Chapter 3

By the time the elevator opens onto the twenty-eighth floor, my skull already feels one size too small. The Genexis logo glows from the frosted glass ahead—sleek silver double helix, like DNA and a noose at the same time. I can feel the buzz of expensive anxiety before we even step into the conference room. “Ready for the big kids’ table?” Noah’s voice is low at my shoulder, all lazy amusement. “Thrilled,” I say. “Nothing like selling your soul before lunch.” Out loud, he chuckles. In his head, the tone is razor‑sharp. They have no idea how much blood is on this floor. I nearly miss a step. He pushes open the door with a casual flick of his wrist. The room is all glass and chrome, downtown skyline poured in on three sides. At the far end, Genexis’s CEO, Victor Hale, stands to greet us—tan, white‑toothed, smooth as a political ad. Two senior VPs flank him: a rail‑thin woman with a pearl choker, and a heavyset man with kind eyes and a too-tight tie. “Ms. Lane. Mr. Reed.” Victor crosses the room, hand extended. “We’re very grateful to have Silverline’s best on our side.” Grateful we can buy you. Grateful you’ll bury what we can’t. I don’t need to touch him to hear it; the thought is hot and smug, radiating off him like too-strong cologne. I shake his hand anyway. The contact sharpens everything: a flash of a lab, stainless steel, a woman in a hospital gown banging her fists against a door. Screaming, but in his mind it’s on mute. Just a number. Just data. I blink hard, pull back before I show anything on my face. “Genexis appreciates your time,” the pearl woman says. “We know the media… noise… has been disruptive.” It’s a witch hunt. They’re idiots. They’ll never prove anything. “Noise,” I echo, moving to the table. “That’s what we’re here to help you manage.” Noah slides into the chair beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm when he sits. I instinctively angle my body away, trying to keep my distance. He glances over, a half‑smile curving his mouth. “You look like you’re about to bolt.” Because this room is a landmine field and you know it. I don’t mean to, but my foot shifts under the table. My heel knocks his shoe. His attention snaps to me, eyes catching mine for a second too long. You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve stayed a nameless file, not— The thought cuts off as he tears his gaze away. Victor starts his performance. “Let me begin by saying, unequivocally, that every single one of our clinical trials is conducted under the highest ethical standards. Patient safety is our north star.” We care about liability. That’s the star. I stare at his moving mouth while the room begins to hum. The more he talks—“transparency,” “regulatory compliance,” “independent oversight boards”—the more the private channel lights up. Keep it simple. Don’t mention Cohort C. If the board sees the raw numbers, we’re done. No more X‑class outliers. We cannot survive another one. X‑class. My stomach tightens. I fix my gaze on the polished table, counting my own breaths. One. Two. Three. Stay small. Stay quiet. Across from me, the heavyset VP, name card reading “Dr. Ken Marshall,” leans forward. “The recent incident is being blown out of proportion. A single adverse psychiatric reaction in Phase II doesn’t invalidate an entire platform.” Three suicides, two homicides. That’s not “a single reaction,” Ken. God, forgive me. My head throbs. “Could you clarify how you define ‘adverse’ in this context?” I ask, my voice remarkably steady. “For messaging, we’ll need precision.” Victor smiles at me, appreciative. “Of course. ‘Adverse’ in the statistical sense, Ms. Lane. As you know, in any large‑scale trial, some participants will—tragically—experience unrelated mental health events. We screen rigorously.” You signed the forms. You knew the risk. You begged us to take you. The pearl woman adds, “We run psych evaluations at every stage.” Except when we needed numbers and pushed them through anyway. The noise climbs. Every sentence they say births ten silent counterarguments in their heads. “No corners cut” sits next to falsified timestamps. “Robust informed consent” rubs shoulders with signatures from patients who could barely hold a pen. And under all of it, like a low-frequency hum: No more accidents. No more X‑level anomalies. We can’t have another one escape the models. My fingers curl