The letter came on a Tuesday, which felt rude.
Bad news, in Amara's experience, belonged to Mondays or 3 a.m. emails—not to a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon where she'd just made peace with eating instant noodles again.
It slid through the mail slot and slapped onto the floor with more authority than its size deserved. No stack of flyers, no takeaway menus riding on top of it—just one thick envelope, cream-colored, with her full name printed in dark ink.
Ms. Amara Reyes
[Her address]
No logo on the front. No cheerful marketing slogan.
She stared at it from her spot on the floor where she'd been half-stretching, half-procrastinating over thumbnails.
Her stomach knew what it was before her hands picked it up.
The paper felt expensive: smoother, heavier than anything that belonged in her apartment. As she turned it over, a subtle emboss caught the light near the flap.
A stylized V, clean and sharp.
"Of course," she whispered.
She slid a thumb under the edge and tore it open, careful not to shred the contents. A folded sheet of paper slid into her lap, heavier stock than printer paper, smelling faintly of toner and something chemical.
She unfolded it.
Dear Ms. Reyes,
We write further to our previous correspondence on behalf of Valtor Group and Mr. Lucian Valtor.
Her eyes skipped down, picking out chunks through the rising static of her heartbeat.
"…request your presence…"
"…to discuss questions related to unauthorized portrayal…"
"…Valtor Group Headquarters…"
"…[date and time]…"
"…failure to attend may result in escalation of legal action."
The words blurred.
Summoned. That was the word her brain chose, not "invited" or "requested." Summoned, like a creature dragged before a king. Or a monster.
Her phone sat on the desk, face down. She reached for it automatically, fingers clumsy, and called the one person whose card now lived in the back of her wallet.
Patel answered on the third ring, voice rough around the edges like he'd been reading small print all morning.
"Patel."
"It's me," she said. "Amara."
"Ms. Reyes," he corrected gently. "Hi. Did they write back already?"
"Not email," she said. "Letter." She unfolded it again, as if it might rearrange itself into something nicer if she caught it at a new angle. "They want me to come to their headquarters. To 'discuss.'" She put more venom in the word than the letter had. "There's a date. Tomorrow. And a line about escalation if I don't."
He was quiet for a moment on the other end. She could hear the faint clatter of a keyboard, the hum of his office.
"All right," he said. "Deep breaths. Read me the important parts."
She did, stumbling once on "unauthorized portrayal" and again on "legal action."
"Standard intimidation," Patel said finally. "They like to make it sound more optional than it is, and more friendly than it feels. They want you on their turf."
"So… do I go?" she asked, hating the smallness in her voice.
"Short answer: yes," he said. "If you ignore it, they'll say you refused to cooperate. That gives them more justification to escalate. If you go, at least you see what they want—and they see you as a person, not just a case file."
"And you'll be there?" she asked quickly.
A soft exhale. "I can't promise to stand beside you in their boardroom on one day's notice. But I can brief you. I'll send you a short script—what to say, what not to say. Keep it simple. Don't sign anything. Don't agree to anything on the spot. You understand?"
"I don't sign. I don't agree," she repeated, like she was memorizing a spell. "I… sit and look terrified and hope they have mercy?"
"If you cry a little, that never hurts," he said dryly. "But seriously, Ms. Reyes. You're not a criminal being interrogated. You're an artist they believe may have crossed a line. You go, you listen, you say as little as possible. Then you come back, and we decide."
She looked down at the letter again. At the embossed V.
"What if they crush me just by breathing?" she half-joked.
"That's not how lungs work," he said. "Worst they can do tomorrow is scare you and waste your time. The real crushing happens on paper, not in person. And we're not there yet."
It wasn't the most comforting pep talk, but it was honest.
He sent the promised email ten minutes later: bullet points on what to say ("I understand your concern, I did not intend to target Mr. Valtor specifically, I'm willing to cooperate within reason") and what not to say ("I based him on you, lol").
She read it three times, then stared at her wardrobe.
The cheap particleboard door swung open on her small collection of clothes: T-shirts, worn jeans, the "almost nice" dress she wore to wedding receptions when she got invited to those, which was almost never. She reached for the closest thing that felt like effort: black slacks she saved for funerals and job interviews, a white blouse that required ironing and therefore lived at the back, and the one blazer she owned, bought from a thrift store and altered with uneven stitches.
The next morning, she woke before her alarm.
She barely tasted her coffee. Her hands shook so badly she had to pour it twice. She put on makeup with mechanical motions—concealer on the lack of sleep under her eyes, a neutral lipstick to make her look like someone who knew what "amicable resolution" meant.
Outside, the weather had the decency to be gray. Sunshine would have felt like mockery.
On the bus, she sat near the window and watched the city gradually shift from her neighborhood's low buildings and peeling paint to the cleaner lines of the business district. The air seemed different here somehow—thinner, more expensive.
The closer she got, the more Valtor Group's headquarters appeared on the skyline. At first just a tall shape among others. Then, as the bus turned, a distinct structure: a sleek, glass-and-steel monolith rising above its neighbors, its surface reflecting the dull sky.
Her chest tightened.
She knew this building.
Not literally. She had never been here. But she had drawn it. Again and again, in different lighting, from different angles, as the backdrop for her Alpha's power and cruelty.
The bus stop for the district sat a block away. She got off, legs stiff, and joined the flow of people moving toward the lobbies of money.
They all seemed to know exactly where they were going. Men and women in coordinated suits and polished shoes, talking on phones, carrying slim briefcases. Their hair had clearly never met the concept of "I slept on it wet."
Amara glanced down at herself: the thrift-store blazer, the trousers that didn't quite fit perfectly, the flats she'd worn to death. She smoothed a hand over the front of her blouse anyway, as if she could iron out the poverty with her palm.
