It was 9:12 p.m. on Friday evening and the last shift ended late. The executive floors had been scrubbed to gleam. Wolfe's untouched glassware had been hand-washed twice. The entire space smelled faintly of citrus and control.
Talia Brooks exited the Wolfe Tower service door with sore arms, tired eyes, and one thought pulsing through her:
Get home.
She tapped her phone.
Uber: Declined — insufficient funds.
Lyft: No active drivers.
Her trains pass? Expired.
Cash in her pocket? $2.75.
She looked down the dark street, nearly deserted at this hour. No taxis. No buses. No mercy.
Her feet — already blistered from walking all day in shoes never made for scrubbing — ached with every step.
But she started walking. Block after block. Street after street. No coat. Just her thin uniform blouse against the wind.
The city's lights blurred at the edges of her vision. She clutched her uniform bag tighter.
Meanwhile, on the Road...
A midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently through the side street, tinted windows up, engine barely a whisper.
Inside, Adrian Wolfe sat reclined, fingers tapping his jaw rhythmically, eyes flicking toward the traffic outside as his driver took a detour.
Just as they rolled past a construction zone, his eyes landed — almost absently — on a lone figure walking along the sidewalk.
Her.
For a second, he didn't register it. Then his brow furrowed. Hair tied back. Same blouse.
Shoes worn. Posture slouched from fatigue.
Talia Brooks.
Walking. Alone. Head down. Determined.
Like the world owed her a break and refused to pay.
He said nothing. Didn't roll down the window. But he stared longer than he should have.
Why didn't she quit?
Why is she still here — scrubbing floors, now walking for miles in the dark like she doesn't matter?
The Rolls kept moving. He looked away. Said only one thing:
"Take the long way home."
But in his mind, she kept walking.
Brooklyn – Small Apartment – 10:51 p.m.
The front door creaked softly as Talia stepped inside, her uniform bag slung over one shoulder, her blouse slightly wrinkled, her hands raw from scrubbing and nerves.
The apartment smelled like warm rice and roasted garlic.
Grace, her mother, stood at the stove, humming faintly to an old Luther Vandross tune on the radio.
She turned at the sound of the door.
"Baby?"
Gave a small smile. Tired. Hollow-edged. "Hey, Mom."
She dropped the bag by the chair, slipped out of her shoes, and walked toward the kitchen. Turned off the burner, eyes narrowing gently.
"How was it?"
Talia opened her mouth to answer… but nothing came out. Her throat tightened again — not from Wolfe's voice this time, but from the strange weight of survival. She swallowed. Then forced the words.
"It was… tough."
Her mother handed her a clean dish towel.
She didn't ask more questions.
She just looked. A slow frown curved her mouth.
"Your eyes look different, (she said softly) like something sacred just cracked."
Talia folded the towel in her hands, held it to her chest.
"I think it did."
She reached out, pulled her daughter into a hug — tight, grounding, and full of unspoken understanding.
"Whatever they take from you, don't let them steal the part that makes you kind."
(She closed her eyes) "I won't."
They stood there a moment longer, swaying slightly in that mother-daughter silence — the kind that doesn't need answers, only presence.
And somewhere behind that exhaustion in Talia's eyes…
something fierce had begun to glow.
Not revenge.
Not ambition. But purpose.