The glass doors sighed open and chaos pushed back.
Chants rolled across the marble. Cardboard signs knocked the stanchions. A mounted screen looped last night's interview, the chyron under Noah Sterling's face read FACELESS CEO, and the audio kept asking the same question.
"Mr. Sterling, are you apologizing"
"Clarifying," the onscreen Noah said.
Ava Chen showed her temporary badge. The guard lifted a palm.
"Employees only."
"I am here to stop the bleeding," she said. "If I wait, your shoes will be the tourniquet."
A woman in a navy sheath appeared as if the lobby had chosen a spokesperson.
"Sofia Anton," she said. "Comms. You are late."
"It is eight oh six," Ava said. "I am early for eight fifteen. The riot commuted with me."
Sofia's mouth almost smiled. "Badge her."
The revolving door breathed again. The air changed. Ava felt it the way a room feels a storm that has not reached the windows.
Noah Sterling stepped inside.
He was quieter than the interview. Lapel pin, no tie, a stillness that made other people check their posture. His gaze touched Ava's face, slid, touched Sofia's shoulder, paused on the guard's hands. Not a man avoiding people. A man scanning for anchors.
"Who is this," he asked, voice level.
"Ava Chen," Sofia said. "Verve Crisis Partners."
"Catering," he said.
Ava smiled once with no affection.
"Only if you want crow."
The guard coughed. Sofia recalibrated.
Noah's eyes returned to Ava and missed again.
"You are the junior," he said.
"I am the person who stops you from saying clarifying when the world wants sorry," she said. "From now on you do not speak unscripted into anything bigger than a pencil."
"If I disagree," he said.
"Then I send a resignation draft to your board chair and go get breakfast," she said. "Choose."
A camera flash struck the glass outside. A chant peaked, then slid. Sofia gestured to the elevators.
"Sixteen is set."
"Two minutes," Ava said. "I need your social logins, a crisis tree, and a human who can kill autoposts. No bots."
"Legal," Sofia said, already moving.
"Walk with me," Noah said, not looking at her face, already setting a route.
The metal detectors blinked. The marble turned to steel. Ava took half a step ahead, not to lead him, to block the next mistake.
"Why clarifying," she asked, watching the floor numbers.
"Because it clarified," he said. "Apologizing for a correct model is dishonest."
"The public thinks your model hurts people who did nothing wrong," she said. "Truth without care is gasoline."
"Care does not improve a curve," he said.
"That is why your care is hired."
The elevator opened. Stainless walls. A maintenance worker slid to a corner and stared at his boots.
The doors began to close. A hand caught the gap. Marcus Hale stepped in a breath he did not ask for, slate suit, gracious smile.
"Morning, Noah. And guest."
"Use the next," Ava said. "This car is full."
His smile examined her like a stain.
"And you are."
"The difference between a downgrade and a delay," she said.
The doors shut him out. Ava turned to Noah.
"Name," she said. "Remember it."
"I will not," he said, simply.
She stopped. He did not shift.
"I do not remember faces," he added. "Anchors help. Names sometimes. Color always."
Ava pulled a red marker from her tote and set it in his palm. Her fingers touched the inside of his wrist for a second longer than she needed. His skin was cooler than she expected. He did not pull away.
"Anchor this," she said. "When you see this color, listen first, speak second. Congratulations. You have a rule."
His hand closed around the red as if the shape taught him something about pressure.
The car slowed. The doors opened to a wall of microphones. Voices stacked, the loudest trying to be a key.
"Mr. Sterling, do you regret calling small shops risk factors"
"Are you stepping down before the IPO"
"Is Nearlight profiling charities"
Ava raised her hand, the red between two fingers.
"Back up two steps," she said, not loud. "Make a lane or you lose your cameras."
The front row moved. Nobody wanted to test her volume.
"You are," a reporter said, "who exactly"
"The person who keeps your gear out of insurance claims," she said. "Statement in twenty minutes. Clean audio in Glass Sixteen. Follow the arrows."
