The private elevator hummed softly as it carried Victor Lang—or rather, Alex Thorne in Victor Lang's skin—sixty-two floors upward. Apex Tower was a monolith of obsidian glass and brushed titanium, the kind of building that screamed money and menace in equal measure. Every surface reflected distorted versions of the man standing inside the car: tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in charcoal Brioni, cufflinks glinting like tiny blades. Alex practiced the expression he'd seen Victor wear in the novel's illustrations—cool, unreadable, one corner of the mouth ever so slightly higher than the other. A predator's half-smile.
He couldn't pull it off. Not today. Every time he tried, his reflection looked… hopeful.
The doors parted with a pneumatic sigh.
Level 62. The Meridian Conference Suite.
Security nodded respectfully as he passed. "Mr. Lang."
"Morning," Alex replied, voice low. He caught himself—Victor never said "morning." He said nothing, or he said something that made people flinch.
Too late. The guard blinked in mild surprise but said nothing.
The double doors to the main conference room stood open. Inside, perhaps thirty executives milled around a long obsidian table shaped like a shallow crescent moon. Holo-projectors cast faint blue grids across the ceiling. Coffee service gleamed on a sideboard; no one touched it. Tension had its own scent here—expensive cologne, printer ink, and the metallic tang of fear.
Alex stepped inside.
Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence.
He felt the shift like pressure on his skin. In the original story, Victor's entrance was always theatrical: slow stride, eyes scanning for weakness, the room shrinking around him. Alex tried to channel some of that authority without the cruelty. He walked to the head of the table, pulled out the chair, and sat. No flourish. No glare. Just… presence.
The murmurs restarted, quieter now.
Across the room, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Neo-Tokyo's endless spires, stood Elena Voss.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
Alex's heart—Victor's heart—gave an unsteady thump.
In person, she was more than the novel's descriptions. Taller than he'd imagined, perhaps five-nine in low heels. Midnight-blue suit, single-breasted, cut razor-sharp at the shoulders and waist. No blouse underneath—just the faintest suggestion of silk camisole at the deep V of the jacket. Dark hair swept into a low, severe chignon; not a strand out of place. Her posture was perfect military-straight, but there was something alive in it—coiled energy, like a spring under tension.
She was speaking quietly to her CFO, a nervous-looking man clutching a tablet. Her hands moved precisely as she pointed to something on the screen. Even from here Alex could see the faint scar on her left index finger—the one the novel mentioned only once, in passing, during her lowest moment.
He forced himself to look away before she caught him staring.
A chime sounded. The moderator—an Apex Tower neutral party—stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we begin. Today's agenda: preliminary discussions regarding potential strategic alignment between Lang Industries and Voss Dynamics in next-generation supply-chain AI. Ms. Voss, the floor is yours."
Elena straightened. The room quieted instantly.
She activated her presentation with a flick of her wrist; data bloomed across the central holo-field in crisp layers of indigo and silver.
"Thank you." Her voice was clear, measured, carrying without effort. "Voss Dynamics has spent four years developing Cascade—an adaptive neural framework that learns from real-time logistics variance rather than static models. Current accuracy on disrupted supply chains: 94.7%. Projected improvement with Lang's proprietary quantum annealing backend: conservatively, 98.2% within eighteen months."
She advanced the slide. Graphs danced. Numbers sharpened.
Alex leaned forward despite himself.
In the book, this was the moment Victor began the sabotage. A planted question from a Lang board member about "over-optimistic assumptions." A leaked internal Voss memo suggesting the real number was closer to 89%. Elena had faltered—just for a second—but it was enough. The room smelled blood.
Today, no one spoke.
Elena continued, outlining integration points, cost structures, risk matrices. Her delivery was surgical. No theatrics. No pleading. Just facts stacked like ammunition.
When she finished, silence held for three full seconds.
Then Alex spoke.
"Impressive, Ms. Voss."
Every head swiveled.
He met her gaze directly. Her eyes were storm-gray, guarded, intelligent. They narrowed fractionally.
"Thank you, Mr. Lang," she said. Polite. Cool. Waiting for the knife.
Instead, Alex stood.
"I have a counter-proposal." He gestured to the holo-field. "Rather than treat Cascade as a bolt-on module for our existing platforms… what if we co-develop the next iteration from the kernel up? Shared IP. Joint governance. Equal branding on go-to-market."
A ripple moved through the room.
Elena's CFO actually dropped his stylus.
She didn't flinch. But something flickered behind those gray eyes—surprise, calculation, the faintest trace of curiosity.
"That would require significant trust," she said.
"Yes." Alex gave a small, genuine nod. "It would."
Another silence.
One of Victor's VPs—Takahashi, a sharp-eyed man who in the novel became one of the first to sense something was "off" with the boss—cleared his throat. "Sir, our current roadmap—"
"Can be adjusted," Alex cut in smoothly. "Ms. Voss's architecture addresses three latency bottlenecks we've been chasing for eighteen months. I'd like to hear her thoughts on a fifty-fifty steering committee."
Elena studied him for a long moment.
Then, very slowly: "I'd need to see your kernel specs before committing to anything."
