Vane Towers didn't blend into the city.
It stood above it.
Black glass. Clean edges. No wasted space. The kind of building that didn't try to impress, it just assumed you were already impressed.
I stopped at the entrance for half a second.
This was a mistake.
I knew it.
Everything in me said turn around, go back to my dorm, pretend none of this had happened.
Instead, I walked in.
The lobby was quiet. Not empty, just controlled. People moved with purpose. No one lingered. No one looked lost.
Unlike me.
I tightened my grip on my portfolio and approached the front desk.
"Lia Woods?"
The receptionist didn't look up. Her fingers moved across a glowing interface, precise and fast.
"Yes."
A card slid toward me.
"Top floor. You have twenty minutes."
That was it.
No smile. No explanation.
Just access.
The elevator doors closed behind me with a soft click.
As it moved, my reflection stared back from the mirrored walls.
Same face.
Same person.
So why did it feel like I was walking into something I wouldn't be able to walk out of?
The doors opened.
Silence.
His office was… larger than it needed to be. Minimal, but not empty. Everything had a place. Everything meant something.
Including him.
He stood by the window, looking out over the city.
He didn't turn when I stepped in.
"You're early," he said.
His voice carried easily in the room. Calm. Measured.
"I didn't think you'd mind," I replied.
"I don't."
A pause.
Then he turned.
In daylight, there was nothing softened about him. If anything, it made things clearer. Sharper.
More real.
"I do mind," he added, "when people waste my time."
I let out a quiet breath. "Then I'll be direct."
I stepped further into the room.
"How did you get into my room?"
No reaction.
No surprise.
Like he'd been expecting the question.
"I didn't break in," he said. "Your security did that for me."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to. It just has to work."
I frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
The conversation shifted without warning.
He moved past me, heading toward the desk.
"Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion.
I didn't move.
"Or don't," he added lightly. "It won't change anything."
I sat.
Not because he told me to.
Because I needed to understand what this was.
He picked up a file.
My name was on it.
"That interview," I said, "I didn't apply for it."
"I know."
"Then why am I here?"
He flipped a page.
"Because you're useful."
That… wasn't what I expected.
"My thesis," he continued. "Market volatility. You didn't follow the standard models."
"They're outdated."
"Yes." He looked up. "And most people don't notice."
I hesitated.
That was… different.
"You're offering me a job because of that?"
"I'm offering you a position because you see things before they become problems."
A file slid across the desk toward me.
I looked down.
Salary.
Benefits.
Housing.
Everything was… excessive.
"This is too much," I said.
"No," he replied. "It's accurate."
I looked up. "For what?"
"For what you'll be doing."
Something about that answer sat wrong.
"What's the catch?"
He didn't respond immediately.
That was the first sign there was one.
"You'll be working directly under me," he said finally. "Your time won't be yours in the way you're used to."
"That sounds vague."
"It's intentional."
I leaned back slightly. "Try again."
His gaze held mine.
Steady. Unblinking.
"When I need you, you'll be available."
"That's still vague."
"It's also non-negotiable."
There it was.
I looked back at the contract.
Then at him.
"This isn't just a job."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he picked up a pen and placed it on the table between us.
"An opportunity," he said.
"That's not convincing."
"It doesn't need to be."
I let out a small, humorless breath. "You broke into my room, sent me surveillance footage, and now you're offering me a job with a contract that looks like it came out of a legal nightmare."
"I didn't break in," he said again.
"Right. You 'opened a door.'"
"Yes."
"That's worse."
A faint shift in his expression.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
"You're still here," he pointed out.
I didn't have a response to that.
Because he was right.
I looked at the pen.
Then the contract.
Then back at him.
Every instinct I had was telling me this was a bad idea.
Not risky.
Not complicated.
Bad.
The kind you don't recover from.
"Why me?" I asked quietly.
This time, he answered immediately.
"Because you didn't react the way everyone else does."
"That's it?"
"That's enough."
Silence stretched between us.
I could leave.
Right now.
Walk out, ignore the invite, pretend none of this existed.
Go back to normal.
Safe.
Predictable.
Small.
My fingers hovered over the pen.
"This doesn't make sense," I said.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
That should've been my answer.
Instead
I picked up the pen.
Signed.
The sound of it against paper felt louder than it should have.
Final.
I set it down.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he took the contract, glancing over the signature like he already knew it would be there.
"Good," he said.
That was it.
Just that.
Like the decision had never been in doubt.
I stood.
"What happens now?"
"Now," he said, closing the file, "you start working."
"That's it?"
"For today."
I frowned. "And tomorrow?"
He looked at me then.
Really looked.
"You'll find out."
Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
But close enough.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"Lia."
I paused.
"Don't be late."
I didn't turn around.
But I understood something then.
This wasn't a job I had just accepted.
It was something I had just stepped into.
And I wasn't sure there was a way back out.