Five days passed without another shared briefing.
There had been updates, of course—messages, internal revisions, quietly forwarded transcripts—but no real conversation.
Just the work. Just the space between.
The briefing room was different again. Sleek, newer. A little too curated.
Since the Ferris case had taken over most of her docket, Emily had been given a temporary office a few doors down from Lucas's—closer than usual, but justified by shared access to strategy rooms.
Lucas arrived first, setting his tablet on the table with quiet precision. No notes yet. Just the outline in his head.
Emily entered thirty seconds later. She met his eyes, gave a short nod, and took her seat.
"Let's begin."
Lucas opened the shared screen between them.
"Roe's asking for stability across every visual tier—no tonal shifts, clean alignment with legacy framing."
Emily gave a small nod, pulling up her own files.
"Nora isn't rejecting that outright, but she reacts to the word 'legacy.' Quietly. Subtle recoil."
Lucas's expression didn't change, but his tone adjusted slightly.
"It's foundational language for the board. But if it's not landing, we adapt the shape."
"She's part of the legacy," Emily said. "But she needs framing that doesn't feel like inheritance. Something lived-in."
Lucas gave a slight nod.
"Continuity, not weight."
They shared a brief glance—unspoken, aligned.
"I'll draft adjustments based on the language she uses naturally," Emily added. "Keep the tone intact but let the phrasing breathe."
"I'll rework the structural anchors so the board's language doesn't override hers."
Emily tapped her stylus once.
"We'll keep it off-site tomorrow. I want her voice clean."
Lucas nodded.
"And I'll recheck with Roe. See how flexible they are, quietly."
"Two angles," Emily said, eyes briefly meeting his.
"One structure," Lucas returned.
Emily nodded once.
They returned to their notes.
---
The conference suite wasn't large—just enough space for a circle of chairs, a screen, and a low table with untouched water bottles.
The lighting was soft, ambient. A curated kind of calm.
Emily sat across from Nora, stylus balanced lightly in one hand.
Lucas stood just off to the side, hands in his pockets, eyes on the transcript feed scrolling along the tablet in his palm.
Observation posture.
Nora shifted in her chair.
"I know the board wants to frame this as continuity," she said, "but my father didn't... he didn't always get it right. He made mistakes. People knew that. Pretending he didn't just makes this feel hollow."
Emily didn't flinch. Her voice stayed level.
"You're not erasing him by telling the truth."
"I just don't want to sound rehearsed." Nora's eyes dropped for a second. "Like I'm apologizing for becoming visible."
Emily leaned in, only slightly.
"Then we shape the message around what's already true. Not perfection. Presence."
There was a moment of quiet, enough for the tension to flicker into the corners of the room.
Lucas spoke from the side—calm, measured.
"We don't need to avoid your father's legacy. We just don't frame it as a pedestal. We build from its foundation. Imperfection included."
Nora glanced up. She looked at Emily. Then at Lucas. Then nodded, just once.
Emily gave no reaction beyond the smallest turn of her stylus.
Lucas tapped something into his notes.
One phrase: reframing without dilution.
There was no eye contact. No knowing look.
But a quiet rhythm had passed between them.
It held.
---
The office lights had shifted to evening mode—lowered, warmer.
Auralis's open floorplan was nearly silent now, save for the faint hum of air circulation and the occasional muted footstep down the hall.
Emily sat alone in a side room, her tablet propped beside a half-empty glass of water.
She was reviewing the draft set for internal approval: a summary brief of the Ferris rollout.
It was clean. Precise. Weighted.
Too weighted.
"Inheriting the unshakable moral compass of her father…"
"Positioned to uphold the full continuum of legacy ideals…"
Emily frowned, stylus poised mid-air.
In another room, Lucas read the same document.
Different screen, different silence.
He wasn't frowning, exactly—but the corners of his mouth had drawn tighter.
He tapped a note into the margin:
Tone conflicts with Nora's spoken register. Suggest recalibration.
At the same time, a message pinged into his inbox from Emily.
Subject: Brief — Legacy Language.
Message body:
Too clean. Sounds like it was written for a eulogy. Want to rewrite it?
Lucas stared at the screen a moment, then typed:
Already halfway through.
A beat. Then:
Emily: Figures.
Emily: Weird how often we land on the same note lately.
Lucas: (after a beat) Could be we're tuned to the same key.
There was no follow-up.
They didn't need one.
The edits were done in ten minutes.
---
The message came in just after ten. They were still editing when the next request came in. A brief ping in the team thread. Claire flagged it in passing.
"Board comms wants a quote from Nora for early media guidance. Something safe. High-level legacy reinforcement."
Emily read the message without blinking. She was halfway through annotating a session transcript. She let it sit for a minute.
