The elevator panel lit up before Logan touched it.
He stood there for a second, staring at the glow like it might flicker out if he moved too fast. It hadn't done that yesterday. Yesterday, it had waited for him. Today, it anticipated.
He raised his badge. The sensor pinged once. The panel responded.
Four floors now.
B1 – MailroomF2 – Employee ServicesF5 – Administrative SupportF6 – Departmental Liaison Office (Limited Access)
F6 was new.
He tapped it.
The elevator didn't hum. It shifted—like it didn't need to think anymore. Just act.
Logan straightened his collar and watched his reflection in the brushed steel walls. He still looked like someone playing dress-up in borrowed business casual. His hair was neat, his posture fine, but he didn't feel like he belonged. Not yet.
The doors opened.
Floor 6 was quieter than 5, but less tense. Brighter lighting. No overhead buzz. Glass doors, clean carpet, desks spaced out with surgical precision. And people—maybe ten or twelve within view—moved through it like they'd been practicing choreography.
A woman with a headset walked by holding three manila folders and a coffee tray. Another man with a shaved head and designer sneakers walked the other direction, whispering into a headset Logan couldn't see.
At the far end of the hall, a wide counter wrapped around what looked like a concierge desk. A man behind it was adjusting a stack of clipboards.
Logan stepped out.
No one looked at him. No one asked who he was.
He walked to the desk.
The man behind it looked up. Late twenties, sharp cheekbones, shirt with no wrinkles, a tie that could have balanced a tray of drinks.
"Badge?" he said, without a smile.
Logan offered it. "Lucas Vaughn. Admin Support. I think I'm supposed to—"
"Coffee run."
"Sorry?"
"You're here for the delivery."
He slid a tablet across the desk. It already had Logan's alias loaded on the screen.
ASSIGNED TASK: Coffee Delivery – Interdepartmental
Retrieve orders from Café 4CDeliver to:
Public Relations (F9)
Internal Oversight (F10)
External Strategy (F11)
"Are these real departments?" Logan asked.
The man raised a brow.
Logan signed the digital form.
"You've got thirty-five minutes. Orders are prepaid. You screw it up, it's on you."
"Great," Logan muttered. "Just what I always wanted—latte logistics."
The man handed him a printed slip with floor instructions and said nothing else.
Logan turned toward the elevators. They were built into an alcove behind a glass divider. When he scanned his badge again, something changed.
F4 – Café 4C had appeared.
He tapped it.
The doors closed.
The fourth floor was buzzing—literally.
Café 4C was tucked behind a set of frosted doors at the end of a short corridor lined with motivational posters that looked like they'd been written by someone who hated human interaction.
"Time is a ladder. So climb or be stepped on.""Brand value begins with you. And ends without you.""Smiling is contractual."
The café was industrial-chic in that startup-wannabe way: concrete floors, fake wood counters, baristas in half-aprons with dead eyes. Every corner of the room was humming with whispered meetings, headphone zombies, and interns pretending to look for something.
Logan approached the counter.
The woman behind it didn't look up. She tapped a touchscreen like she was defusing a bomb.
"Pickup for Vaughn," Logan said.
She exhaled through her nose. "White tray. Corner."
"That it?"
She gave him the kind of smile that said she'd fought the urge to spit in every drink.
Logan found the tray in question: six cups in three drink holders, each with marker-written names—Tori, L. Ramirez, Kells, M. Kells, Asha (HR), and one labeled simply VP – No Foam.
No list of which cup was which. No receipt.
He stared at it for a second. Then picked it up, balanced it between his palms, and headed back to the elevator.
The tray was heavier than it looked.
Floor 9 – Public Relations.
He scanned in. The scanner blinked yellow. Then green.
A narrow hallway opened into a wide bullpen of desks with soft partitions and color-coded lamp lights. People moved quickly. Phones buzzed. Every keyboard seemed to be hitting forty words per second.
He spotted a whiteboard near the entrance labeled DELIVERIES. A woman with bright red lipstick stood beside it, arms crossed.
She spotted him instantly.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Yeah. I've got a tray for—"
"You're late."
"I—this is my first time—"
"PR doesn't wait."
She snatched the tray from his hands and scanned the labels.
