Selene sits perched on the edge of her desk, black jeans torn at the knees, boots hooked against the chair leg, arms crossed hard over her chest. Her jaw is set, lips bitten raw, a streak of mascara faintly smudged near one eye—a mark of last night’s crying no one saw. The team moves around her, their laughter and tapping keys distant, irrelevant. Orien enters, sleeves rolled, hair a dark, rumpled halo. There’s exhaustion in the soft crease above his brow, but he pauses—eyes catching on Selene’s closed-off posture, the razor edge of her silence.

He’s been trying for days to reach her. Now, he approaches, voice gentle, careful. “Selene… hey. I’m sorry about—” The apology hangs, twisting in the air. She doesn’t look up, but her knuckles blanch.

“Don’t,” she mutters, sharp, but her voice shakes. “You let people break you down, you know that?” There’s bitter humor, but underneath, the plea is unmistakable. Orien’s own guilt simmers in his chest. He steps closer, lowering himself to her level, their knees almost touching in the tiny orbit of late-night exhaustion and things unsaid.

She shoves her phone at him—a scuffed case, the screen listing open notes. “You want to see how pathetic I am? Read,” she spits. He hesitates, then carefully scrolls, fingers trembling. The words are raw, shaky confessions:

I want arms around me, not empty beds.

I want someone to stay.

Orien reads them aloud, voice quiet, rough at the edges. Selene turns her face away, but a tear slides down her cheek, glinting brief in the blue monitor light. “You’re not pathetic,” he says, voice breaking. “You’re honest. That’s more than I’ve been.” He touches her hand—she lets him, finally, even as her palm is cold and damp.

A silence stretches, intimate and heavy. Selene leans in, forehead nearly to his shoulder, until their breaths mingle. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers. His eyes close, the lines of his face softening. “Neither do I. But I want to try—if you’ll let me.”

From across the office, Marin Perce watches. Crisp shirt buttoned to the throat, slim black trousers, impossible to read—only their eyes move, sharp as glass, cataloguing vulnerability and connection like inventory. Marin’s lips twitch in a ghost of a smile as they slip away unseen.

Meanwhile, Lysa’s walls are crumbling. In her glass-walled office she closes her eyes, shoulders rigid, breath caught in her throat. She’s hunched over her desk, blazer abandoned, hair tumbling around her face. Regret and guilt swirl in her chest as she stares at her own reflection—haunted, tear-bright, jaw clenched. The weight of her deception presses her into the chair; for a moment, she seems smaller, lost.

Later, the hallway is empty as Lysa intercepts Orien—his shirt untucked, tie loose, eyes bloodshot and searching. She pulls him into a conference room, locks the door with trembling fingers. “We keep making the same mistakes,” she whispers, backing him into the wall. Her lips find his, desperate and bruising, and he yields—hands in her hair, pulling her close. There’s fury and apology in every movement; Lysa biting Orien’s lip, his hands fisting the silk of her blouse. Somewhere between riot and surrender, they clutch each other, groaning, trembling, knowing they’re breaking themselves all over again.

After, breathless and flushed, Lysa buries her face in his neck. “I can’t let go,” she confesses, voice muffled, ashamed. Orien’s arms tighten—but his eyes are on the door, searching for something that isn’t her.

Selene paces circles in the breakroom, hands shaking, eyes wild. She almost runs—until Marin steps from the shadows, their voice low, strangely kind. “Careful, Selene. Secrets don’t stay buried here.” Marin’s gaze lingers, chilling, then softens. “Your honesty is rare—guard it.”

A storm, silent but imminent, crackles through Verity. No one speaks of the code exposures or Lysa’s trembling hand over corrupted files. Guilt and longing hang in the fluorescent-lit air.

When midnight comes, an anonymous email pings the leadership inbox. It’s damning—spreadsheet attachments, meeting transcripts, proof. Lysa’s falsified numbers, exposed for all to see.

To be continued...