Gray sky. Bitter wind. Coffee that tasted like disappointment. But what really made it hurt was the silence, louder than ever.
Miles Harlan walked through the lobby with his usual detachment. No headphones. No phone out. Just a man blending into the background of a world pretending it was fine.
It wasn’t.
In the lobby, a new security guard stood stiff by the entrance. Not the usual rent-a-cop with a crossword puzzle. This one had a buzz cut, mirrored shades indoors, and an earpiece he thought made him look important. Federal, maybe. Or pretending to be. Either way, not corporate.
Interesting.
The elevators were quieter than usual. No idle chat. Just the gentle hum of anxiety and shifting priorities. Miles took it all in, shoulders too tense, eye contact too brief, smiles too forced. People were scared. They just didn’t know of what.
Yet.
On the 14th floor, the atmosphere had curdled. Lisa Myer’s office was now permanently dark. Darius Kent’s nameplate had been peeled off his cubicle. An HR rep now sat in his chair, going through files with too much interest and not enough discretion.
Even better: Rachel Lin hadn’t shown up at all.
Miles sipped his coffee.
Then he opened an innocuous spreadsheet labeled “Weekly Vendor Billing” and watched, in real time, a co-worker fall apart.
Kyle Rosario, mid-level accountant, side-slicked hair, always 90% certain and 10% insecure was pacing near the kitchenette with two other analysts. Miles had intercepted an email Kyle sent the previous Friday. He hadn’t done anything to it. He’d just re-routed it... to Kyle’s boss, who was not supposed to be on the recipient list.
Now Kyle’s hands were shaking. His eyes were darting. His voice dropped to a paranoid whisper every time someone walked by.
People don’t need to be pushed. Not really. Most are already standing at the edge. All Miles had to do was lean in and whisper: Jump.
At 10:04 a.m., a company-wide memo arrived:
Subject: SECURITY AUDIT – BUILDING ACCESS & DIGITAL INFRASTRUCTURE
In light of recent unusual activity, we’ll be conducting a routine sweep of all employee devices and badge data. Please comply with IT and Security teams throughout the week.
– Everworth & Halden LLP
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Miles raised an eyebrow.
Someone was escalating.
He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a silver USB drive, and dropped it into his mug of water.
Just in case.
Then he leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling vent again, and whispered, “Who’s playing on my board?”
Lunch arrived in a soggy mess of takeout bags and long, suspicious glances. The break room had turned into a Cold War bunker. Everyone was talking about someone else, behind their backs, in hushed tones, assuming they were next.
Miles sat at the far table, alone, picking at soggy noodles. He didn’t eat much. He didn’t need to. Not today.
Instead, he studied a new face.
The intern.
Her badge said Madison. Early twenties. Too alert for her own good. She was the only one asking questions out loud. The only one walking freely, unburdened by guilt. That made her dangerous.
He watched her go to the copier. Saw her pull out a file, hesitate, then tuck it into her satchel.
She didn’t notice him watching. Most people didn’t.
But she would.
By mid-afternoon, the paranoia had reached a fever pitch.
Someone in marketing was crying in a supply closet. A fight had broken out near HR over who had signed off on a bonus adjustment last quarter. Two senior managers called out sick in the same hour. The janitor closet’s doorknob now had a digital lock on it.
The building was beginning to eat itself.
Miles loved it.
And yet…
The note. The envelope. The man across the street.
Someone else was nudging the pieces now.
He booted up a virtual machine on his office desktop, something hidden inside a folder labeled “Q1BudgetBackup.” A program blinked to life. Just text.
“Trace vector – msg origin”
[Processing…]
Source: INTERNAL SERVER
Node: SUBNET 192.186.1.14
Location: Floor 12 – Secured Archive Room
Miles blinked.
The secured archive room hadn’t been used in four years. It wasn’t even supposed to be wired for network activity anymore.
He stared at the result for a long moment. Then stood up. Smoothed out his shirt. Walked to the elevator like it was just another coffee break.
Floor 12 awaited.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto silence.
Construction signs. Half-finished drywall. Exposed wiring. Abandoned printers under dusty tarps. Floor 12 had become the building’s forgotten limb. No one came here unless they had to.
Miles walked down the main hall. No hesitation. Past the bathrooms. Past the vending machines that hadn’t been restocked since the Obama administration.
He stopped in front of a door labeled:
RECORDS ARCHIVE – SECURE ACCESS ONLY
A security keypad blinked red.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal card, worn, scratched. An old friend. He slid it into the reader. Green light.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Inside: dust. Shelves. Rows and rows of old client files. And in the back, a desk. Empty… except for a small desktop computer. Still running. One line on the screen:
“You’re good.”
“But are you alone?”
Miles stepped closer, eyes scanning.
No cameras. No microphones. Just that one terminal, humming like it had something to say. He tapped the keyboard. Nothing changed. He unplugged the Ethernet cord.
Whoever had sent the message was no longer listening.
But they were there.
And they wanted a game.
He walked out. Closed the door behind him. Lit a cigarette on the stairwell landing. He didn’t smile this time.
He was thinking.
That evening, as the city drowned in sunset and sirens, Miles returned to his apartment, a modest unit in South Loop with bare walls and one too many locks.
He turned on the lamp. Sat on the couch. Stared at the coffee table.
On it sat a folder.
He hadn’t put it there.
He opened it.
Inside: a single Polaroid.
A photograph of him, taken from across the street. Standing outside the office. Cigarette in hand.
On the back, someone had written:
“You’re not the only one watching.”