Roen's arrival sets the whole floor on edge. He moves with a coiled-spring energy, the sleeves of his crisp shirt pushed up to reveal forearms marked by old scars. His eyes—unblinking, watchful—land on Tavian like a spotlight. Tavian fidgets beneath his wire-rimmed glasses, tugging at the cuffs of his too-big blazer, willing himself to blend into the humming machinery of the office. But every time Roen passes by, Tavian’s pulse drums louder: suspicion is a scent, and he’s wearing it like cologne.

Viessa darts between desks, a riot of color in a saffron blouse and high-waisted indigo skirt, carrying gossip heavier than any files she pretends to deliver. Her laughter is sugar-laced with poison as she leans against Tavian’s screen, lower lip glistening. “You and Aelira, huh? Must be something scandalous, I can see it in your face.” Her teasing stings, but it’s Lyska who catches the words—her eyes, sharpened with jealousy, linger a moment too long. Tavian stammers a denial, cheeks burning, but Lyska is already striding away, her heels clicking a warning.

Lyska’s shoulders are tense beneath her crimson silk blouse, hair drawn back in a ruthless knot. On her lunch break, she texts Aelira—“Let’s get a drink. I dare you not to interrogate me.” The reply is clipped: “Fine. Your move.” She can’t tell if she’s more afraid of being exposed, or of being seen.

That night, the two find each other in a shadowed corner of a bar above the city. Aelira—tall, glacial in a slate suit—regards Lyska with a predator’s calm. “You’re reckless,” she says, swirling her glass, voice a low challenge. Lyska arches an eyebrow, her lips glossed and knowing. “And you’re obsessed with control.” Their words tangle, honest to the point of cruelty, old wounds and ambition crashing beneath every syllable.

Aelira leans in, shadows sliding across her sharp cheekbones. “Is this the game you want to play?” she asks, her tone daring but not unkind. Lyska’s laugh is breathless, her armor slipping. “Maybe it’s not a game.” The air between them pulses, thick with longing and resentment. In a sudden, reckless move, Lyska catches Aelira’s wrist, the touch electric. Their mouths meet, at first tentative, then fiercely searching—hands finding waist, jaw, tangled hair. Lyska tastes salt, bourbon, something dangerously raw.

Aelira’s voice breaks as she pulls back, eyes glassy with fear and want. “You don’t know what I’m capable of,” she whispers. Lyska, trembling, can’t reply. She flees before the night can swallow her whole.

Meanwhile, Roen pores over security footage, jaw clenched, sweat prickling his brow. In the blue glow of the screen, images flicker: Tavian and Lyska, locked in the server closet, entwined and vulnerable. Roen exhales slowly, realization hardening his features. He slips the flash drive into his jacket pocket, gaze shifting to the offices beyond glass walls, where Lyska and Tavian work—still oblivious, still exposed.

Downstairs, Dersh waits, tie loosened, watching the security feeds with a fox’s grin. As Roen approaches, the unspoken threat is electric between them. “I think you’ll want to see this,” Roen murmurs. The evidence changes hands. The game tilts.

To be continued...