Across the office, Lucas had already opened the request. He didn't frown, but the stillness in his posture shifted. He reached for his tablet, then paused.
Emily beat him to it.
Emily (10:08 AM): If they want 'safe,' they'll want her speaking like a plaque. She doesn't talk like a plaque.
Lucas responded after a moment.
Lucas (10:09 AM): Then we frame it like memory, not branding.
They met in one of the smaller strategy rooms. Low chairs. Shared screen. A wall of frosted glass.
Lucas set his tablet down without speaking. Emily dropped into the chair beside him, stylus already in hand. He pulled up the working doc.
"Nora Ferris represents the continuation of a legacy that shaped a generation…"
Emily snorted under her breath.
"Sounds like a statue just gave a TED Talk."
Lucas didn't laugh, but his mouth twitched.
"Not wrong."
They edited in tandem—Emily reshaping the language around lived memory, Lucas weaving in narrative scaffolding to keep it clean.
Line by line, it shifted.
"Nora Ferris carries forward the work her father began—steadily, thoughtfully, without spectacle. Her voice speaks to continuity, not ceremony."
Emily paused.
"That's closer."
Lucas adjusted one clause.
"Read it again."
She did. And didn't change a thing.
"This sounds like her," she said.
"And it holds," Lucas said.
They looked at each other—just briefly. And something softened.
Emily smiled. Just a little. Lucas didn't. Not quite. But the corner of his mouth shifted—enough.
Then they got back to work.
Later that evening, Claire passed by Emily's desk with a mug in hand and a lopsided smirk.
"Board comms called the Ferris quote 'quietly confident.'" She shrugged. "That's a compliment, coming from them."
Emily just nodded, stylus still in hand, but something in her posture eased.
Across the floor, Lucas stood in his office, backlit by the skyline, jacket off, sleeves rolled.
The screen in front of him displayed the finalized media packet.
Their version. Nora's words.
He didn't smile.
But he didn't adjust anything either.
A moment passed.
Emily walked by without stopping—but she did glance once through the glass. Just a flicker.
He didn't look up, but his hand slowed over the screen.
Outside, the city kept moving—quiet and layered, like a story still being written.
Inside, they returned to the rhythm.
Not dramatic. Not distant.
Just two voices, starting to echo.
---
After-hours had settled over the floor—low lights, long shadows, and the quiet persistence of machines left running overnight.
The office was still. Everything filed. Docked. Shut down. Except the thread.
Emily (10:46 AM): Weird how often we land on the same note lately.
He'd already responded to the draft fix. Already closed the loop. But this stayed open.
Lucas read it again. He didn't close the window.
The cursor blinked. Not exactly watching. Just present.
His thumb hovered just beside the keyboard. A subtle shift. Not quite tension. Not quite stillness.
He didn't type. He didn't dismiss it.
His hand lowered, resting by the mouse—this time not tracking. The light from the screen caught faintly on the edge of his glasses.
He wasn't searching. But he hadn't looked away either. Quietly anchored in a space he hadn't meant to stay in. Still caught on the same note—not hearing it anymore, just feeling the echo.
He leaned back—just barely. The shape of tension still traced his frame, but the corners had softened. Shoulders eased. Spine no longer held to perfect form.
A breath passed. Then another. Small. Even.
The screen dimmed on its own. He didn't move.
As if the moment hadn't passed. Only settled.
His gaze drifted—just a breath off center. That's when he noticed. He hadn't meant to let go. Too soft. Too long.
A flicker of recognition broke through—sharp in the quiet. And then it returned. Like something in him had blinked.
A breath lingered.
Then he quietly aligned his shoulders. Straightened his spine.
His hand shifted back to the keyboard. Not typing. Just... present again.
---
The lights were dimmed in the outer hallway, but Lucas's office still glowed—faint desk lamp, tablet open, sleeves rolled. The Ferris case packet hovered mid-scroll on his screen.
A knock. Soft. Not timid.
Lucas didn't look up. "It's open."
The door creaked open, and Jordan stepped inside, clutching a second coffee like it was a peace offering.
Short and broad-shouldered, Jordan looked slightly out of place in the sleek Auralis layout—his tucked shirt a little rumpled, dark hair refusing to lie flat, curling slightly as it pushed up and off to the right. He moved with quick energy, like someone who lived in a world two steps faster than everyone else. Somewhere between his worn sneakers and his confident grin, he made the room feel less like a boardroom and more like a shared campaign session.
"I figured you'd still be here," Jordan said. "Didn't take you for a 'lights off before nine' type."
Lucas glanced up, expression unreadable. "Most don't."
Jordan hesitated, then held out the coffee. "It's the decent machine. Not the sludge near reception."
