The torrential downpour pounded against Olivia Rhodes' umbrella, sending sprays of water careening off the ribbing like miniature waterfalls. Each droplet hit the pavement with a sharp plink, forming a mosaic of silver ripples that mirrored the chaos in her mind. Clutching her tablet through the fabric of her bag, she could feel the cool weight of the device—and the hotter, more volatile secret it held. New evidence of algorithmic bias glowed on its screen, but it was the ghostly image of that forum printout—torn, yellowed, and somehow familiar—that set her pulse racing.
Ethan Thorne. The name echoed in her thoughts like a curse. What was he hiding behind those amber eyes? The question coiled around her brain, tightening with each step she took toward the sleek glass monolith of Thorne Industries.
As she pushed through the revolving doors, a blast of arctic air cut through her damp clothing, sending a shiver down her spine. The lobby was a study in minimalist luxury—polished concrete floors, chrome accents, and a holographic receptionist that materialized with a synthetic smile. "Welcome, Ms. Rhodes. Mr. Thorne is expecting you on the 37th floor."
But Olivia was already striding toward the elevators, her heels clicking against the marble with purpose. The ride up was a tense affair, the digital display counting each floor like a countdown. When the doors finally slid open on 37, the silence was deafening—until she reached the conference room.
Raised voices spilled through the soundproof glass, sending a jolt through her.
"You can't keep letting emotions cloud your judgment!" Alexander Vance's voice was a low snarl, laced with thinly veiled anger. "That woman is here to destroy you."
"Shut up!" Ethan's response thundered through the door, making it vibrate in its frame. "She's not some pawn for you to manipulate."
Olivia's fingers hovered over the door handle, her nails digging into her palm. The sudden silence inside was more deafening than the argument. Then, the door was wrenched open, revealing Alexander's surprised—though quickly masked—expression.
"Director Rhodes," he said, feigning astonishment. "What a coincidence." As he stepped aside to let her in, his suit jacket rode up, exposing a jagged scar on his wrist. Olivia's breath caught in her throat. The scar—its twisted, silvery lines—mirrored the one that marked her collarbone, a relic from her teenage years.
Ethan stood with his back to them, staring out at the rain - soaked cityscape. His posture was rigid, like a bow pulled taut. When he turned, Olivia was struck by the dark circles under his eyes, the skewness of his tie, the overall disarray that contradicted his usual polished demeanor. "Ms. Rhodes," he said, his voice rough and edged with defiance. "Back to lay more accusations?"
Olivia slammed the tablet onto the table, the screen lighting up with stark graphs and charts. "This is the latest data," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Your company has rejected 78% of female job applicants over the past three months, all of whom had qualifications equal to or exceeding their male counterparts." She paused, locking eyes with him. "Or is your algorithm designed to discriminate, Mr. Thorne?"
Ethan's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking to the tablet. As he reached for it, his shirt cuff slid up, revealing a string of numbers written in black marker on his wrist. Olivia's eyes widened. The numbers—she recognized them instantly. They were the release date of her favorite film, About Time, a date they had once jokingly referred to as their "secret code" in those late - night forum conversations.
"These figures are misleading," Ethan said, looking away. His fingers flew over the tablet's screen. "Our algorithm has a built - in compensation mechanism, it's just—" His voice trailed off, his eyes landing on the scar at her collarbone. His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising and falling more rapidly.
Suddenly, Olivia's phone emitted a shrill alarm. She looked down, her face draining of color. On the tablet, a progress bar was racing across the screen—all the data was being deleted, remotely. "What did you do?" she demanded, wheeling on Ethan. But his expression mirrored her own shock.
Alexander had reappeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. "Funny how things disappear when people don't want the truth to come out," he said, waving his phone. "Lucky for you, I have a backup."
Olivia's eyes darted between the two men, her instincts screaming at her. Before she could react, Ethan grabbed her wrist, pulling her behind him. "Get out of here," he whispered urgently.
But Alexander was already advancing, his phone screen held up for her to see. On it was a photo—one taken ten years ago. Seventeen - year - old Olivia was holding a stray cat, her face bright and carefree. But what made her blood run cold was the red circle around a shadowy figure in the background, and the white text beside it: Did you really think you could run away?
Ethan pushed her out of the conference room, the door slamming shut behind her. From inside came the sound of crashing furniture and the grunts of a struggle. Olivia stood frozen in the hallway, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the back of her phone, feeling a strange lump. She removed the case, and a yellowed piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
It was a fragment of the forum printout, the one she had seen earlier. Alongside her old ID, someone had scrawled a warning in red ink: Don't trust Vance. He knows everything.
The words hung in the air, a stark reminder that nothing was as it seemed. The rain continued to lash against the building, but Olivia barely noticed. She was too busy trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces— the matching scars, the secret code, the cryptic warning— that were suddenly falling into place. And as she stood there, alone in the empty hallway, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just stepped into a game far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.