"This one's wrong."
Logan blinked. "Sorry?"
"Kells takes oat. This says almond."
"It was already—"
"Not my problem," she said. "If I catch her throwing it out, it's going in your record."
She turned, heels snapping on the floor like she was trying to kill a bug.
Logan stood there a moment longer, unsure if he'd just been chewed out or threatened or both.
Floor 10 – Internal Oversight.
The lights here were dimmer. Fewer windows. Dark carpet. It felt like a floor designed to keep secrets.
A small desk near the elevator had a nameplate: INTERNAL ONLY. No name. Just that.
The woman behind the desk looked up.
"You're Vaughn?"
"I guess I am."
She nodded toward a sealed door.
"Drop it on the tray table. Do not step past the yellow line."
Logan walked up to the threshold. There was a literal yellow line of tape across the floor. Just inside, a small silver table with a black folder already sitting on it.
He placed the drinks.
One of the cups was still labeled VP – No Foam.
He stepped back.
The door hissed open for half a second. A hand reached out, took the tray, and vanished.
The door shut.
No words. No thank you. No eye contact.
He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for… something.
Then turned back toward the elevator.
Floor 11 – External Strategy.
This floor was colder. No, not just cold—sterile. Everything smelled like whiteboard cleaner and lavender disinfectant.
The receptionist wasn't at the desk. Just a note that read: Ring once. Do not ring twice.
There was a small silver bell.
He rang it.
A tall man appeared around the corner, dressed like a model for a high-end conference. He looked at Logan, then at the drinks.
"You're the runner?"
"Apparently."
"Where's the cup for Ramirez?"
Logan paused. "Gone. PR took it."
"That was supposed to go here."
"No one told me that."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Did you confirm delivery sequence?"
"I had a slip."
"Did you read it?"
Logan opened his mouth. Then closed it.
The man smiled, cold and amused.
"Not a big deal. For now. But next time, maybe read what you're carrying."
He picked up the drinks. Examined them.
Then walked away.
Logan exhaled. Leaned on the desk for a second.
From a hallway to the left, he heard hushed voices.
"—I told you, he's a plant. Why else would he get access to three floors in two days?"
"You're paranoid. He's no one."
"No one doesn't move like that."
A pause.
Footsteps approaching.
Logan straightened up and walked calmly—quickly, but not obviously—back to the elevator.
He didn't look over his shoulder.
Back inside the lift, he tapped F5—Administrative Support.
His hand trembled slightly.
Not fear. Not quite.
More like adrenaline.
Not because the job was hard. But because he could feel it now—every floor was watching him. Not overtly. But enough that whispers carried. Enough that missteps had weight.
He didn't know what those two in External Strategy were plotting, but the fact that they were talking about him meant he'd left a footprint.
People were starting to track his steps.
He returned the empty tray to the concierge desk on 6.
The man behind it gave him a nod that felt almost approving.
Then went back to his clipboard.
As Logan turned from the desk, someone stepped in front of him.
He hadn't heard her approach.
Tall. Pale coat over black slacks. Red nails, short and squared. Blonde hair twisted into a coil at the nape of her neck like she'd spun it there herself with surgical precision. Her badge hung low on a minimalist chain.
DEPARTMENTAL LIAISON – F6 ACCESS GRANTED – K. ROHLAND
She looked at him like he'd just stepped on the hem of her coat.
"You're the coffee boy?" she asked.
Logan blinked. "Today, I guess."
Her eyes scanned him—not in a flirtatious way. Like she was scanning for data points. Dirt under the fingernails. Cracks in the armor.
"You've been to three departments in one hour. That's not standard."
"I go where I'm told."
"You weren't told anything," she said. "That's the trick. They're watching who improvises."
He hesitated. "You work in Liaison?"
"I interface between floors. I notice patterns."
Logan tilted his head. "What pattern am I?"
"You're new," she said. "But you didn't stall. You didn't get lost. You didn't ask stupid questions. That makes you useful. Or dangerous."
He smiled, faintly. "Why not both?"
She almost smirked. "We'll see."
Then she walked past him without waiting for a response. Her shoes didn't make a sound on the carpet.
Logan turned back to the elevator.
He'd remember her.