By noon, the floor felt like it had acquired a second set of eyes.

Not people—software.

The signs were small and incremental. A new icon appeared on the toolbar of everyone’s terminals, branded as a “performance optimization module.” A short internal memo followed, framed in neutral language:

Behavioral Analytics Pilot  

Scope: Floors 30–34  

Purpose: Improve workflow efficiency, identify bottlenecks, enhance security posture.  

Note: No impact to day-to-day operations.

No impact.  

Lena read the line twice.

Her terminal prompted her to acknowledge the terms. She clicked “Accept,” because there was no alternative that would let her continue working.

Tessa swiveled halfway toward her. “You get it too?”

“The pilot?” Lena asked. “Yes.”

“Pilot,” Tessa repeated. “They make it sound like we’re testing new snacks in the cafeteria.”

“It’s just monitoring,” someone else muttered from a nearby pod.

“That’s the problem,” Tessa said. “It’s never ‘just’ anything.”

Lena kept her expression neutral, but her mind was already mapping what this meant.

Behavioral analytics.  

Keystroke timing, mouse movement patterns, idle intervals.  

Where her attention went.  

When she hesitated.

They weren’t just interested in what she accessed anymore.  

They were interested in how.

She opened a financial model that had nothing to do with 2015. Her hands moved through the familiar motions—import, reconcile, adjust variance—just enough to register as normal activity. Her body understood the importance of rhythm now; any deviation might flag as a discrepancy.

At 12:13, another memo slid into her inbox.

Access Review – Interim  

Subject: L. Carrow  

Status: Active, monitored  

Restrictions: Cross-floor access suspended. Archive access pending.  

Notes: Behavior monitoring tagged for anomaly detection.

Tessa read over her shoulder and swore softly. “They put ‘anomaly’ in the notes. Do they hear themselves?”

“It’s for the system,” Lena said. “Not for us.”

“The system doesn’t send people to 2C with a recorder,” Tessa replied.

Lena closed the memo.

She ate at her desk, not because she was afraid to leave, but because she didn’t want to test the boundaries of “normal” movement today. A plastic salad container, a bottle of water, her notebook angled just enough to hide the folded slip from R.M.

Tessa picked at her food, then said, too lightly, “HR sent me something weird.”

Lena’s pulse tightened. “What kind of weird?”

“‘Personnel lineage verification,’” Tessa said. “They’re updating records on employees with family ties to past staff.” She made a face. “Apparently I qualify.”

Lena’s fingers stilled.

“What did they ask?” she said.

“Whether I have any immediate relatives who worked here between 2010 and 2016,” Tessa said. “I thought it was a mistake at first. Then I checked my old onboarding file.”

Lena forced her breath steady. “And?”

Tessa’s laugh was short. “And someone helpfully annotated it years ago. ‘Sibling: C. Monroe – former employee.’”

The name pressed against Lena’s ribs.

“Did you know she worked here?” Lena asked quietly.

Tessa hesitated.

“My family doesn’t like to talk about that period,” she said. “I knew she was in finance. I knew she left the city. But T&C never came up. Not once.” She paused. “Until today.”

Lena watched the small movements in her face—the tightness at the corner of her mouth, the flicker of something like betrayal.

“Do you think this is about you?” Tessa asked. “Or about her?”

Lena chose her words carefully. “I think they’re trying to control every possible version of the story.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you without guessing,” Lena said.

Tessa’s gaze sharpened. “And without putting me in the middle.”

“Yes,” Lena said.

Silence settled between them. Not hostile. Just altered.

After lunch, the floor’s pattern shifted again.

A Compliance staffer set up at a floating workstation near the elevators—tablet, headset, posture outwardly relaxed. Nothing about their presence was technically invasive. But they were positioned to see who came and went, how often, and with whom.

The second set of eyes, now with a human surface.

At 2:04, Lena’s terminal flickered.

For a heartbeat, the screen froze. The cursor jumped once, then stilled.

A small notification appeared in the lower corner:

Session Snapshot Complete.  

Thank you for your cooperation.

She hadn’t been asked for it.

She watched the message fade.

The behavioral system had taken a snapshot of her work—what file she had open, what she was typing, how long she’d paused.

The version of her the system was constructing didn’t belong to her anymore.

Her phone vibrated against the desk.

She glanced at it, expecting a follow-up from Silas, or another automated alert.

Instead, it was a single line from an unknown number. No name attached.

**Noise level rising. Stairwell. Two minutes. —R**

Her chest tightened.

She typed back: Monitored.

The reply came almost instantly.

**Exactly. Walk like you don’t care.**

Tessa was still at her desk, eyes on her screen, but Lena knew Tessa was tracking every subtle change in the room.

“I need water,” Lena said.

“Get me one too,” Tessa replied. “If they haven’t flagged hydration as suspicious yet.”

“That’ll be next,” someone muttered.

Lena stood, smoothed her jacket, and walked toward the far end of the floor—not the main stairwell near the elevator bank, but the secondary one near the storage room. It was less traveled, mostly used during fire drills.

The noise on the floor served as cover—keyboards, a phone ringing, the distant hiss of the coffee machine.

She slipped into the stairwell.

The door closed behind her with a soft hush.

Concrete walls. Metal rails. Neutral light through narrow slits of glass. The air smelled faintly of dust and industrial cleaner.

Her phone vibrated once more.

She didn’t answer immediately.

A voice came from the landing above, quiet, distorted by a small device that flattened its tone.

“Don’t look up,” it said.

Lena kept her eyes on the middle space of the stairs.

“Is this what you call ‘distance’?” she asked.

“I call this ‘minimizing collateral,’” the voice replied. “You’re under more active observation than yesterday.”