Lucas took it. Nodded once.
Jordan hovered. "So… uh. Do you always review strategy briefs like you're playing high-stakes chess, or is that just for the Ferris file?"
Lucas raised a brow. "Is that your attempt at humor?"
Jordan shrugged. "Still calibrating. New guy, different department, merged floor plan—it's like corporate speed dating."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, a faint twitch at the corner of Lucas's mouth.
"You're not far off."
Jordan grinned, encouraged. "Look, I know I wasn't on the original Ferris team, but I've been brushing up. I flagged a phrasing inconsistency in the sub-tier language of the legacy doc. Thought maybe you'd want to see it."
Lucas gestured toward the desk. "Show me."
Jordan slid the tablet into view, pointing at the margin note. "Here—'structural inheritance' gets repeated twice in four lines. Makes Nora sound like an antique."
Lucas read it once, then again. Then nodded. "Good catch."
"Hey, thanks. Coming from the guy whose poker face is a registered trademark, I'll take that."
Lucas didn't respond immediately. Then: "Next time, flag it in the shared doc."
"Got it. Just… wasn't sure how territorial things were around here."
"They're not," Lucas said simply. "Not if the work's solid."
Jordan gave a short nod. "Then I'll keep earning my space."
Lucas leaned back slightly, studying him.
"You're not what I expected."
Jordan blinked. "I get that a lot. Usually right before someone pretends they didn't just underestimate me."
Lucas didn't smile. But something in his posture eased.
"I'll let you know if I ever do."
---
The office was still.
Emily sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, shoulders held in that deliberate stillness that came after long focus.
Her tablet glowed beside her—notes open, screen idle.
She hadn't touched it in minutes.
Her thoughts drifted—just briefly—back to the earlier moment.
The way he'd shifted his phrasing mid-sentence, not to correct, but to meet hers.
No pause. No claim. Just an adjustment so seamless it barely felt like movement.
That kind of alignment—unspoken, immediate—stuck with her more than it should have.
Her posture eased without warning.
One arm lowered slightly, hand resting near the base of her glass. Her spine no longer fully upright.
She didn't notice right away.
But then she did.
And with that awareness came motion: a quiet return. Her hand drawing back. Her shoulders rising. The breath she hadn't meant to release, caught just before it faded.
Her gaze dropped to the tablet.
She turned the tablet back over—quick, instinctive.
A breath caught in her throat. She reached for her notes again, tried to focus, posture straightening out of habit.
But the warmth didn't fade.
At least… not right away.
---
A few minutes had passed.
The office floor had quieted further—most doors shut, lights dimmed. Emily hadn't moved much, though her screen now displayed an open document instead of the idle thread. Her posture had mostly returned to normal. Mostly.
Claire paused in the doorway, holding a report. She didn't announce herself—just stepped inside with the soft authority of someone who never needed to. The low light caught on the sharp yellow lines of her suit, the silhouette sleek but not severe, her short curls bunched high with quiet defiance. She looked exactly like someone who didn't wait to be noticed.
"Are you okay?"
Emily didn't look up. "Just tired."
Claire raised an eyebrow, stepping in with the same composed energy she always carried. "You've looked tired before. This is new."
Emily's mouth twitched faintly. "It's nothing."
Claire set the report down on the desk with practiced ease. "You sure you're not just being haunted? That posture says mild possession at least."
"If it is," Emily said softly, "I hope it doesn't linger."
Claire gave a light shrug. "Ghosts don't usually respect deadlines, but this one's got until morning."
She tapped the report once. "One flagged for approval. No rush."
Claire was already halfway through the door. "Don't let it follow you home," she added over her shoulder. "It'll linger."
Emily exhaled faintly through her nose. "I'll try."
The door clicked shut behind her.
---
Emily didn't linger as she left the office.
But her steps weren't hurried either.
Claire's words still echoed faintly—about ghosts, and possession, and the way tension sticks to skin.
Emily hadn't answered. But she'd felt it.
Lucas stood near the elevator already, tablet tucked away, posture set in that calm, unreadable frame he wore like armor.
Jordan's visit had left a flicker in his chest—a reminder of how visible restraint could become.
They both saw each other.
And didn't say a word.
The elevator opened.
They stepped in together.
Silence, again.
But it didn't feel hollow.
Lucas stood to her left, one pace back.
Emily faced forward, her expression quiet but not closed.
The numbers ticked down.
"Same note," she murmured. Low. A thread of tone.
Lucas answered without turning.
"Different measures."
She almost smiled.
"We're still tuned."
Their sleeves brushed—barely. Just a passing thread of fabric in shared space.
The doors opened.
They walked out together.
Not hurried.
Not rattled.
Aligned.
Ready for what came next.