The numbers on the screen bled together into a grey fog. I blinked once, hard, trying to force my eyes to focus. My desk clock read 9:17 PM. The executive floor was a tomb, so quiet and dark I could hear the faint whir of my own laptop fan.

This office, my shiny new prize, felt like a glass box suspended over the city. I’d stopped answering my phone. Mom’s worried voicemails piled up. Zane’s pleading texts were little red notifications I swiped away without reading. The only thing that felt real was the Harrington project data. It was clean. It was logical. It didn’t lie or love someone else....