Chapter 2

By the time I push open the glass doors of Silverline, my skull is already buzzing. Too many minds. Too much caffeine and resentment and quiet panic jammed into elevators and lobby couches. I keep my sunglasses on even though it’s overcast outside. People think it’s a fashion thing. It’s not. It’s armor. “Morning, Avery,” Jenna at reception chirps. “Hey,” I answer, voice flat, already side‑stepping her gaze. So tired of hearing, wish she’d be nicer. She creeps me out. Her smile doesn’t flicker. I don’t, either. I ride the elevator up with a knot in my throat and three different strangers’ anxieties crawling under my skin. Eighth floor. Strategy wing. The hallway is a blur of framed campaigns, pristine white walls, and lies. I walk into the main conference room and it’s already packed. Suits, laptops, the faint chemical smell of fresh dry cleaning. At the end of the table, the Silverline logo glows on a screen next to GENEXIS LABS: CRISIS STRATEGY. Mark, our CEO, is at the head of the table, sleeves rolled just so, tan perfect. “There she is,” he says, like we’re old friends. “Our secret weapon.” Our disposable shield, until I can pin this on her. I take the seat halfway down, near the wall, where I can angle my chair and avoid direct eye contact. Lila slides into the seat beside me, smelling like expensive perfume and ambition. “You look like you slept in your clothes,” she whispers, lips quirking. You still look better than me. Bitch. Why do they always pick her? “I had a late night,” I murmur, flipping open my laptop. “You all know why we’re here,” Mark says, voice dropping into that practiced gravitas he uses on CNBC. “Genexis is a massive opportunity. But the trial story… is messy.” Messy. People died, but sure, let’s call it “messy.” He clicks the remote. Headlines flash on the screen—PHARMA DARLING GENEXIS UNDER FIRE, TRIAL SUBJECT SUFFERS “PSYCHOTIC BREAK.” “This is not a product recall,” Mark continues. “This is narrative management. We don’t fix the science. We fix perception.” We lie better than they do. My jaw tightens. This is why they love me. I know which lies will land. “Their team will be here in twenty,” he says. “Along with our external crisis consultant. Some of you have heard of him. Noah Reed.” A ripple of thoughts skitters through the room like mice. Is that the Noah Reed? Didn’t he get someone killed? He’s bad news. Hot, but bad. Mark smiles. “He’ll be leading external messaging. Avery will be point on strategy.” Of course she will. I do all the work, she gets the praise. I flick my eyes to Lila, and she jerks her gaze to her notebook, cheeks going pink. Out loud she says, “Congrats. You deserve it.” You always get the good ones. Compliments taste like rust now. I nod like I didn’t hear the rest. The door swings open without a knock. He’s taller than I expected. Dark jeans, white shirt, no tie, charcoal jacket that looks soft even from across the room. Five o’clock shadow, hair like he didn’t bother, but somehow it works. A leather messenger bag hangs from one shoulder. No corporate badge. “Sorry I’m late,” he says easily. “Your lobby security is very enthusiastic.” Should’ve skipped this. Too many vultures in one place. The thought is sharp, unfamiliar, and not mine. It slices across my mind the second I look at him. I snap my gaze down to the table, heart kicking. It was just a brush—three seconds, maybe—but it’s enough for a fragment to slip through. He moves like he owns his space. Drops the bag at an empty chair near the head of the table, directly across from me, and scans the room. His eyes are a storm‑gray, assessing, amused. Don’t stare. Do not— He looks straight at me. For a heartbeat, the room narrows. The hum of other people’s minds drops into a muffled background thrum. All I feel is his focus landing on me like a physical weight. So that’s her. Younger than I thought. Guarded as hell. The thought is clear as speech. I flinch. His gaze flicks to my sunglasses. His mouth curves, like he’s seen this trick before. “Mr. Reed,” Mark says, stepping forward, hand extended. “We’re honored you could join us.” You better be worth the fee we’re paying. “Please,” Noah says, taking the handshake, “call me Noah. ‘Mister’ makes me feel like I should be suing someone.” Yet. The echo is dry, sardonic. He releases Mark’s hand and drops into the chair. “Let’s get to it,” he says, leaning back. “Who’s got the magic plan that saves the day?” All heads turn, almost in unison, toward me. Mark gives me his practiced encouraging look. “Avery?” Don’t screw this up. I swallow, flip