Alex Voss hated elevators.
Too slow. Too quiet. Too many chances to think.
And right now, thinking was the last thing he needed.
He stared at his reflection in the polished steel. The same chiseled jaw the press loved, same razor-cut suit that whispered power in every room—but beneath the surface, the cracks were beginning to hum.
His fingers twitched, just once.
Something was off.
He felt it in the air, in the way Mina didn't look him in the eye during the morning brief, in the static silence that followed every room he left. He'd built his empire with precision—every piece in place, every risk calculated. But this?
This was different.
This was personal.
When the elevator doors hissed open on Floor 61—restricted access, no digital logs—he stepped into darkness. Motion sensors flicked on overhead lights, one by one. His private war room. Not even the board knew this floor existed.
"Initiate lockdown," he muttered.
The steel doors slammed shut behind him like a prison gate. He moved to the wall panel, pressing his thumb to the biometric pad. A hidden drawer clicked open, revealing a matte-black briefcase. Not just any case.
The case.
He hadn't touched it in years. Not since Amalfi.
Not since Claire.
He popped the latches. Inside: a hard drive, a gun, and a flashpaper folder marked Project Thanatos—the one file even he never opened. He didn't like secrets he couldn't control. But the man who gave him this folder all those years ago made him promise one thing:
"Only open this if she returns."
And now she had.
He sank into the leather chair, tossed the gun on the table like a dare, and plugged the drive in. It hummed to life, decrypting line by line. What he saw made his blood ice-cold.
Biometric records. Offshore payments. Contracts for tech that didn't legally exist. And at the center of it all—Claire Armand.
Not the woman he remembered. Not the strategist who whispered game plans into his ear while they built Halcyon into a global juggernaut. No.
This Claire was something else.
A code name in DARPA black files. Connections to South African ghost ops. Multiple IDs flagged by MI6, CIA, and a redacted agency he didn't even recognize.
Claire wasn't just smart. She was trained.
"Son of a bitch," Alex breathed.
He stood, pacing, the hum of fluorescent light buzzing like a fly in his skull. If this was true, then he hadn't just been played—he'd been recruited. Used. Weaponized.
His phone buzzed.
One message: "Check your press release drafts. 6:13 PM."
The hell? He hadn't scheduled anything today.
He logged into Halcyon's secure PR server and pulled up the queue. And there it was:
"Official Statement: Alexander Voss to Step Down Amidst Misconduct Allegations"
Drafted, timestamped, and auto-set to publish at 6:13 PM.
He checked the access logs. Scrubbed.
Whoever planted this didn't just break into the system. They owned it.
For a second, his chest tightened. Not fear. Not panic.
Rage.
He slammed the laptop shut and grabbed the gun off the table. He didn't know who was coming for him yet—Mina, Claire, or the old bastard still pulling strings from the dark—but he knew one thing for damn sure:
He wasn't stepping down.
If they wanted him gone, they'd have to drag him out, bleeding.
And even then?
He might still win.
---