“I noticed.”

“They’re not just logging access,” the voice continued. “They’re logging hesitation. Duration. Deviations. The system doesn’t know why you pause. It doesn’t care. It only cares that you do.”

Lena’s hand curled around the rail. “What do you want?”

“To tell you the name they chose,” the voice said.

Her breath stilled. “For what?”

“For their version,” the voice said. “The upstairs version of 2015.”

She waited.

“They’re going to give you a single name,” the voice said. “To make it look contained. To make it look resolved.”

“You know which name,” Lena said.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

The voice paused—longer this time.

Then it said, “Ellis Vaughn.”

The name landed with no immediate association.

“Who is he?” Lena asked.

“Senior partner,” the voice said. “Chaired the 2015 internal review. Signed the closure memo on your father’s case. You’ll see his name soon. They’ll make sure of it.”

“If they’re blaming him,” Lena said slowly, “isn’t that… good for everyone else?”

“It’s good for them,” the voice said. “It isolates responsibility. It narrows the frame. It gives them someone to point at while leaving the structure intact.”

“And what does it have to do with me?” Lena asked.

“You’re going to hear that name in a room that feels important,” the voice said. “When you do, they’ll be watching your face.”

“Like you are now,” she said.

“More directly,” the voice replied. “They’ll offer you a version: Vaughn as the beginning and end of the problem. If you accept it, they’ll decide you can be contained. If you reject it, they’ll decide you’re a threat.”

“So I stay between versions,” she said.

“Yes.”

“R. Marrow,” she said quietly, “my access is being watched. My behavior is being watched. Why keep talking to me?”

“Because they’re only watching you,” the voice said. “I’m watching them.”

Her grip on the rail tightened.

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” she said.

“I told you who I was last time,” the voice said. “I was there when your father tried to do this without help. I watched what happened when he trusted the system to fix the system.”

“And you didn’t do anything.”

Another pause.

“Not enough,” the voice said. “The first time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you have time for,” the voice said. “Listen. Today, you were calm in 2C. You didn’t choose a version. That unsettled them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” the voice said, “I saw the notes they wrote after you left the room.”

Her throat went dry. “What did they write?”

“‘Subject refrains from committing to narrative. Recommend enhanced observation.’” The voice’s tone flattened further. “That is both a problem for you and an opportunity.”

“Where is the opportunity?” Lena asked.

“In the gap,” the voice said. “The space where you refuse their frame and haven’t yet offered your own. That’s where things can still move.”

She thought of Silas’s words at the glass.  

Stay between versions.

“Why tell me about Vaughn now?” she asked.

“Because they’re going to try him first,” the voice said. “If that fails, they’ll need someone else.”

“J,” Lena said.

“And you,” the voice replied.

Her breath hitched.

“You said J’s story was unfinished,” she said. “Was Vaughn part of it?”

“Vaughn tried to close it,” the voice said. “He didn’t start it. That’s why using his name is convenient and incomplete.”

“So there’s someone above him.”

“Or beside him,” the voice said. “Power doesn’t always move vertically. Sometimes it moves sideways. Quietly.”

Silas’s face flashed in her mind, unbidden. She pushed the thought away.

“Does Silas know about Vaughn?” Lena asked.

“He knows enough,” the voice said. “But whatever he tells you will be observed. Whatever I tell you won’t.”

“You’re sure about that,” she said.

“I’m sure enough to still be talking,” the voice said.

Footsteps echoed faintly two floors down. Someone entering the stairwell from another level.

R.M.’s voice shifted.

“Time’s up,” it said. “Two things before you go.”

“Quickly,” she said.

“First,” the voice said, “when they say Ellis Vaughn’s name, don’t let it look new. Let it look inevitable.”

“Second?”

“Second,” the voice said, “no matter what happens today, don’t contact me. I’ll contact you.”

“That’s not—”

“Acceptable. I know,” the voice said. “But it’s necessary.”

The stairwell fell silent.

Lena stayed where she was for three more breaths, then turned and walked back up toward 32, footsteps measured, expression neutral.

At the door, she paused, adjusting her grip on the handle as if she were just returning from a normal break. Her reflection in the narrow glass panel looked almost like it had this morning—tired, composed, eyes steady.

Almost.

She stepped back onto the floor.

The world had not shifted visibly.

But she knew it had moved.

When she reached her desk, Tessa glanced up. “You were gone long enough for me to imagine several scenarios.”

“Any of them involve water?” Lena asked.

“One,” Tessa said. “It was the least interesting.”

Lena set a bottle on her desk. “I picked the boring version.”

Tessa took it, then studied her more closely.

“Did they pull you again?” she asked. “Compliance?”

“Not yet,” Lena said.

“And upstairs?”

“Deciding,” Lena said.

“About what?”

Lena looked at her screen, where the notification from earlier had already disappeared, leaving behind only the record in the system logs.

“Which version they want,” she said.

She didn’t say:  

And where they intend to place me inside it.

The day moved forward in measurable units—emails, calls, incremental tasks—but beneath it, a new layer had settled. Cameras that had always been there were suddenly present in a different way. The behavioral module tracked her pauses. The Compliance officer near the elevators tracked her movement.

Somewhere above them, people with more authority than visibility were preparing to speak the name Ellis Vaughn.

They would watch her when they did.

Lena adjusted her posture, her breathing, the angle of her gaze.

She didn’t know which room it would happen in.

But she knew one thing with unsettling clarity:

When that name arrived, she would have to react like it was inevitable, not new.

Because the moment she made it look like a revelation, they would decide what kind of story she belonged to.

And what to do with her once it ended.