Selene barely looks up as Orien passes her desk, her lips pressed thin, fingers typing in brittle bursts. She’s Friday-night sharp in black jeans and an old band tee that hugs her slender shoulders, eyeliner smudged, jaw set hard. When he offers a tentative “Hey, need help with the merge?” her voice slices the air—flat, practiced indifference: “No, thanks. Wouldn’t want to slow you down.”

Orien lingers anyway, shifting from foot to foot, mop of curly hair damp with rain, eyes uncertain behind his wire frames. He watches her, searching for the warmth she showed weeks ago in the server room, but she guards herself with cold efficiency, barely glancing up. “Selene,” he says, quiet. “I’m sorry—about—” But she cuts him off. “We’ve got shit to ship, Orien. You and Lysa should have that covered.” The sting lands; he straightens his back, forcing a nod. Tightness creeps around his mouth as he retreats, running anxious hands through his hair.

At the after-hours office party, Jorel Rynn leans over Selene at the drinks table, dapper in rolled sleeves and undone collar, charm dialed up. His hand brushes her elbow, warm and lingering; his words are sugar and teeth: “Want to get out of here? I know a place with terrible gin and worse music.” Selene’s laugh is brittle, but her cheeks flush—she’s startled, not flattered. “You flirt with everyone, Jorel. Don’t make me your rebound.” His smile falters. Voices hush as she yanks her arm from his grasp, embarrassment crackling between them. She stalks away, knots of emotion burning behind her eyes.

Orien watches from a distance, torn between guilt and longing. His gaze follows Selene as she disappears into the rain-shimmered street outside, her boots splashing messily through puddles. For a moment he hesitates, then he grabs his jacket and follows, shoulders hunched against the cold.

He finds her under the streetlamp behind the building, mascara streaking silently, lips trembling in the silvered darkness. “Selene,” he breathes, voice raw, “I never meant—” But she spins, voice shaking, anger and need warring in her eyes. “You always go back to her. I’m not second place.” Rain spatters her face, shining in her hair—her vulnerability naked now, no attitude to hide behind.

He steps closer, ignoring the chill, hands half-raised between apology and desire. “You’re not second,” he whispers, breath quickening as their faces draw close. She smells like wet pavement and longing. “Then show me,” she says, voice ragged.

It isn’t gentle—the kiss is all teeth and rain-soaked urgency, mouths crashing together as years of yearning and frustration burn away their restraint. Selene shoves him against the rough brick, both their hands frantic, twisting in soaked fabric, fingers digging at skin. Her guard finally drops and he lets out the breath he’s been holding all month—her body pressed to his, heart pounding wild beneath his palm. For a few savage, perfect seconds, only desire fills the space between them: breath, touch, need.

Inside, Lysa sits alone at her desk, hair pinned in a precise chignon, hand hovering over her keyboard. A dark suit wraps her too tightly, as if she can hide the cracks forming beneath. Her jaw trembles as she deletes the metric logs—her finger quivering above the key—erasing truth for power. When it’s done, she exhales a ragged sigh, eyes shining with a pain she won’t allow herself to feel.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating three shadowed figures bound by secrets. Something fragile has broken tonight; none of them can pretend otherwise.

In the hush, Lysa’s phone vibrates with a new notification, the subject line: “URGENT—SECURITY BREACH DETECTED.”

To be continued...