against my notebook. Noah’s leg shifts beside mine. Under the table, my pump brushes his ankle again, not quite accidental this time. I need an anchor. Or maybe I just need a distraction. His mind spikes. Every word out of their mouths is poison. Don’t flinch. Don’t tip your hand. Out loud, he’s smooth as glass. “From a reputational standpoint, Victor, the narrative we’re seeing online is about secrecy. People fill in gaps with the worst‑case scenario. We’ll want to lean into your commitment to openness.” I look sideways at him. “Openness,” I repeat. Cash the check, say the pretty words, walk away, right? That’s what you do, Reed. That’s what you’re here for. But his thoughts don’t match the cynicism in his tone. If they hurt her the way they hurt Mia—if they touch another mind just to see what breaks— Heat flickers in my chest, uncomfortable and unwelcome. Victor nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. We’ve nothing to hide.” Hide the scans. Hide the pre‑X data. Hide X‑13. The letters slam into me like a physical blow. X‑13. The file I glimpsed in Noah’s head. The one with my name attached. My pen skitters, leaving a black streak across the page. “You okay?” Noah murmurs, barely moving his lips. I swallow. “Fine.” Liar. You’re white‑knuckling it. Pull back, Lane. His thought is so clear, so sharply focused on me, it drowns out the others for a heartbeat. He shifts under the table, his shoe nudging mine in what might look like nothing from above, but the contact tightens the mental channel between us. We can’t go at them head‑on. Not yet. They’ll close ranks. They’ll come for anyone who knows too much—including you. My pulse trips. “Ms. Lane,” Victor says, dragging my attention back. “From your perspective, how concerned should we be about this… narrative… around ‘mind control’ tech?” He laughs, easy and dismissive. “Science fiction sells.” We could sell it if we perfect it. They’d pay anything to read voters, juries, enemies. My voice feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “People fear what they can’t understand. If we try to minimize too much, it will look like we’re hiding something. Better to frame it as pioneering but responsible.” Responsible. That word tastes like acid. The meeting drags on for another forty minutes. Clinical endpoints. Investor calls. Messaging trees. By the end, my head is a hive, thoughts crawling over each other—panic, greed, self‑justification, little private prayers that no one will ever find out. When it finally adjourns, I stand too fast, the room tilting. I manage to keep my expression neutral as I shake hands. “Thank you again,” Victor says, squeezing my fingers just a shade too long. “I trust you’ll help the world see us as we truly are.” God help us if they ever see us as we truly are. I let go before I say something that will get me fired. Or sued. Or killed. Noah waits by the door, hands in his pockets, watching me with that unreadable half‑smile. On the surface, he looks bored, like this was just another client song‑and‑dance. Inside, he’s a tight coil. She heard it. She had to. How could she not? The hallway outside is blessedly empty. Frosted glass, gray carpet, a tasteful abstract painting that looks like a brain mid‑explosion. I head for the elevators, heels clicking, needing out, needing distance. Noah falls into step beside me. “Well,” he says lightly, “that was fun. Nothing like being lied to by a roomful of rich sociopaths before noon.” “You get off on this?” I snap. “Is that it? You like swimming in their bullshit?” His jaw flexes, just barely. “We swim in their bullshit so other people don’t drown in it.” We swim in it so we can steer it. Until we can turn it back on them. At the elevators, I jab the button harder than necessary. The light blinks. My reflection in the chrome doors looks pale, eyes too bright. “Look,” he says, quieter now. “We both know Genexis isn’t telling us everything.” Isn’t telling you anything. They know exactly who I am. They know you’re a liability. “I’m aware,” I say. He shifts closer, voice dropping. “Then maybe we stop pretending this is just another contract. You and I—” “Don’t say ‘team,’” I cut in. “I’m allergic.” His mouth curves. “Okay. We… coordinate. Off‑the‑record. Compare what they say to what we… sense.” He glances at me like he’s tasting the word. “We’ll get further if we’re not working