Once on the 14th floor, I spent a few minutes wandering aimlessly around.

Ensuring my presence – and apparent disorientation – was captured by the security cameras.

As in the lobby, the two guards stationed by the elevators gave me no grief. The rest of the floor had no visible security personnel, though cameras were everywhere. Other employees bustled about, too preoccupied to spare me much attention.

I strolled right past the CFO’s office, the occupant’s name and title prominently displayed on the glass door. As if I hadn’t noticed it. As if I was still searching for my destination, somewhat lost and confused.

Continuing down the hallway, I spotted a narrow black door labeled ‘Staff Only’. One of the few spots on this floor not monitored by any of the security cameras.

I made myself walk past it. Feigning indifference. I couldn’t linger here; not the first time around.

I continued to meander, passing a procession of stylishly furnished offices, their glass and polished-wood doors gleaming under the bright overhead lights.

Waiting areas came into view, their plush chairs adorned with intricate gold accents.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted to my nostrils, from a small cafeteria tucked into a corner.

Finally, having made a full circuit of the floor, I arrived back at the narrow black door marked ‘Staff Only’. The lone sanctuary from the pervasive, ever-watchful security cameras.

I paused, positioning myself right outside the door, and knocked softly three times. The sound was swallowed by the ambient hum of the floor.

I kept my guard up, careful not to draw the attention of the bustling workforce around me.

A beat. The narrow black door creaked open a fraction, then widened slightly.

No light emanated from within.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped through the slight opening.

The door clicked shut behind me with sepulchral finality, cutting off all light and sound from the outside world.

“You’re late,” hissed a disembodied female voice. A low hum filled the air, the combined sounds of cooling fans and equipment at work.

“Only seven minutes.” I brandished my phone as evidence. “And Sai held me up. He was being,” I paused, searching for a word that encapsulated his particular brand of insufferable. “Well, Sai.”

My companion flipped a switch.

A weak bulb dangling from the cobweb-covered ceiling flickered to life, bathing the cramped space in a dim, yellowish glow.

Dressed in a blue technician’s uniform, the woman stood just a bit shorter than me. Her hair was gathered haphazardly into a loose bun. Naturally deep-set eyes, framed by dark circles, seemed to have sunken further into her skull. Her surprisingly long lashes clung together in clumps, as if she’d been crying.

“Do you have it?” she demanded, voice gruff.

Before responding, I scanned the cramped space. Metal racks – crowded with blinking routers, switches, and patch panels – lined the walls. Bundles of multi-colored cables snaked across the racks, loosely organized with zip ties and Velcro straps in some unfathomable arrangement.

Dust had settled on some of the less-used equipment. Including what appeared to be a large backup UPS resting on the floor near the far end of the room.

Amidst all the networking gear, a mop and bucket sat in the corner, oddly out of place.

I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my wallet. “How’s the kid?” I asked, flipping through its contents.

“Alive,” she replied tonelessly.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Extricating the rectangular plastic card, I handed it to her. “Everything on here is yours.” I slipped the wallet back where it belonged. “There’s nothing linking it back to me. Payments are routed through your last employer. They’re no longer in business, but who’s checking?” I raised my voice slightly, to carry over the background hum of the equipment. “The point is, this should cover your son’s surgery, and still leave some for medication and therapy, after.”

Half a second later, a warm droplet hit the back of my hand. Startled, I looked up to see tears streaming down her pimple-scarred cheeks.

Noticing my gaze, she shoved the card into her pocket, movements jerky. “You want Palika’s office, yes?” she asked, her voice thick. “Only his? I could cut the feed for the entire floor.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, alarmed. “The fewer people who notice something’s off, the better. Only the CEO’s office.” I held up a finger. “And only for the next 45 minutes.” I held up another. “I need the CCTV feed restored and fully functional within the hour. With luck, no one will realize anything’s amiss. But if someone does check, we need to make sure it looks like a glitch, not deliberate sabotage.”

She nodded silently. And made her way to the far end of the closet-sized room, stepping carefully to avoid the hardware scattered across the floor. I followed closely, mindful of my own footing.