to the deck I worked on until two a.m. “Right. Genexis is bleeding public trust. We can’t deny what’s already out there without looking like we’re hiding something. So we position them as proactive and transparent. Acknowledge ‘unforeseen complications’—” You mean the woman who lost her mind. “—and emphasize their commitment to patient safety and mental health resources. We lean into third‑party validators, patient advocates, maybe partner with a nonprofit.” A few nods. Someone thinks, Solid. As usual. Lila taps her pen. Of course it’s good. She probably already read the case file. Mark smiles like he taught me everything I know. “Thoughts?” Noah has been silent, thumb running along the edge of his notebook. His eyes stay on me, and I feel my shoulders stiffen. “Honestly?” he says. “It’s good. Very polished.” Of course it is, golden girl. His mind does not match his tone. The inner voice that brushes mine is sharper, more precise. She sees the cracks. She’s just papering over them. My stomach dips. That’s… not an insult. Not exactly. “‘But’?” I prompt, because there’s always a but. He smiles, slow and infuriating. “But it reads like it was written by a very smart robot who’s never actually been scared in her life.” Laughter ripples around the table. It’s not entirely kind. She’s pissed. Hit a nerve. Heat rises up my neck. “Fear doesn’t sell stability,” I say evenly. “Investors want control, not catharsis.” He tilts his head. “Investors want a story that feels true enough they don’t look too closely. Right now, this feels… safe. Clean. Sanitized. Problem is, the public is already neck‑deep in the gore. You can’t pretend the blood isn’t there.” You know that, don’t you, robot girl? My fingers tighten around my pen. “You have an alternative, or you just like hearing yourself talk?” A few people shift, expecting me to back down. I don’t. His gaze flickers, interest sparking. “What if Genexis leans into the mess? ‘We thought we were helping, we misjudged, we’re listening now.’ Not the hero. The flawed scientist who screwed up and is trying to make it right. People like redemption arcs.” They like watching the fall more. He glances at the screen, then back at me. “Your deck hints at that, under all the corporate padding. My guess is you already know their problem isn’t just perception. You’re just… reluctant to get your hands dirty.” She doesn’t want to see what’s under the rug. My pulse spikes. He’s not wrong, and I hate him for it. Mark clears his throat. “We can marry both approaches. Avery, why don’t you and Noah workshop the language after this?” Because you want them in a room together where you can’t see. “Sure,” I say. What choice do I have? “Happy to.” Liar. The meeting drags. Genexis’s head of PR dials in from somewhere with palm trees, insisting their trial protocols are “flawless.” Her voice is syrupy, her mind an endless scroll of damage‑control bullet points and mental notes to “bury the internal memo.” I keep my eyes on my laptop, taking notes I don’t need. When it finally ends, people filter out in clusters. Mark gets cornered by a board member on Zoom. Lila pretends to fumble with her phone so she can hang back. “Wow,” she says, when it’s just the three of us. “He really went for you.” You two are going to hook up. Watch. I stand, gathering my things. “Occupational hazard.” “Hey, I just call it like I see it,” Noah says. “No offense.” She can take it. “None taken,” I lie. He slings his bag over his shoulder. “Walk and talk? I have some notes that don’t belong on a whiteboard.” You’re either very good or very dangerous, Avery Lane. My name in his thoughts makes my chest tighten. I never told him. I hesitate, then nod. Better to know what kind of enemy I’m dealing with. Lila’s eyes flick between us. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you later,” she says brightly. Unless you get fired first. I don’t bother answering. Noah pushes the door open with his shoulder and waits for me to go first. We walk down the hall in silence. The office hums around us—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, a hundred carefully curated masks. “Nice place,” he says eventually. “Very… clean.” Sterile. Like a lab. I snort. “You should see it during a celebrity divorce.” He glances sideways at me. “Do you always wear sunglasses indoors, or is this just for me?” You don’t want me to see you. “I get migraines,” I say. “Screens all day.” Lies, lies, lies. “Uh‑huh.” He doesn’t push, which somehow feels worse. He leads us into a smaller glass‑walled meeting room, empty except for a round table