The smell of bacon and coffee pulled me out of sleep. The bed beside me was empty.
I showered, dressed in another suit—dark gray this time—and walked into the kitchen. Yuri was already there, moving between the stove and the counter. She'd dressed for the day: a soft cream-colored sweater, dark jeans that hugged her hips, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Neat. Domestic. Intentional.
She turned at the sound of my footsteps, a warm smile already on her face. "Good morning. Breakfast'll be ready in five."
I nodded and took a seat at the table.
I watched her. The way she flipped the eggs, the careful arrangement of the bacon on the plate, the deliberate pour of coffee into two mugs. It wasn't just cooking, it was a performance. A bid for a role she was writing herself into.
She set the plates down and sat across from me, her eyes bright, expectant.
We ate in silence for a minute before she spoke.
"I'll be closing the store a bit late tonight," she said, pushing a piece of egg around her plate. "Inventory stuff."
I took a sip of coffee. "Alright."
She paused, her fork hovering. A small pout touched her lips. "You're not… gonna say anything else?"
I looked up. Her expression was open, waiting—for concern, for a question, for anything.
DES flickered to life in the corner of my vision:
> Target Emotional State: Seeking Reassurance / Validation.
Recommended Actions:
• Provide Affirmation: "Be careful. I'll wait up." (Reinforces attachment, loyalty +3%)
• Withhold Engagement: "That's your schedule, not mine." (Asserts independence, may induce mild distress; loyalty variable)
• Neutral Acknowledgement: "Noted." (Maintains status quo)
Option two. Always option two.
"It's your store," I said, my voice even. "You do what you need to."
Her smile faded. The light in her eyes dimmed just a fraction. "Oh. Okay."
Her thought slipped in, quiet and bruised: {He doesn't even care if I come back late…}
A soft, blue-tinted notification appeared:
> Loyalty Metric: 90% → 88%.
Emotional State: Mild dejection detected. Attachment remains stable; emotional fluctuation within expected parameters for imprint-based bonding.
Of course. Even permanent imprints had maintenance costs. She wasn't a robot, she was a system with moods, and I'd just input the wrong command.
A faint ripple of annoyance went through me.
This is going to be a headache.
I set my fork down. "We'll... talk when I get back."
Her eyes snapped to mine. A quick, hopeful flash. DES tagged the shift immediately:
[Heart rate: +12 BPM. Anticipation spike.]
She nodded, the soft smile returning. "Okay."
I finished my coffee. The silence this time was different, charged with her unasked questions and my deferred answers.
The game wasn't just outside anymore, it was sitting at my breakfast table, wearing a cream sweater and waiting for me to say the right thing.
And I was starting to realize that sometimes, the right thing was just another move.
---
The cab pulled up to the TitanForge tower. I paid and stepped out, the suit settling around me like a second skin. The bus was a ghost now, the echo of a weaker man I'd already buried.
The lobby's marble echoed with purpose. Eyes tracked me as I crossed the floor—not the startled glances of last week, but a new, measuring attention. The stares were becoming normal now, another data stream in my peripheral.
I took the elevator up alone, the silence not empty, but full of potential. My reflection in the polished doors showed no hesitation, only calibration.
Greg spun in his chair as I passed. "Mornin', bud. Nice suit."
His smile was wide, but his thought was a tight, grudging note: {Damn, he looks expensive. Who's he trying to impress?}
I nodded, a non-reply, and kept walking.
Timothy was at his desk, sliding a leather-bound file from his briefcase. He glanced up as I approached. "Looking sharp, Terrence."
His voice was calm, neutral. I waited for the thought, the subtext—but nothing came. Just silence where there should have been data.
Instead, DES painted an overlay across my vision, crisp and unfamiliar:
> Target Analysis: Timothy Blake
Age: 31
Current Position: Senior Data Architect – Operations Division, TitanForge Communications
[Further metrics: LOCKED – Available at User Level 20]
Note: Target possesses elevated system permissions. Profile depth restricted.
Locked?
The word glared back at me. DES had never refused me data before.
What the hell did that mean?
I took my seat, my eyes drifting back to Timothy. He was already immersed in his work, fingers moving across the keyboard with quiet, untouchable precision. The overlay remained, that one word still glaring back at me: LOCKED.
Weird.
The sharp click of heels on linoleum cut through my focus.
Kelly.
She passed my cubicle without a glance, her posture rigid, and disappeared into her office.
I gave it thirty seconds. Then I stood, flash drive in hand, and walked to her door.
I knocked.
"What is it?" Her voice was clipped, annoyed.
I opened the door.
She looked up from her desk, and her expression shifted—the professional mask flickering into something warmer, caught off-guard maybe. "Oh. Terrence. Uh, come in."
DES tagged her immediately:
[Heart rate: 68 → 82 BPM. Mild anxiety/anticipation detected.]
I stepped inside and let the door click shut behind me. Then I walked to her desk, flash drive extended like a blade.
"The reconciliation," I said, my voice flat. "As requested."
She reached for it. Our fingers brushed as she took it, and I didn't pull my hand away. I held her gaze, my expression blank, unwavering.
The contact lingered like a silent, intentional pressure.
Her breath hitched, just slightly. DES logged the shift: [BPM: 82 → 94.]
A faint flush colored her neck. She looked… flustered. Not like a boss, like a woman caught staring.
I finally let my hand fall back to my side. "The discrepancies were minimal. I highlighted two vendor overcharges. Saved the department roughly twelve hundred dollars."
She blinked, clearing her throat, her professionalism snapping back into place. "Good. That's… efficient."
"Is there anything else?"
She shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture. "No. I'll… let you know if there is."
I gave a single, curt nod and turned to leave.
Back at my desk, I glanced once more at Timothy. The LOCKED tag still hovered, a quiet taunt in a system that promised omniscience.
Fine.
If the system wouldn't give me that answer yet, I'd focus on the ones it would.
Kelly.
Her pulse had jumped when our hands touched. Her gaze had held a second too long. She was a door, and she'd already given me the key. I just had to turn it slowly, carefully, until she opened herself.
Use her when the time is right.
For now, I'd let her believe the power was still hers. Let her cling to her authority while I quietly pulled the strings. Let her fall, one professional excuse at a time, until she was handing me the very leverage she thought she controlled.
Patience wasn't a virtue. It was a weapon.
One I'd already mastered.
---
To be continued...