Sleep didn't come easily that night. The code on the back of the black card burned in my mind long after I shut my laptop and turned off the light. Numbers and letters shouldn't feel like eyes, yet every time I closed mine I saw that silver line glowing against the darkness.
By morning I'd convinced myself I'd imagined half of what happened at the gala. People like Lucien Hale lived in a different atmosphere, and if you stared too long, the lack of oxygen made you hallucinate. That was what I told myself as I poured coffee and stared at the skyline.
The message came at nine thirty.
No sender. No subject. Just a single line of text.
> You left before the real conversation started.
Attached was an electronic invitation—Hale Dynamics letterhead, embossed crest, and my name printed in perfect serif. A private tour of the company's main research tower.
I should have deleted it. I really should have.
Instead I was standing in front of the mirrored façade of Hale Dynamics by noon, watching the glass ripple with clouds. The tower rose higher than anything else on that block, its surface so reflective it swallowed the sky. A guard scanned my ID, found my name already cleared, and ushered me through a lobby that looked more like a cathedral than a workspace.
Lucien Hale knew I was coming.
Inside, everything hummed—quietly, efficiently. Elevators moved soundlessly behind opaque doors. Holographic displays blinked above sleek desks where people in gray worked without speaking. The air smelled faintly of ozone again, that same post-storm scent from the gala.
A woman approached, tall, composed, her hair cut in a sharp line that could have doubled as a weapon.
"Ms. Voss. I'm Dahlia, Mr. Hale's executive assistant. He's asked me to show you the facility."
"Is he here?"
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "He's always here."
The elevator whisked us upward. Each floor we passed revealed flashes through glass panels—labs, data rooms, glimpses of machinery shaped like instruments for a future no one had agreed to yet. Dahlia's practiced explanations blurred into static. I kept seeing reflections of myself in the mirrored walls—slightly distorted, as though the building was deciding which version to keep.
"Impressive," I murmured when we stepped into a research wing.
"Mr. Hale believes beauty improves function," Dahlia said. "He also believes function should remain unseen."
"That sounds like a philosophy—and a warning."
She glanced at me. "You ask many questions."
"I'm a journalist."
"Exactly."
Before I could reply, a voice came through an intercom hidden in the wall.
> "That will be all, Dahlia. I'll take it from here."
She inclined her head, pressed a code into a panel, and disappeared down the corridor, heels clicking like a countdown.
The door beside me opened.
Lucien stood in the doorway, no tie this time, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The restraint he'd worn at the gala was gone; he looked sharper, more dangerous, like someone carved from the same glass and steel as the building itself.
"Welcome to the part of my world you weren't supposed to see," he said.
"I was invited."
"By me," he corrected. "I like to see what happens when someone crosses a line."
He motioned for me to follow. The room beyond was filled with low light and the hum of servers. Screens lined the walls, each alive with fragments of code and what looked like biometric data.
"Is this what you build?" I asked.
"This is what I protect," he said. "The rest is noise."
"Protect from what?"
He turned toward me, and for a second the reflection of the screens painted blue across his face. "From anyone who thinks information belongs to everyone."
I took a breath. "You mean people like me."
His smile was faint. "Exactly like you."
Something flickered on the nearest screen—a set of files labeled A-Series // Subject 001. My name appeared for a split second before he tapped a key and the display went black.
"What was that?" I demanded.
"Nothing that concerns you yet."
"Yet?"
He stepped closer, and the distance between us compressed until the hum of machines seemed to fade under the sound of my pulse.
"You keep chasing answers, Miss Voss," he said softly. "You'll eventually find one that bites."
"Maybe I already have."
He studied me, unreadable. Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a thin metal card—cool, weighty.
"An access pass," he said. "If you're going to write about me, at least see the whole picture first."
"What's the catch?"
"You'll know when you've triggered it."
Before I could respond, the lights in the room flickered once, twice. A security alarm whispered somewhere deep in the building—low enough that most people wouldn't have noticed. Lucien's gaze shifted toward the sound, sharp.
"I'm afraid your tour is over," he said. "Dahlia will see you out."
"Something's wrong," I said.
"Everything's wrong," he murmured, almost to himself. "That's the point."
He turned away, already speaking into a comm link I couldn't hear. Dahlia appeared at my side as if she'd materialized from the shadows.
"This way, Ms. Voss."
In the elevator's mirrored surface, I saw Lucien one last time through the closing doors—standing perfectly still, eyes fixed on me like a man memorizing the last frame of a film before it burns.
When I stepped outside, the city looked the same, but my phone was vibrating with a new message.