and four chairs. No windows to the outside, just a view of the bullpen. He closes the door behind us. My shoulders tense. Small spaces are bad. Fewer places for noise to leak out. “Relax,” he says lightly, taking a seat opposite me. “I left my interrogation kit at home.” Not that you’d break easily. I sit, placing my laptop between us like a shield. “So. Your notes?” He studies me for a long beat, eyes tracing my face like he’s cataloging every flinch. She’s exhausted. Running on fumes. And still the sharpest person in that room. I look away. Compliments are worse when they’re true and unspoken. “I wasn’t kidding in there,” he says. “Your plan is good. It’s just… distant. You don’t put yourself in it.” “Good,” I say. “I’m not the client.” “Clients hire people,” he counters, “not decks. People trust people. They don’t trust brands. Or labs.” His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. “Especially not labs.” The thought that flares under that last word is molten, sudden: I should’ve burned them to the ground when I had the chance. Something cold slides down my spine. “You’ve worked with Genexis before.” Not with. Against. His smile is quick and empty. “I’ve… crossed paths with them.” “Right,” I say softly. “As an investigative journalist.” His eyes flicker. “Doing your homework on me?” Or are you something else? Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s my job to know who I’m working with.” “And what did your research say?” he asks. “That I’m reckless? Obsessive? Bad at following orders?” All of the above. “Mostly,” I say, “that you don’t last long in one place.” He huffs out a laugh. “Commitment issues. My therapist would agree.” You don’t get to have a therapist if you get your source killed. The flash of self‑disgust is so strong I have to grip the edge of the table. A woman’s face flickers across his mind—brown hair, tired eyes, hospital bracelet. It’s gone before I can grab it. I swallow. “So why this? Why Genexis?” He leans back, chair creaking. “Let’s just say I have a personal interest in making sure they don’t get to write their own ending.” Or yours. The words brush against my mind, and I freeze. That felt… wrong. Like the edge of a page being turned by someone else. He watches my reaction, something tightening around his mouth. “You okay?” No. “Fine,” I say. “Just… tired.” She heard that. How much did she catch? I force my breathing to slow. I need distance. Space. “Look, Noah, we don’t have to like each other. We just have to get this done without tanking the company.” “And without more bodies,” he says, too quietly. Before I can stop myself, I look up. His eyes catch mine, hold. Don’t be her. Don’t be another name I couldn’t save. It hits me like a punch. The weight of his guilt. The way my outline blurs into another woman’s shadow in his mind. My head throbs. I yank my gaze away. “I’m not your someone‑else,” I snap, more harshly than I intend. His brows draw together. “I know.” Do I? Silence stretches. Outside the glass, people move, talk, laugh. Inside, it feels like the air is too thick. He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “Look. You don’t trust me. That’s fine. I wouldn’t trust me either. But Genexis? They’re lying about more than trial data. And you know that.” You feel it. Even if you don’t know why. My skin prickles. “What makes you think I ‘know’ anything?” Because you watched that PR director lie and you looked like you wanted to throw up. His mind is too loud now, too close. I push my chair back a fraction. “We’re done here.” “Avery—” “I’ll adjust the deck,” I say, standing. “You’ll get a draft by end of day.” She’s running. Interesting. I reach for the door, needing out, needing quiet, when his voice stops me. “You ever get the feeling,” he says, casual as a knife, “that Genexis cares more about… special cases than they’re letting on?” My hand freezes on the handle. “What kind of ‘special’?” The thought that slams into me is so vivid I almost stagger. A file. A code: X‑13. The words: anomalous empathy, auditory intrusion. Underlined. And my name. Avery Lane. If it’s her… maybe there’s still time. I turn slowly. “What did you just think?” He goes very still. “What?” “You thought something,” I say, heart hammering. “About me. About… X‑13. What is that?” His eyes narrow, calculating. His mind spikes with alarm. How the hell— I didn’t say that out loud. Panic flares—his, not mine. And buried under it, sharp and certain, a single sentence that lands in my skull like a brand: If she is the one from the file, then they’re already watching her.