NICOLE
The walk to the PR department feels longer than usual. The usual low hum of Apex is gone, replaced by a frantic, buzzing energy that I can feel even through the soundproofed walls.
When the elevator doors slide open on the PR floor, it's pure chaos.
It's a symphony of panic. Phones are ringing off the hook, not with their usual polite chirps, but with shrill, incessant demands. Dozens of public relations specialists are at their stations, voices raised, trying to placate what sounds like an angry mob on the other end of the line.
I hear snippets: "—unfounded allegations—", "—a formal statement is forthcoming—", "—we assure you, Apex's data security—".
My stomach twists. This is bad. This is really bad.
I weave through the maze of desks, looking for Shikaku Yami. His desk is in the corner, but his chair is empty. I'm about to leave the folder with a nearby assistant when I see it. His computer monitor is on, the screen saver hasn't even activated.
