Ethan
The Kore operations floor is quieter than usual.
Not empty.
Just careful.
Everyone senses something shifting beneath the surface.
I watch Mara from across the room.
She moves between stations with controlled precision, reviewing data streams and financial reports.
Anyone else would think she's working normally.
But I know the difference.
She's building distance.
Not from the threat.
From me.
I don't confront her.
Not yet.
Instead I turn back to my terminal.
The encrypted message that delivered the hallway image left traces.
Very faint ones.
But enough.
I start mapping the signal path.
Three relay points.
Two corporate networks.
And one address that makes my attention sharpen.
An infrastructure node tied to a company that hasn't existed for years.
Or at least… officially hasn't.
I pull up archived corporate records.
The name appears immediately.
My jaw tightens.
Because I've seen it before.
Years ago.
Long before Kore existed.
Long before Mara's parents were destroyed.
The same network.
The same shell infrastructure.
This isn't a new operation.
It's something that's been building for a long time.
Long enough that whoever designed it expected to remain invisible.
A shadow moving beneath entire industries.
I glance across the room again.
Mara is speaking with one of the analysts now, explaining something quietly.
She looks composed.
Focused.
Untouchable.
But I remember the hallway footage.
Those three seconds where she let her guard drop.
And I understand what she's doing now.
She's trying to protect me.
Which means she still thinks I might step away.
I lean back in my chair slightly.
That's not happening.
The system finishes compiling a connection map.
One name surfaces from the archived data.
A consultant who worked with Mara's parents years ago.
Someone close enough to influence their company's restructuring.
Someone who should have disappeared after the scandal.
Instead, their trail simply… vanished.
Which usually means they didn't fall.
They stepped deeper into the shadows.
I study the file for a long moment.
Then I close the screen.
Because this isn't something I can bring to Mara yet.
Not without proof.
Not when I know how personal it will be.
Across the room she looks up.
Our eyes meet briefly.
There's a question there.
Unspoken.
I don't answer it.
Not yet.
But the pieces are starting to move.
And whoever built this game just made a mistake.
They reminded me where to start looking.