The lobby buzzed with the cadence of routine.
Iris stepped through the revolving doors of the high-rise with the same grace and quiet curiosity she'd carried since her first day. The morning air still clung to her coat, rain-spotted and cold, but inside, the world was warm and sterile. Gleaming floors. Polished brass. Echoes of footsteps and faint jazz threading through the speakers.
No one acted like the empire had gone to war the night before.
The receptionist offered her a bright smile, tapping her screen absently.
"Morning, Miss Cael. Elevator's ready."
"Thank you," Iris replied, her tone even.
She took the elevator alone, her reflection framed in its mirrored walls. She'd dreamt vividly the night before—thunder and fire, strange voices in the dark. Waking up hadn't dispelled it. There was something about the air today. Too still. Like a breath held by the entire building.
The upper floors carried the same illusion. Analysts were glued to screens. Assistants floated past with tablets. Executives laughed in corners over cappuccinos, whispering boardroom gossip and quarterly ambitions. It was as though nothing had changed.
Except one thing.
As she turned down a hallway leading to her department's bullpen, she passed one of the internal enforcers—a tall man, squared shoulders, a tactical earpiece still coiled at his collar. She'd spoken to him once by the elevators. Polite, curt, professional.
But now—his face was paler. His eyes didn't meet hers.
She offered a gentle, "Good morning," as they passed.
He didn't reply. He didn't even flinch. Just kept walking stiffly down the hall, like something had crawled beneath his skin and taken root.
Iris paused.
Her instincts twitched—journalistic ones she'd buried since accepting the offer.
Something happened last night.
Something big.
But it wasn't in the news. Not even in the internal feeds. The security memos were quiet. Her inbox held only reminders about a scheduling audit and a polite thank-you from HR.
It was business as usual.
She slid into her workspace and set her bag down slowly. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, but she wasn't really thinking about reports anymore.
Across the room, someone laughed too loudly. Another typed furiously. But the silence under it all had weight.
She looked out the window, down at the city.
Rain still dripped from the edges of the high glass. The skyline remained unmarred. But there was blood beneath it. She felt it in her bones.
And in the corner of her vision, the enforcer lingered at the edge of another corridor—watching. Just for a second.
Then he was gone
Lunch came and went without appetite.
Iris pushed her food around the plate in the executive dining area, her mind playing a loop of that single glance from the enforcer earlier. His posture. His silence. The haunted glint buried in his expression.
He knew something.
And she wanted to know it too.
Her heels echoed down the hall as she made her way toward Security's wing—not a place someone in her position should linger, but curiosity had always been her compass, even when it pulled her toward shadows.
The hallway was quieter here. A different kind of quiet. More sterile. Clinical.
She scanned faces as she passed, but the enforcer—Reid, she remembered—was nowhere to be seen.
Her eyes caught someone exiting a restricted door. Uniform. Tactical. Not Reid.
"Excuse me," she called, voice polite but firm.
The man stopped, puzzled.
"I'm looking for someone—Reid, I think? Tall, clean cut, usually stationed near the upper floors."
The enforcer's brow furrowed. "He's… not available today."
"Is he alright?"
A pause. Not long, but it was enough.
"He's on leave," the enforcer answered, a little too quickly. "Personal matter."
Iris nodded, thanked him, and turned.
A lie. She knew it when she heard it.
And then—
"Miss Cael."
Marek's voice was a velvet drawl wrapped in amusement, emerging from behind her like smoke.
She turned to see him leaning lazily against the wall, one brow arched, dressed down in a black jacket and slacks—less executive, more wolf on a leash.
"You know," he said, folding his arms, "in most empires, poking around where security breathes usually gets you a different kind of interview."
"I'm just trying to understand the place I work in," she replied evenly. "Is that so strange?"
"Oh, it's a wonderful instinct," he smiled, pushing off the wall and walking beside her as if they were old friends. "Curiosity's a gift—makes the prey taste sweeter when it finally figures out the hunter was smiling the whole time."
She blinked, unsure if it was a joke or a warning.
Probably both.
"You have a very particular way of speaking, Mr. Marek."
"Ah, so you have heard of me."
"Only in passing."
"Well," he said, grinning, "take this as friendly advice: some questions echo louder than others in these halls. And some doors… aren't doors at all."
He gestured toward the elevators.
"Come on. You've got a future here, Iris. Don't go tripping over someone else's bones on your first climb."
He walked ahead of her but glanced back with a wink.
"And besides," he added over his shoulder, "our chairman likes clean corridors."
The door closed behind him.
And Iris stood there, the weight of his words sinking deep.
Something was wrong.
Something had happened.
And she had just been warned by a man who smiled like a blade under velvet.
The elevator opened—sleek, mirrored, humming softly. Iris stepped in, clutching her tablet a little tighter than usual. Her morning had already been filled with hushed voices and tight-lipped glances. Something had happened. No one said it, but she felt it like static in the air.
She turned as the doors began to close.
A voice called out: "Hold it."
A black-gloved hand caught the doors—calm, precise.
Two men entered.
The first was unmistakable. Aldrin. The Chairman. His coat wasn't the usual boardroom fare—it was heavier, darker. Not quite military, not quite ceremonial. Somewhere in between, like him. His expression was unreadable, carved from the kind of silence that ended conversations before they began.
The second moved with the ease of someone used to watching people squirm—confident, calculating. There was amusement in his eyes, like the world was a series of private jokes he never had to share.
"So this is the intern?" the second man asked with a note of playful contempt, hands behind his back.
Iris stiffened, fingers brushing the screen of her tablet. "I'm not an intern. Iris Cael. I'm in strategy development."
"We know," the man said, grinning now. "But I prefer to let people name themselves under pressure. It reveals more."
Aldrin said nothing. He stood facing the doors, jaw tense, coat still damp from the storm.
"I asked about someone," Iris continued, cautiously. "One of the enforcers who seemed… off. Just trying to understand who I'm working with."
The man with the grin nodded. "Curious, aren't you?"
"That's part of the job."
"Mm," he replied. "And part of what gets people reassigned. Or vanished."
Aldrin finally spoke—sharp, flat, low.
"Enough."
The single word cut through the air. Not angry. Not loud. Just final.
The man raised his hands in mock surrender. "Of course. Apologies."
The elevator dinged.
Aldrin stepped out first, not sparing Iris another glance. Down the hall, the corridors stretched clean and quiet. Somewhere behind those walls, the war council was already stirring. Somewhere in the depths of the building, the Security Division was already moving under Marek's remote directive—precise, faceless, like the gears of a machine Aldrin had built himself.
The doors began to close again.
The nameless man looked back at Iris, still smiling.
"You'll learn," he said. "Just… not all at once."
And then he was gone, the elevator humming downward once more.
Iris stood there alone, pulse in her throat, her thoughts louder than the silence.
She hadn't imagined it. There was something happening underneath the suits and titles.
And now… she was part of it.