As she drew closer, the Valtor building only grew taller, more intimidating. The glass facade was almost perfectly reflective, the logo—a minimalist V inside a circle—etched discreetly near the entrance. The revolving doors spun constantly, swallowing suits and spitting them back out.
In her comic, Alpha Lucian's tower had looked just like this. Right down to the way the corner panels curved, the pattern of steel beams, the placement of the flag poles. She'd thought she was inventing it out of a mash of movie stills and stock photos.
Now, standing at the foot of it, she felt like she'd been walking around in someone else's dream for months without knowing.
She swallowed hard and walked toward the main doors.
Inside, the lobby was all polished stone and glass, the kind of echoing space designed to make visitors feel both impressed and very small. Two massive digital screens displayed rotating images: charity work, award ceremonies, abstract graphics of growth charts.
A security desk stretched across the center, manned by three people in dark uniforms. A metal detector stood to one side, flanked by two more.
Amara approached the desk, letter clutched in her hand like a talisman.
"Good morning," the woman behind the desk said. Her smile was polite, professional, entirely uninterested. "Visitor?"
"Yes," Amara said. Her voice sounded too loud in her own ears. "Um. I have an appointment with… Valtor Group. Legal department." She held out the letter with both hands.
The woman scanned it, then looked at her closely for the first time. Something in her expression shifted almost imperceptibly—from bored to mildly curious.
"Name?"
"Amara Reyes."
Her fingers danced over the keyboard. "Do you have ID, Ms. Reyes?"
She fumbled for her wallet and slid her ID across. The woman checked it, typed a few more commands, then handed it back and nodded toward the metal detector.
"Please place any electronics, keys, and metal objects in the tray and step through," she said.
Amara obeyed, dumping her phone, keys, and the cheap pen she always carried into the gray plastic bin. As she walked through the detector, a brief fantasy flashed through her mind: that it would go off, they'd find something terribly illegal she didn't actually have, and she could go home instead of going upstairs to be politely threatened.
The detector stayed silent.
She collected her things on the other side. The security guard handed her a plastic visitor badge with her name and a barcode printed on it, along with a thin lanyard.
"Wear this visibly at all times," he said. "You'll need it to access the elevators."
The badge felt like a brand as she slipped it over her head. VISITOR – AMARA REYES. The font was too clean. It made her own name look like it belonged to someone else.
"Take elevator bank B to floor forty-two," the receptionist said, pointing. "Someone from Legal will meet you there."
"Thank you," Amara said automatically, though nothing about this felt like something she wanted to thank anyone for.
She walked across the gleaming lobby. Her flats squeaked faintly on the floor; nobody else's shoes made a sound. She pressed her badge against the sensor by the bank B elevators. A soft beep, a green light, and one of the doors slid open.
Inside, the elevator walls were mirrored steel. Her reflection stared back at her from three angles: the tired eyes, the blazer that didn't quite fit, the visitor badge hanging crooked.
She hit the button for forty-two.
The doors closed with a hiss.
As the elevator began to move, smooth and fast, she watched herself multiply in the reflective surfaces. A cheap girl in cheap clothes, climbing through the belly of a beast made of glass and money.
Behind her reflections, she could see the faint outline of the Valtor logo etched into the mirror—a circle and a V repeating like a watermark.
Her heart thudded.
In Episode 12 of her comic, she'd drawn a panel of Alpha Lucian in the elevator of his own tower, mirrored walls reflecting him over and over. She'd written a monologue for him about how repetition didn't weaken power; it amplified it. Fans had clipped that panel and posted it alone. Some had said they felt seen. Some had said they felt afraid.
She'd drawn that elevator from her imagination.
Except she was standing in it now.
An irrational part of her brain whispered that she'd been here before in dreams. That maybe she'd looked up some corporate interior photos and forgotten. That maybe this was all coincidence layered on top of mistake.
Another part of her brain—quieter, but steady—said: No. You drew this. And now you are here. In the place you built for your monster.
Her stomach flipped.
The numbers above the door ticked upward. 18. 21. 27. Her ears popped slightly with the altitude change. Somewhere below, people shuffled papers and typed emails that could change weather systems in lives like hers.
She smoothed her hands down her blazer again, then made herself stop. She was going to rub the fabric bald if she kept it up.
In the reflection, she tried out a neutral expression. Not scared, not aggressive. Just… there. A person. Someone who did not mean harm and would appreciate not having her existence vaporized.
Her eyes betrayed her anyway, flicking to the corner of the mirrored door where a smear of light suggested the sky outside.
"Just a building," she whispered under her breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "Just a man. Just a meeting."
The elevator dinged.
42.
The doors slid open on a floor bathed in softer light than the lobby. The carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps. The air smelled faintly of coffee and something floral. Frosted glass panels bore understated labels:
LEGAL.
COMPLIANCE.
CORPORATE AFFAIRS.
No cartoon villain lairs. No red-tinted spotlights. Just corridors and doors and the knowledge that every piece of paper here probably had more power than anything she had ever drawn.
She stepped out, the visitor badge swinging lightly against her chest.
At the far end of the hall, near a glass door marked Legal, someone was waiting. A tall shape in a dark suit, posture relaxed but precise, hands loosely clasped in front of him.
He turned as the elevator doors closed behind her.
"Ms. Reyes?" he called, voice smooth, carrying easily down the carpeted corridor.
Amara's mouth went dry.
"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded smaller than she wanted. "That's me."
"Welcome to Valtor Group," he said, with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm Adrien Hale. Legal counsel."
He extended a hand as she approached.
Behind him, through the glass, she could see the edge of a conference room—the curve of a table, a wall of windows, the city beyond. The exact shape of a space she'd drawn burning, over and over.
Summoned to the wolf's den, she thought.
And she was still in the hallway.