Chapter 05

Emery Quinn

I didn't feel victorious.

I felt... numb. Hollow, as if something vital had been scooped out and replaced with a strange, pulsing uncertainty.

The elevator doors closed behind me with a metallic hush, and I was still clutching the visitor pass like it was evidence from a crime scene. I looked down at the sharp, black rectangle in my palm—proof that I'd been up there. That I'd met the infamous Killian Vale. That I'd somehow been offered a job by a man who hadn't smiled once during our entire encounter.

Start Monday. Seven a.m.

It sounded more like a warning than a welcome. Like I was being summoned to a reckoning rather than a position.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and leaned back against the mirrored wall, the cool surface grounding me as the elevator descended. My reflection stared back at me from all angles, pale and stunned. I looked like someone who had just walked away from a car crash—untouched on the outside, but not quite whole. My eyes were too wide, my posture too rigid. Even my carefully arranged hair seemed to have lost its composure, a few strands escaping to frame my face.

What had I done?

The enormity of it settled over me like a weighted blanket. I'd stood toe-to-toe with a man whose name was whispered in business circles with equal parts fear and reverence—and I hadn't flinched. At least, not visibly. I'd challenged him, even implied he was a monster, and instead of throwing me out, he'd hired me.

There had to be a catch. No one gets that lucky.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a muted chime that seemed to echo the uncertainty reverberating through my body. I stepped out into the sterile glow of ValeCorp's lobby again, but this time I felt different. Off-kilter. Like something fundamental had shifted in the universe and the rest of the world hadn't caught up yet.

No one looked at me. No one cared. The receptionist who had judged me earlier was helping someone else now, her perfect posture and practiced smile directed at another visitor. The security guards maintained their stoic vigil. The employees passing through the lobby were wrapped in their own importance, their own deadlines, their own lives.

I moved through the lobby like a ghost, my footsteps soundless on the polished floor. Every step took me further from that office, from those eyes, from that moment when my future had taken a sharp, unexpected turn. I passed through the heavy glass doors and onto the sharp edge of downtown, the transition from controlled environment to urban chaos as jarring as a slap.

The city was loud again. Horns blared from taxis caught in midday traffic. People shouted across the street to each other. A siren wailed in the distance, its pitch rising and falling like a warning. The chaos of normal life pressed against my skin like static electricity, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I blinked against the sunlight, so much brighter and harsher than the soft, recessed lighting of ValeCorp's upper floors.

I stood still, allowing pedestrians to flow around me, a stone in a stream. Then, with fingers that wouldn't quite stop trembling, I dug into my bag until I found my phone.

One missed call.

From Milo.

My chest tightened with that familiar combination of love and worry. My brother never called unless something was wrong. Unless he needed something. Unless the pain was back.

I found a bench just past the revolving doors, dropped into it, and called him back. It rang twice before I heard his voice—raspy and annoyed, the way it always got when his medication wasn't quite cutting it.

"Took you long enough."

"I was in the interview," I said, keeping my tone calm even though guilt coiled in my gut like a familiar serpent. "I told you I wouldn't be able to pick up."

There was a pause. The sound of rustling fabric, then a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of his nineteen years. "Did you get it?"

I hesitated, then said softly, "Yeah. I start Monday."

For a second, all I heard was static. Then: "Seriously? ValeCorp? Emery, that place—"

"I know." My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, an edge that came from exhaustion and stress rather than anger. "I know what people say. But it's a paycheck. And we need it."

Milo didn't respond right away. I could picture him—curled on the old couch at home, hoodie up despite the warming spring weather, jaw clenched against the constant ache in his joints. Too thin. Too angry. Too young to carry what he carried.

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