By the time the subway doors hiss shut, the noise has already started. Not the screech of metal or the murmur of commuters—the other noise. The one that lives under people’s skin. I stare at the floor, knuckles white around the overhead pole, counting the gum stains on the gray tile. One, two, three. Don’t look up, Avery. Don’t— Our shoulders bump as more bodies cram in. Someone’s perfume—too sweet, too floral—burns the back of my throat. God, if I miss this pitch, he’s going to fire me. I’m going to tell him today. I have to leave my husband. I have to. I should jump. Just… let go next time the doors open. The thoughts hit me like gravel in a blender, sharp and spinning. No mouths moving, no sounds. Just impact. “Excuse me,” a woman says aloud, polite smile glued on as she wedges herself in front of me. In her head: Move, bitch, I need to be near the door. I keep my gaze pinned to her scarf. Yellow. Too bright for November. Don’t look up. A teenage boy jostles my arm. “Sorry,” he mutters, headphones in. She’s kind of hot. Wonder if she’d scream if I— I jerk my arm away before the image in his head can finish forming. A pulse starts behind my eyes. Not yet a headache, but it will be. Three seconds of eye contact. That’s all it takes to crack someone open. On mornings like this, with a hundred people packed together and the air thick with stale breath and hidden panic, I don’t even need to look. They leak. I’m so tired. If I just pretend to be sick, they can’t fire me, right? He doesn’t love you. He just doesn’t want to split the mortgage. Don’t cry. Not here. Not again. The train lurches, and a woman in a navy pantsuit stumbles into me. Our arms press together, skin to skin for half a heartbeat. I can’t tell them we lost the samples. If this goes out, the whole trial— I rip my arm back like I’ve been burned. She doesn’t notice. Nobody ever does. They keep their lies tucked behind their teeth, assuming they’re safe, assuming their thoughts are their own. The car sways. My stomach rolls with it. Breathe in, breathe out. You’re fine, I lie to myself. You’re just… sensitive. The overhead speakers crackle. “Next stop: Midtown–Crest Station.” Almost there. A guy in a suit sighs loudly. “Crazy morning, huh?” he says to no one in particular. In his head: If this bonus doesn’t clear, I’m taking what’s left and disappearing. Screw them all. I clamp my jaw until it aches. I used to think knowing the truth would protect me. Now it just feels like drowning in other people’s sewage. The doors finally open. The human mass pushes toward the exit, and I let myself be carried out into the cold, wet air of New Crest City. The skyscrapers loom, glass and steel and ambition. The streets are slick from last night’s rain, reflecting a sky the color of old bruises. Everyone’s in a hurry. Everyone’s performing. Out here, the lies have better lighting. By the time I reach Silverline PR’s lobby, my pulse has mostly calmed. The receptionist, Kayla, waves at me, bright smile, perfect curls. “Morning, Avery! Big client in today, you ready to wow them?” she chirps. God, I hope she doesn’t quit. She’s the only one who doesn’t make it weird in here. “Always,” I say, shrugging out of my damp coat. “Who are we rescuing this time?” Her smile tightens. “Just a minor crisis. Sullivan wants you in Conference B in five.” Minor, my ass. We’re screwed if this leaks. The thought flickers through her mind, small and panicked. I pretend not to hear it, like I pretend not to hear everything. Upstairs, Conference B is already half full. Glass walls, chrome table, the city smeared behind Mark Sullivan’s reflection like a painting that won’t dry. Our fearless leader stands at the head of the table, Armani suit, watch that probably costs more than my annual rent. His expression is warm, open. “Ah, Avery. Perfect timing,” he says. “Come in, come in.” Perfect little bloodhound. Let’s see you earn your salary today. I slide into my chair, keeping my eyes on the tablet in front of me. To my left, my coworker Lila leans over, whispering, “You okay? You look pale.” Please don’t tank this one, Ave. If this client walks, we’re all dead. “I’m fine,” I murmur. Lie meets lie. Fair trade. Across the table, our client-of-the-day dabs sweat from his upper lip with a monogrammed handkerchief. His name is Donnelly, some mid-tier tech CEO with a failing app and a harassment allegation hanging over his head like a chandelier on frayed rope. “Thank you all for seeing me on such short notice,” he says. “We’ve had some… misunderstandings in the press.” She was begging for it. You can’t even flirt with an intern anymore. The words in his head are thick with contempt. My stomach twists. Mark steeples his fingers. “We understand you’re under a lot of