at cross purposes.” On the outside, he’s offering professional synergy, two cynical experts maximizing impact. In his head, the words are different. She knows too much already. If she keeps going alone, they’ll notice. They’ll circle. I can’t let them see her. I can’t let her become— The elevator dings. I step in, heart pounding. “Why do you care?” I ask, turning to face him as the doors close. “About me, about them, about any of this. You keep saying it’s just business.” “Because dead clients don’t pay,” he says dryly. Because I’ve already buried one person Genexis broke. I’m not adding you to that list. His thought hits me with a mix of guilt and something else—raw, unfiltered protectiveness that makes my throat go tight. I fold my arms. “You keep dodging.” “You keep digging.” He leans back against the wall, watching me. “So what’s it going to be, Lane? You want to keep playing lone wolf, or do you want someone watching your blind spots?” You’re not wrong, he thinks. She’s smart. Too smart. But she’s not paranoid enough. Not yet. “I don’t have blind spots,” I lie. He laughs once, no humor. “Everyone does.” Not when you can hear them lie. Not when you can see them coming. Except I didn’t see my mother leaving. I didn’t see my father drinking himself into a crash. I didn’t see Genexis’s file with my name on it until it was too late. The elevator opens onto Silverline’s lobby. Phones ringing, people moving, polished concrete and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Safe, familiar chaos. “Think about it,” Noah says as we step out. “We both want the same thing.” Do we? Or do I just want you close enough to keep an eye on? I glance at him. “What is it you think I want?” “The truth,” he says. “Or close enough that you can sleep at night.” Sleep. That’s cute. We part ways at the glass doors, him toward the conference wing, me toward the bullpen. My headache has settled into a steady throb behind my eyes. I sink into my chair, drop my bag, and open my laptop out of muscle memory. My phone buzzes. Lila: *You survive the evil science overlords?* I manage a smile. *Barely.* A typing bubble appears, disappears, reappears. Finally, a new message pops up. Lila: *OMG, speaking of overlords, you’ve seen this, right? Your new boytoy is kind of infamous ?* A link follows, some local news site with a trashy logo. My chest tightens at the headline: **INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER PUSHES TOO FAR: GENEXIS “SUICIDE” SOURCE DIES AFTER MENTAL BREAKDOWN** Noah’s face is in the thumbnail, younger, no stubble, eyes still that same cutting blue. Next to him, a blurred photo of a woman, late twenties, hospital gown slipping off one shoulder. I scroll. “…Mia Kline, a participant in an early Genexis neuro‑trial, died by apparent suicide after what friends described as a sudden, extreme psychotic episode…” “…lead reporter Noah Reed pursued allegations that the company’s experimental drug caused auditory hallucinations and ‘voices’…” “…no wrongdoing was found; Genexis settled with the family under sealed terms…” I look at the date. Three years ago. In the conference room, in his mind, he said: If they hurt her the way they hurt Mia— But he never said Mia’s name out loud. Never told me any of this. My thumb hovers over the screen as my vision tunnels in. A high‑pitched whine edges at my hearing, the precursor to an overload. On the laptop screen, a banner ad at the side refreshes, glitching for a second. A Genexis promo video flickers up, sound muted, but the caption auto‑plays: *“Redefining perception. Unlocking the brain’s hidden potential.”* In my head, an echo overlays the words, cold and clinical, not mine: X‑13 exhibited similar auditory intrusion prior to decompensation. Monitor closely. The room spins. My hands go cold. Noah knew a woman who heard voices and died. He chased Genexis for it. He has a secret file with my name and “anomalous empathy” in it. And he’s still lying to my face. If Mia was their “suicide source”… what does that make me? My phone buzzes again. A new message, unknown number, no contact name. *You’re not the first. Ask Noah what really happened to her before you decide to trust him.* My heart slams against my ribs. Outside my cubicle wall, someone laughs at a joke. Inside my head, all I can hear is one question, loud and relentless: What else is Noah Reed hiding from me?