The drive to the Sterling HR headquarters was a blur of neon lights and the metallic taste of adrenaline. My side was screaming, the stitches pulling with every sharp turn Marcus took, but I welcomed the pain. It kept me grounded. It kept me sharp.
"Boss, we're here," Marcus said, his voice dropping into that low, tactical register he used before a storm.
I looked out the tinted window. The Sterling HR building, a towering monolith of glass and steel that usually hummed with the quiet efficiency of corporate power, looked like a tomb. There were no security guards at the gate. The revolving doors were cracked, one side hanging off its hinges like a broken limb.
"Something is wrong sir," one of my men muttered from the back, his hand already on his holster.
"Guns up," I commanded. "We don't wait for an invitation."