"Of course." Alex inclined his head. "We can schedule a technical deep-dive tomorrow. My team will prepare a clean-room environment. No NDAs breached."
More murmurs. This was not how Victor Lang did business.
Elena's lips pressed into a thin line—not disapproval. Assessment.
"I'll consider it," she said finally.
The moderator hurried to regain control. "Excellent. We'll move to Q&A."
Questions came—mostly polite, probing. Alex answered when appropriate, but mostly he listened. Really listened. When Elena spoke, he nodded at key points. When her CFO stumbled on a regulatory question, Alex supplied the citation without condescension.
By the time the session wrapped ninety minutes later, the atmosphere had shifted from gladiatorial to… collaborative. Cautiously.
People began to file out.
Alex remained seated.
Elena gathered her things with economical movements. Her CFO hovered, whispering urgently. She shook her head once—quiet command—and the man left.
Then she turned.
Alex rose.
They were perhaps eight feet apart.
"Mr. Lang," she said.
"Ms. Voss."
A beat.
She tilted her head slightly. "You surprised me today."
"I surprised myself," he admitted. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.
Her brows lifted a fraction.
He took one step closer. Lowered his voice so only she could hear.
"Coffee? Off the record. There's a place on Level 38—private booth, no recording devices. I'd like to continue the conversation without thirty people watching."
Elena Voss did not answer immediately.
She studied him the way she studied balance sheets: line by line, searching for the lie.
Then, quietly: "Fifteen minutes. I have another meeting at two."
Alex exhaled. "Fifteen minutes is enough."
She gave a single nod.
They left the conference room separately—professional distance.
But as the elevator carried them down together (different cars, same building), Alex felt something new settle into his chest.
Not victory.
Possibility.
Level 38 was quieter—executive lounges, a scattering of high-end boutiques, and The Obsidian Brew: minimalist, expensive, deliberately obscure. No press. No influencers. Just dark wood, amber lighting, and baristas who knew discretion was part of the price.
They took the corner booth.
Elena ordered black coffee, no sugar.
Alex ordered the same—Victor's preference, but it suited him now.
Silence stretched while the cups arrived.
She spoke first.
"You canceled the smear campaign."
Alex froze for half a second.
She continued, unruffled. "My security team intercepted the altered slide deck at 9:12 this morning. Timing is… convenient."
He met her eyes. No point in lying.
"I canceled it," he confirmed.
"Why?"
"Because it was wrong."
A dry huff of breath—almost a laugh. "Victor Lang doesn't do 'wrong.' He does expedient."
"People change."
Her gaze sharpened. "Not in three hours."
"Sometimes they do," he said softly. "Sometimes they wake up and realize the game they've been playing is rigged against the only person worth beating it for."
Elena went still.
He hadn't meant to say that last part. It had slipped out—raw, too close to the truth.
She leaned back, cradling the cup.
"You're either having a very elaborate breakdown, or you want something from me. Which is it?"
"Neither." Alex leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I want to build something that lasts. Not another quarterly win. Not market dominance for its own sake. Something… better. And I think you do too."
She studied him for so long he began to think she would stand and leave.
Then, quietly: "Cascade isn't just an algorithm. It's designed to prioritize human oversight over pure efficiency. Every prediction flags when human judgment should override. Most companies would strip that out in the first optimization pass."
"I know," Alex said. "That's why I want it."
Another pause.
She took a sip of coffee—first one. Considered.
"If we do this—co-development, shared governance—I will not tolerate games. No back channels. No shadow plays. Full transparency or nothing."
"Agreed."
"I'll need access to your kernel logs going back three years."
"Done."
"And if I find even one line of code that suggests you're still playing the old game…"
"I'll hand you my resignation personally."
Her lips twitched—almost a smile.
"You're serious."
"Deadly."
Elena Voss set her cup down.
"Then let's talk architecture."
They talked.
Not merger terms. Not valuation. Not press strategy.
They talked code.
She sketched constraint functions on a napkin. He countered with annealing schedules. She challenged his assumptions about edge-case resilience; he admitted where Victor's original team had cut corners. Hours slipped past the fifteen-minute mark. Neither noticed.
At some point the barista cleared their second cups without being asked.
Outside the window, Neo-Tokyo's afternoon light turned molten gold.
Elena glanced at her watch—finally.
"Damn. I'm late."
Alex stood when she did. "I'll walk you to the lift."
She didn't object.
They stepped into the corridor together.
At the elevator bank she paused.
"Send the kernel access protocol by end of day," she said. "I'll review it tonight."
"I will."
A beat.
Then, softer: "You're different today, Victor."
He almost corrected her—almost said Alex.
Instead he said, "I'm trying to be."
She searched his face one last time.
"Don't make me regret this."
"I won't."
The doors opened.
She stepped inside.
Just before they closed, she spoke again—quiet enough that only he heard.
"Next time… maybe tea. Coffee's starting to taste like compromise."
The doors slid shut.
Alex stood there, heart hammering, until the indicator light showed she'd reached the lobby.
Only then did he let himself smile—wide, unguarded, stupid.
He had fourteen minutes of her time.
He had a napkin covered in her handwriting.
He had a chance.
And for the first time since waking up in this body, Alex Thorne felt like the story might actually bend.