At the back, she reached for a switch tucked into the corner of the topmost rack, its ports jammed with a mess of cables. And began adjusting the connections with swift, practiced movements.

Minutes later, she unplugged two of the cables, flicking a small lever on a nearby control panel.

“It’s done.” She gave me a lopsided grin, cheeks still damp with tears.

Soon, I was striding down the fifteenth-floor hallway, headed for the CEO’s chamber. The 15th floor was quieter than the rest of the building, and I only encountered a handful of people in the hallway.

Turning a corner, I spotted Tara, Palika’s receptionist-cum-secretary. Typing away at her massive open-plan desk just outside the office.

I let my footsteps fall heavier. Loud enough to draw her attention.

Tara looked up, a slight frown creasing her otherwise flawless brow.

Then, her eyes landed on me. And her lips curved into a radiant smile.

“Lekh!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat. “What are you doing here? Reception didn’t inform me you were heading up.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even know you’re in the building.”

Reaching her desk, I took her petite hands in mine. “They’re likely preoccupied with the protestors. You should’ve seen the crowd outside.” I dipped my head. “Well, I daresay you have. I can’t blame the staff for being distracted, can you? Who wouldn’t be, under the circumstances?”

Tara chuckled. “You’re too softhearted.” She glanced away, tinkering briefly on her keyboard, before turning her attention back to me. “But really, you’ve picked the wrong time. Mr. Palika’s in a meeting with the Rednes investors. Won’t be back in the office for a couple of hours, at least.”

“Hours?!” I echoed, my voice rising slightly. “Damn, Tara! And here I was, hoping to catch a plane to Mignir this evening.” I let the disappointment shine through me. “I can’t afford to reschedule. I won’t be back to Darvika until next week.”

“The Solstice Concert?” Tara asked, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

I held my hands out in a gesture of surrender. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“Well,” she began, tucking a lock of hair absently behind her ear. “I suppose you could wait. When’s your flight?”

“Oh, eight in the evening. I’ve got all the time in the world.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “The problem is…uh,” I gestured to Palika’s chamber. “Do you mind if I wait inside?”

She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You what?”

“I’m a recognizable face, Tara.” I pouted, a hint of a whine in my voice. “And this is neither the time nor the place to be recognized. You wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable it was in the lobby. Protestors have practically surrounded the building. And everyone knows who I am. I felt besieged.”

I let out a heavy breath. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, I got jumped by Shehak. Did you know he’s back? Anyway, he dragged me off to Sai. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes cooped up in that gloomy cave he calls an office; both of them breathing down my neck.” I shuddered. “I think I might have PTSD.”

Tara giggled.

“You’re laughing?” I looked up at her with wounded eyes. “You can’t send me back down there, Tara. I won’t survive.”

“And I won’t survive your whining if you did.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Fine, I’ll send Mr. Palika a message. You can wait inside. But only because I’d probably lose my job if Darpan Naag’s son threw himself off this building, on my watch.”

I masked my instinctive flinch with a laugh. “And also because you’re an angel. And you love me.”

“I’d love you more if you took me to Mignir with you.” She smirked. “Watching Solstice perform live has been my dream…since I was a teenager. Do you know how much those tickets cost?”

“It’s a date.” I winked. “Book yourself a round-trip. I’m not covering transportation.”

She pulled a face.

I kept mine neutral, gazing expectantly at her.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You-you can’t be serious.”

“I happen to have an extra ticket,” I shrugged. “To the concert, I mean. And,” I propped a knee against her desk, leaning slightly forward. “I can’t ask for better company.”

She blushed, her smile stretching ear to ear. “I’d never get the time off.”

“Call in sick. Tell Palika you ate some of Zintra’s fruit bars.”

Tara’s eyes went even wider – a mix of shock and amusement. She mimed taping my mouth shut.

“But in return,” I said, laughing as I batted her hand away. “Promise me you won’t tell Palika I’m here. I don’t want to hassle him during his meeting. It’s a rough time for him, and the last thing I want is to add to his stress. Let him get here when he gets here. We’ve got plenty of time before the flight, anyway.”

“You’ll get me fired,” she said, her smile lingering. “And I’m half convinced it’ll be worth it.”