When my boss, Victor Kroll, learned I had stage II lymphoma, he didn't offer sick leave.
The basin offices were usually a hive of low-level activity, a quiet hum of servers and distant forklift operations. Tonight, it was dead silent. I sat with Gabriel, the DNA report spread across his desk, its implications a heavy presence in the room.
Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered, then died. The large panoramic window, usually showing the illuminated harbor, plunged into inky blackness.
Gabriel clicked his tongue. “Victor’s moving.”
The backup generators, usually kicking in within seconds, remained silent. The security feeds on Gabriel’s monitors went blank, replaced by a dull static.
“He’s cutting our power, our eyes and ears,” Gabriel stated, a flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating a network map. “He wants you out of here, Sloan. He wants those ledger keys.”
Victor still thought I was holding out for money or control, a calculated move in a corporate war. He had no idea the game had fundamentally changed. My refusal to hand over the primary ledger keys was no longer about leverage in a power struggle, but a desperate act of self-preservation, protecting the very evidence that linked him to my past.
A heavy clunk echoed from the main entrance, followed by the distinctive sound of metal scraping against concrete. It wasn’t just the power; someone was here.
“He sent Marcus,” Gabriel said, his hand dropping to a hidden compartment in his desk. “He’s making a statement.”
The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of stagnant seawater and impending confrontation. The silent, dark offices now felt like a cage.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours