Dr. Graves arrived at the corporate offices with all the enthusiasm of a cat being dragged to the vet. The elevator ride to the 42nd floor was interminable—long enough for her to glare at her reflection in the mirrored walls and start a mental argument with herself about whether this was all worth it. By the time the elevator dinged its polite little “you’ve arrived in capitalist hell” chime, she’d decided she hated Marwood more than she hated mirrors, and that was saying something.
The conference room, predictably, was massive, sterile, and aggressively beige. It was the kind of room designed by someone who wanted to remind everyone inside it that they were small, replaceable cogs in a very expensive machine. The table was long enough to land a small aircraft on, and the chairs were ergonomic in a way that managed to be both uncomfortable and condescending.
Jonas Marwood sat at the head of the table, his tailored suit practically shimmering in the fluorescent light. He had the look of a man who was always exactly where he wanted to be. His posture was relaxed, his hands folded neatly in front of him, but his eyes had the sharpness of someone who never stopped calculating.
“Dr. Graves,” Marwood said, standing just enough to acknowledge her before sinking back into his chair. “Always a pleasure.”
Graves didn’t bother with pleasantries. She threw her bag onto the table, the sound of it landing echoing in the cavernous space, and dropped into a chair without making eye contact.
“Let’s skip the foreplay, Marwood,” she said. “I need you to do something for me.”
Marwood raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, steepling his fingers like a cliché villain in a corporate training video.
“I see the attack hasn’t dulled your charm,” he said smoothly. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”
Graves exhaled sharply, her annoyance barely contained. “Ryland. The guy who shot at me. I want his ideology plastered across every screen, every feed, every goddamn newsletter you can get your grubby hands on.”
Marwood tilted his head, intrigued. “And why, pray tell, would we want to amplify the ramblings of a religious lunatic?”
“Because,” Graves said, leaning forward, “if we make him the face of the opposition, we discredit anyone who sides with him. We show the world that the people against Samson aren’t rational actors—they’re desperate, delusional, and dangerous.”
Marwood’s smile grew, but there was no warmth in it. “Ah, a smear campaign. How delightfully Machiavellian of you. I’m almost impressed.”
“Almost?” Graves shot back, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t come here for your approval.”
“No,” Marwood said, his tone shifting to something colder. “You came here because you don’t know how to play this game.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Graves bristled, her fingers curling into fists under the table. “Enlighten me, then.”
Marwood leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “You think you can control the narrative, but you’re underestimating the opposition. Sure, you’ll turn off the moderates with Ryland’s ‘demonic AI’ shtick, but the people who’ve lost their jobs? Their homes? Their futures? They’ll see him as a martyr. A man crushed by the same system you’re trying to dismantle.”
Graves hesitated, the words hitting harder than she expected. She opened her mouth to argue but found nothing to say.
“And let’s not forget,” Marwood continued, his voice a scalpel, “his economic grievances aren’t entirely wrong. Automation has made life harder for a lot of people. People who are desperate for someone—anyone—to blame. You amplify his voice, and you risk giving them a rallying cry.”
Graves stared at him, her jaw tightening. “So what? We just let him fade into obscurity?”
Marwood’s smile returned, sharp and predatory. “Not at all. We reframe the story. Make it about the violence, the fear. Ryland isn’t a victim of the system—he’s a symptom of it. Dangerous, irrational, and incapable of adapting. And Samson? He’s not the villain here. He’s the hero who stopped a tragedy.”
Graves folded her arms, her scowl deepening. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not,” Marwood admitted. “But it’s smarter than turning him into a martyr.”
Jonas Marwood was used to being hated. It came with the job, like ulcers and expensive suits. Graves didn’t like him, and that was fine. He didn’t need her to like him. What he needed was for her to understand that they were playing a long game, and her idealism was a liability.
As Graves glared at him from across the table, Marwood considered how best to handle her. She was brilliant, no doubt about that, but brilliance wasn’t enough. Not in this world. She was still clinging to the idea that the truth mattered, that logic and reason would win the day. Marwood knew better. The truth was malleable, and the only thing that mattered was who shaped it first.
“Look,” he said finally, his tone softening just enough to be disarming. “I know you hate this. I know you hate me. But if we’re going to win, we need to be smarter than the Rylands of the world. And smarter than the people funding them.”
Graves scoffed, her disdain practically radiating across the table. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see what this system does to people?”
Marwood tilted his head, studying her. “Then you should understand why we have to play by its rules. You can’t dismantle the system from the outside, Graves. You have to work within it. Exploit its weaknesses. And that means making compromises.”
Graves hated that he was right. Hated that she was even in this room, sitting across from this smug bastard, talking about narratives and optics like she was some kind of politician. This wasn’t what she wanted. All she wanted was to do her research, to build something meaningful, and to be left the hell alone.
But that wasn’t the world she lived in.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “We do it your way. But don’t think for a second that I trust you.”
Marwood chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “I’d be worried if you did.”
Graves pushed her chair back, the legs screeching against the polished floor, and stood. She grabbed her bag without another word, heading for the door.
“Dr. Graves,” Marwood called after her.
She paused, glancing back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice unexpectedly sincere, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
Graves snorted. “Sure, Marwood. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
And with that, she left, the door hissing shut behind her.
Marwood leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty seat across from him. He allowed himself a moment of silence, the faint hum of the room filling the void. Then he reached for his tablet, his fingers flying across the screen.
Graves was brilliant, but naïve. She didn’t realize that in this game, winning wasn’t about being right. It was about being relentless.
Graves. Ryland. Samson. Whoever it was, Marwood had no intention of being on the losing team.