pressure. At Silverline, we’re experts at navigating… misunderstandings.” As long as the check clears, I don’t care if you murdered someone, Donnelly. I take a slow breath, let the thoughts pass through me instead of sticking. It’s a trick I’ve taught myself—don’t latch on, don’t follow the thread. Just… notice, and let it go. Like headlines you scroll past and never click. “Why don’t you tell us what outcome you’re hoping for?” I ask, voice even. Neutral. I keep my gaze fixed just to the left of his face, on the knot of his tie. “Redemption,” he says with a weak laugh. “A second chance. I mean, we all make mistakes, right?” I want her NDA airtight and my stock price back up. That’s it. “Of course,” I say. “But the public doesn’t respond well to… canned apologies. They want something that feels real.” No they don’t. They want a villain to throw rocks at, then they get bored. Mark nods like I’ve said something brilliant. “Exactly. Avery has an uncanny feel for public sentiment. She’ll craft the right narrative.” Translation: She’ll strip-mine your brain and hand me the answer. I ignore the sour taste in my mouth. “Before we talk statements, I need to understand what actually happened,” I say, fingers poised over my tablet. “Off the record. If there’s anything you’re leaving out, it will come out later, and then any story we build today will implode. We don’t want that.” I already know you’re leaving things out. I just want you to lie to my face so I can price it. Donnelly shifts in his seat. “It was… just a miscommunication,” he insists. “I never intended to make her uncomfortable.” She was into it until she realized she could cash in. My temples throb. He keeps talking, stringing together PR-safe words, but his thoughts are a scrolling ticker of blame and entitlement. I wait for a beat, then angle my head, finally meeting his eyes. Three seconds. His surface thoughts sharpen, snap into focus. Shit, she’s not buying this. Maybe we offer a donation. People love those. “There it is,” I say softly. Mark glances at me. “There what is?” “The donation,” I say, scribbling something on the tablet like it’s my idea. “He doesn’t want to admit fault, but he’s willing to pay to look like he cares. We frame it as a mentorship fund for women in tech. He apologizes for ‘falling short of the standards he holds for himself,’ pledges resources instead of groveling. People won’t love him, but they’ll move on faster.” Silence hums around the table for a second. Then Mark smiles, slow and impressed. “See?” he tells Donnelly. “Uncanny.” Witch. The word darts through his mind like a startled fish. I pretend I don’t feel it pierce. The meeting drags on another thirty minutes. I spoon-feed phrases, redirect landmines, dodge the little trap Mark tries to set when he says, “And if this goes sideways, we’ll of course be transparent about which team members were responsible for the messaging.” If this blows up, it’s on you, Avery. “Absolutely,” I say sweetly. “That’s why I’ll email you both the recap and ask you to confirm in writing that these were your preferred strategies. That way, there’s no confusion later.” His smile flickers. Nice try, he thinks, irritated. I keep my expression bland. Inside, something cold and small uncoils—satisfaction, maybe. Victory by eavesdropping. As soon as the door closes behind Donnelly, Lila exhales dramatically. “Jesus,” she mutters. “How do you do that? You always know exactly what to say.” Maybe you’re sleeping with Sullivan. No, he’s too old for you. So what is it? “I listen,” I say. It’s not a lie. Not exactly. By five-thirty, my head feels like someone’s been using it as a drum. I shut down my computer, tell Lila I’m skipping drinks (“Rain check, I’m wiped”), and step back into the damp evening. The subway home is marginally less crowded, but the thoughts still brush against me like strangers’ coats. Bills. Affairs. Dinner. Regrets. I throw my focus inward, counting my breaths, until I’m climbing the chipped stairs to my father’s apartment in Queenscrest. The hallway smells like old cooking oil and Lysol. The lock sticks, as always. I shoulder it open. “Dad?” I call. “In here,” he answers from the living room. Don’t let her see the mail. Hide the bill. Smile. Don’t let her worry. Don’t let her leave. He’s in his recliner, TV on low, baseball game flickering across the screen. He’s still in his work uniform—New Crest Transit patch on the sleeve, name tag a little crooked. There’s more gray in his beard than last month. “You’re late,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Busy saving the world?” Busy lying for rich men who screw up, more like. “Something like that,” I say, bending to kiss his cheek. His skin is warm, familiar. “How was your day?” “Same old. Route was a mess, some tourist puked in the back. You know.” He waves it off. I almost died twice on that ramp. I can’t do this job forever. I sit on the sagging couch across from him, tucking one leg under me. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, half-covered by yesterday’s newspaper. A hospital logo peeks out from under the sports section. “Have you eaten?” I ask. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t fuss.” He reaches for the remote. “How’s work? They treating you okay over there?” Don’t tell her about the guy who came by. Don’t scare her off. She’ll run, just like her mother. “Fine,” I say. “Busy. We signed a big client today. Sullivan’s thrilled.” “That’s good.” His eyes soften. “I just worry they’re working you too hard. You always look tired, kiddo.” You always looked tired, even when you were fifteen and your world fell apart and I lied and lied and lied. “I’m fine,” I say again. The lie sits heavy on my tongue. “Really.” He nods, but his gaze slides away, landing somewhere over my shoulder. He doesn’t meet my eyes. My fingers curl into my palms. “Dad,” I say carefully, “is everything okay here? Money-wise? Health-wise? Because if something’s going on, I’d rather you just tell me than—” “Everything’s fine.” Too quick. He forces a chuckle. “Don’t start mother-henning me. I’m old, not dead.” If she knew about the papers I signed back then, she’d never forgive me. The thought punches the air out of my lungs. I blink. “What papers?” His head snaps toward me. “What?” Shit. Did I say that out loud? No, no, she couldn’t have— I cover quickly, heart hammering. “You just… looked like you were a million miles away.” “Just tired,” he says. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.” I ruined your life. The ache in his mind is so loud I have to look away. On the TV, a batter swings and misses. The crowd groans. I could push. I could pin him with my stare, peel back whatever he’s hiding. The hospital brochure, the “papers,” the way the word signed tasted like guilt. But he’s all I have left. The only person whose lies I’m still willing to pretend I don’t hear. So I swallow the questions. We talk about the game instead. The weather. My neighbor’s loud music. Nothing that matters and everything that does. By the time I leave, the sky is full dark. The streetlights buzz. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m stepping off the curb. Unknown number. Work prefix. I hesitate, then answer. “This is Avery.” “Avery, it’s Jenna from HR,” a bright, brittle voice says. In the background, office noise hums, even at this hour. “Sorry to bother you so late.” She never answers after six. This must be bad. “It’s fine,” I say, already bracing. “What’s up?” “We’ve had a… shift in priorities.” Her tone is chirpy, but there’s a tightness under it. “Effective tomorrow, you’re being reassigned to a high-priority client. Genexis Labs. You’ll be part of the core crisis team.” Don’t freak out. Say it like it’s a promotion. Sullivan said she’s ‘uniquely suited’ for this. My grip on the phone tightens. “Genexis,” I repeat. The name buzzes in my ears. I’ve seen it in passing—articles about cutting-edge neuroscience, mood-regulation tech, miracle treatments. And, lately, rumors. Lawsuits. Whispers. “We’ll send you the brief tonight,” Jenna goes on. “Kickoff’s at nine a.m. You’ll be working closely with an external consultant Sullivan brought in. Noah Reed.” He’s a nightmare. He doesn’t play nice. But if anyone can keep this from exploding, it’s him. Something cold slides down my spine. “I wasn’t aware we were bringing in outside help,” I say. “Big case,” she chirps. “Big guns. Anyway, congratulations. This is a huge opportunity. Sullivan specifically asked for you.” If she can’t handle it, that’s on her. But God, we need her instincts on this one. We cannot screw this up. “Sure,” I say slowly. “Send me the brief.” We hang up. The street feels suddenly narrower, the air thinner. Somewhere down the block, a siren wails. Genexis Labs. High-priority crisis. An external consultant whose name tugs at something in the back of my mind—a headline I can’t quite remember. I stare at my dark phone screen, my reflection ghosted over it. My own eyes look back at me, tired, wary. Under the faint city hum, like a radio picking up a station it shouldn’t, something else pricks at the edge of my hearing. Not a voice I recognize. Not close, not clear—just a shard of thought, drifting in from somewhere I can’t place. She has no idea she’s the key. The world tilts, just a little. For the first time in a long time, it isn’t some stranger on a train whose mind I’ve slipped into. It feels… bigger. Farther away. Focused directly on me. And I don’t know who’s thinking it. Or how they’ve found me.