jungle.
“Alejandra.”
No answer.
You move low and fast.
Her office door is half closed now, which it wasn’t when you left. You draw the compact tactical flashlight from your kit with one hand and the heavy steel alignment tool you keep in the bag with the other. Not a weapon officially. But the distinction tends to blur depending on the stupidity nearby.
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