CASUAL FRIDAYS

  It was a Thursday when Miles Harlan dismantled a man’s entire career before his second cup of coffee.

  Not that anyone noticed.

  The office hummed like it always did, fluorescent lights buzzing, keyboards clicking, printers coughing up spreadsheets no one would read. Outside, the gray sprawl of downtown Chicago blurred against the windows, cold and uncaring.

  Miles sat at his desk in the corner. Not the back corner, not the power corner, just a corner. Forgettable. That was the point. His nameplate was slightly tilted. His monitor glowed with an open Excel sheet that hadn’t been touched in twenty minutes. He sipped burnt coffee from a chipped mug that read: “You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!”

  He wasn’t crazy. He was bored.

  Across the open floor, two voices were rising. Heated, clipped. Managerial.

  “I told you, if we don’t get the Q3 report redone by tomorrow, that audit’s going to blow up in our faces,” snapped Lisa Myer, Head of Financial Strategy. Tailored blazer, tight bun, tighter ethics.

  “You want me to pull another all-nighter because your department failed to flag the margins?” replied Darius Kent, Lead Analyst. Aggressive beard. Passive-aggressive attitude. A climber. The type who knew how to shine and who to throw under the bus to keep it that way.

  They were circling each other like dogs in suits. Quietly tearing open the seams of a very expensive lie.

  Miles watched the tension build, watched the office glance up and look away. Most people didn’t like friction. Most people didn’t understand how useful it was.

  He reached into his drawer, pulled out a half-empty tin of breath mints, and rattled it twice, loudly enough to be heard, softly enough to be ignored. He stood up, wandered over to the printer. Not his printer. Not even one on his floor.

  He didn’t need paper. He just needed proximity.

  As he walked past the break room, he dropped a folder onto the copy table. Casual. Intentional. The label was handwritten, a little messy: "Q3 Discrepancies – Internal".

  Stolen story; please report.

  By the time he came back with two blank sheets of paper and no one questioned him, Lisa had already picked it up. By the time she returned to her office, she was dialing HR. By 11:42 a.m., Darius’s name was floating on three separate escalation emails. Not one of them came from Miles.

  He sat down and finally typed a number into cell B14.

  Nothing fancy. Just the beginning of a gentle push.

  Lunch came. People filed out in waves, some to food trucks, others to overpriced cafés. Miles stayed at his desk. He always stayed. It made him look diligent, overworked, harmless.

  The truth was he just liked watching people.

  Today’s subject was Rachel Lin from Legal. Bright, overworked, tired. She ate a bagel at her desk and triple-checked an NDA for a merger she wasn’t supposed to know about. Miles had slipped it into her inbox that morning, no sender, no subject line, just a file with the name LOOK AGAIN.

  He hadn't hacked anything. He just knew how to leave a USB drive in the right bathroom at the right time.

  Rachel wouldn’t blow the whistle. Not yet. But she’d start thinking about it.

  Miles leaned back in his chair. Smiled faintly. The pieces were moving.

  At 3:17 p.m., someone from upper management showed up.

  Not someone he recognized, new blood, expensive suit, fake smile. The kind of guy who said things like “synergy” and “value-add” with a straight face. Miles watched him make rounds, shaking hands, laughing too loudly. He stopped at Lisa’s desk for too long. Then at Darius’s. Then...

  “Hey there,” he said, stepping into Miles’ cube. “You’re… uh... Mitch?”

  “Miles,” he corrected with a pleasant smile.

  “Right. Miles. What do you do again?”

  Miles blinked at him slowly. Then looked at his screen like he was surprised to find himself in front of it.

  “Mostly damage control.”

  The suit chuckled. “Love that. Love the self-awareness. Keep it up.”

  He walked away without waiting for a response. Typical.

  Miles stared after him for a moment, then glanced toward the elevators. Already calculating how long it would take before that man tripped on something he couldn’t explain. He’d probably get a warning by Monday. A demotion by next quarter. By summer, no one would remember his name.

  Not that Miles wanted the guy gone. He just wanted to see how fast it could happen.

  The day ended like it always did. slow, tired, fluorescent. People packed up laptops, waved half-hearted goodbyes, promised happy hours they’d never attend.

  Miles stayed behind another twenty minutes, just enough to look productive. He checked his inbox. One new message.

  No sender. No subject. Just a blank body and one line of text:

  “We’re watching.”

  He didn’t flinch. Just smiled. A little wider this time.

  He closed the message without replying, grabbed his coat, and walked out into the evening wind. Chicago’s skyline loomed above him, tall, sharp, full of stories.

  He lit a cigarette. Took a long drag.

  Tomorrow was Friday.

  And Friday was his day.

  [END OF CHAPTER ONE]