"Is the model wrong," someone called.
"We do not let a model make moral choices in a vacuum," she said. "If it hurts the wrong people, we fix context and consequences."
Beside her Noah breathed in, then put that breath away. He kept his gaze where she told him to keep it.
"Left, straight, glass room," she said under her breath. "No side comments."
"Was that apologizing," he asked, lips barely moving.
"That was a table," she said. "Food in twenty."
They reached the door. Sofia waited with a headset and the first relief of the day. Glass Sixteen looked like honesty and dared them to earn it.
"There he is," Marcus said, already in the room, smile tidy. "And Ms. Chen, I presume."
"Admin on all socials," Ava said. "Freeze autoposts for twelve hours. Nothing new goes live. I also want a crisis tree and three phone numbers for seller outreach."
"Legal will not like that," Marcus said. "We have obligations to investors. Messaging must be consistent with filings."
"Legal likes fewer class actions more," Ava said. "Freeze it."
"Comms will take instruction from Comms," he said. "Not from a contractor."
"Comms will take instruction from the person who just walked a lane through your hallway," she said. "Sofia, two factor to me."
Sofia slid logins across the table. Ava keyed fast.
"Security phrase," she said.
"Orpheus," Sofia said.
Ava did not smile at the choice.
"Freeze engaged," she said. "Autoposts dead."
Marcus watched her hands, not the effect.
"We will not overcorrect," he said. "There is a partnership announcement on the calendar."
Ava looked at Noah. He looked at the red.
"Short spine," she said, turning the pad toward him. "Three lines. One, we acknowledge harm. Two, we pause automation and review flags with affected sellers. Three, we publish criteria and redress steps by end of day."
He read once, then again. His gaze returned to the red in her fingers, then to her left shoulder, then to the card under his hand. He did not look at her face. He did not need to.
"Cadence," she said. "Stop on harm. Soften pause. Hard stop on sellers. Confirm end of day. No time of day."
"Because a time is a promise," he said.
"And promises create plaintiffs," she said.
Sofia clipped a mic to Noah's lapel. Ava reached to guide the cable. Her knuckles brushed the inside of his collar. He went very still, not with nerves, with care.
"Water," she said, sliding a bottle to him with the label peeled clean. "Half now, half later."
He drank. His pulse settled under his jaw. He set the bottle down with the exact precision of a man who likes rules.
The building thudded once, a brick or a sign or a feeling. Glass did not break.
Ava's phone lit. A banner pushed up through the quiet on the screen. EVICTION NOTICE POSTED. Sender: Mom. A red underline through a sentence named payment risk.
Not now.
She turned the phone face down.
"Hold statement in twenty," she said to the room. "We give the street something to measure."
Marcus leaned into his smile.
"The board will want a preview," he said. "Send it to me first."
"They will get it live," she said. "Like everyone else."
He turned to Noah.
"We should discuss materiality offline," he said. "Perhaps without Ms. Chen."
"With Ms. Chen," Noah said.
The change in Marcus's eyes was small and sharp.
Ava placed the marker upright on the table. Noah watched it as if it were a metronome.
"Protocol," she said to him. "If the marker is upright, you are on deck. If it is flat, you stop. If I tap the table twice, you stop. If my hand touches my throat, return to the spine."
He repeated it once, no flourish.
The door cracked. Security leaned in.
"Crowd is steady," the guard said. "Lane open."
"Good," Ava said. "Raise the arrows to Glass Sixteen."
Sofia lifted the door for the press. The first row filed to the mics with their faces worn by mornings like this.
Ava looked at Noah's hands. They were very still.
"Do not be clever," she said.
"I am not," he said.
She believed him.
He touched the red at his lapel. His focus stayed on her left shoulder, then rested on the card. He had chosen a horizon line and it was hers.
You are speaking for me in ten.