The city looks different from forty floors above ground.
Smaller. Quieter. Obedient.
I stand by the glass wall of my office, hands in my pockets, watching traffic crawl like veins beneath concrete skin. From up here, nothing feels personal—not the people, not the noise, not even time. That's why I chose this height. Distance clarifies things.
"Sir, the board meeting starts in ten minutes."
I don't turn around. "Cancel it."
A pause. Careful. Everyone around me learns that pause early—how to measure words around silence.
"Reschedule," I add, controlled. "Tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
The door closes softly. Always softly.
They say I'm difficult to work with.
They also say the company has tripled its valuation under my leadership.
Results excuse everything.
I return to my desk, align the files without looking, and sit. Routine keeps the mind clean. Order keeps emotions out. I didn't become CEO by being distracted by feelings I can't afford.
Then the knock comes.
It's different. Not hesitant. Not rushed.
"Come in."
She steps inside carrying a thin folder and a tablet pressed against her chest. She's new—I know this because I know everything that enters my building. Still, something about her presence unsettles the air, like a room that remembers warmth after the heater is turned off.
"Good morning, sir. I'm Mira Hale. I was asked to deliver the revised acquisition report."
Her voice is calm. Not eager. Not intimidated.
I look up.
She doesn't flinch.
Most people do. There's a brief moment when they realize who I am—when authority settles between us like weight. She only adjusts her grip on the folder and waits.
"Leave it," I say.
She walks closer, places the folder on my desk. Our hands don't touch, but the space between them tightens, charged with something I don't name.
"Is there anything else?" I ask.
She hesitates. Just a second.
"There's an error in the third projection," she says carefully. "I flagged it in the margin."
People rarely correct me. They suggest. They soften. They orbit.
I open the folder. Scan. She's right.
"Thank you," I say, already dismissing her.
She turns to leave.
"Mira."
She looks back.
"Yes, sir?"
I don't know why I stopped her. I don't need to explain myself. Still—
"Be careful," I say. "Around here, noticing too much isn't always rewarded."
Her lips curve—not a smile. Something quieter.
"Noticing is my job," she replies.
Then she leaves.
The door closes.
The room feels… altered.
I don't move for a long moment.
I hate disruptions.
Everyone warned me about him.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Don't challenge him.
Don't expect warmth.
They said he was cold. Untouchable. A man who built empires out of discipline and silence.
What they didn't say was that he watches everything.
From the moment I stepped into his office, I felt it—not scrutiny, but awareness. As if he knew the shape of every breath I took. It wasn't intimidating. It was… lonely.
I didn't expect him to look like that. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just distant. Like someone who learned early how to stand alone and never forgot.
When he warned me, it wasn't a threat.
It sounded like experience.
Back at my desk, I try to focus, but my thoughts drift upward—to glass walls and controlled voices and the strange weight of being seen without being known.
He didn't smile.
He didn't soften.
He didn't pretend.
And yet—when I corrected him, he listened.
That matters more than kindness.
Across the office floor, people move with practiced efficiency, orbiting power like satellites. I realize something then, quiet and unsettling.
He doesn't belong to them.
He's alone up there.
And for reasons I don't yet understand, that thought stays with me far longer than it should.
That night, I stay late.
The city darkens. Lights blink on like constellations. I review contracts, sign documents, erase the day down to numbers and ink.
Still, her voice lingers.
Noticing is my job.
I close the file.
For the first time in years, silence doesn't feel empty.
It feels… disturbed.
And I don't like that at all.