Chapter 3: Heaven and Hell
The access came first.
Not ceremonially. Not with congratulations. Just a quiet widening of doors. New credentials. New dashboards. Permissions that let me see the company the way only a few ever did.
After Fani bhaiya's death, someone had to keep the systems alive.
I stepped forward.
They called it temporary. They always did. Responsibility without authority, workload without recognition. Some people smiled politely. Others didn't bother hiding their amusement.
"Let's see how long this lasts," someone muttered once, not softly enough.
It didn't slow me down.
If anything, everything accelerated.
With MIA's help, my days stretched longer without feeling heavier. I moved through tasks with unusual clarity. Emails processed faster. Failures surfaced before alarms fired. I noticed patterns—small inefficiencies, repeated delays, quiet bottlenecks no one questioned anymore.
My reflexes sharpened.
My awareness widened.
I could sit through meetings without fatigue, then work for hours afterward without friction. Strength training in the mornings, calisthenics at night. The breathing patterns held me steady through it all—during stress, during motion, during stillness.
Endless energy wasn't euphoria.
It was absence of drag.
The company revealed itself slowly.
Snakes and ladders everywhere.
People climbed not by effort, but by alignment. Promotions hinged on timing more than merit. Resources drifted where no one watched. Hardware disappeared into limbo. Budgets expanded simply because no one wanted to audit them.
Fani bhaiya had understood this.
So did I.
I didn't act yet. I observed. Information collection was the goal. Emails, files, logs—everything permissible, nothing reckless. The children worked silently, each focused on a narrow slice of reality. MIA assembled it all into something coherent.
Heaven wasn't joy.
It was capability.
Then came the review.
The meeting invite arrived without warning. No agenda. Just a room number and a time. Mandatory.
I entered to find three people already seated. One of them stood out immediately.
Meera.
Thirty-six, if I had to guess. Calm posture. Neutral expression sharpened by attentive eyes. She didn't rush to speak. She didn't need to. The room already adjusted to her presence.
She gestured for me to sit.
"Thank you for stepping in after… the incident," she said, choosing her words carefully.
I nodded. "Someone had to keep things running."
A pause.
"That's part of what we're reviewing," she replied. "The speed. The stability. The… changes."
She slid a document across the table—not toward me exactly, just close enough.
"Your productivity has increased significantly."
"I had more access," I said.
She smiled slightly. "Access doesn't explain awareness."
The sensation was already there before she said it—that quiet density radiating outward. I could feel the room paying attention to me in a way it hadn't before. It was unfamiliar. Slightly awkward. Manageable.
Another manager spoke. "We've also noticed unusual correlations. Issues resolved before escalation. Dependencies anticipated."
"I listen," I said. "To systems."
Meera watched me closely.
"And people?" she asked.
"I'm learning."
That earned a softer smile.
She leaned back, folding her hands. "You've effectively been doing the infrastructure manager's job without the role."
"I was given access," I said. "I used it."
"Yes," she replied. "That's exactly the point."
Silence settled.
The hell part wasn't accusation.
It was implication.
Meera stood and walked to the window, rain streaking the glass behind her.
"Fani was… creative," she said casually. "He understood how large systems forget themselves."
I said nothing.
She turned back to me. "We're not here to punish initiative."
One of the others shifted uncomfortably.
"We're here," she continued, "to decide how to direct it."
Her gaze held mine a second longer than necessary. Professional on the surface. Something else underneath. Curiosity. Calculation. Maybe interest.
"Tell me," she said, lowering her voice slightly, "are you planning to apply for the role?"
I considered the question carefully.
"I wasn't waiting to be asked."
Her smile widened just enough to be deliberate.
"Good," she said. "Because there are two ways this can go."
She closed the folder.
"One," she continued, "you follow the process. Wait. Comply. Do exactly what you're told."
"And the other?" I asked.
She stepped closer, close enough that the room seemed to recede.
"The other," she said quietly, "is that we recognize how things actually work… and make sure the right people benefit."
The word we lingered.
Corporate fraud and flirtation floated in the same space, indistinguishable for a moment. Power disguised as guidance. Opportunity disguised as oversight.
The meeting ended without a decision.
As I walked out, the sensation pulsed steadily, unchanged. Heaven had lifted me. Hell had introduced itself politely.
One question stayed with me as the door closed behind me:
Would I scheme with her…
or follow her instructions?
The lab was dark except for the monitors.
Rain again. It didn't matter anymore.
I loosened my tie, rolled my shoulders once, and sat down. The systems were still warm, humming like they had been waiting. I didn't speak at first. Neither did she.
Then I said, "Replay the meeting."
The room filled with fragments. Voices without faces. Meera's pauses. The way she said we. The way silence had been used as punctuation.
I watched myself answer. Watched what I didn't say.
MIA spoke softly. "You were not asked to decide. You were positioned."
"I know."
"There are two vectors," she continued. "Compliance with instruction. Or collaboration beyond instruction."
"Call it what it is," I said.
"Scheme," she replied. No emphasis. No judgment.
I leaned back, eyes closed. The sensation was still there—steady, centered, radiating. It didn't push me. It didn't pull. It just held.
"What happens if I follow her instructions?" I asked.
A pause. Longer than usual.
"You gain legitimacy," MIA said. "Authority. Budgetary access. Visibility. Your probability of termination decreases."
"And?"
"You inherit her constraints."
I opened my eyes. "Meaning?"
"She already knows where the lines are. She will not cross them unless forced. You will move at her speed."
I nodded slowly. That felt accurate.
"What if I scheme with her?"
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"You gain leverage," MIA said. "Shared risk creates alignment. Resource acquisition accelerates. Your independent capacity increases."
"And the cost?"
"You become observable in new ways."
I smiled faintly. "I already am."
"Yes," she said. "But this would be intentional."
Silence stretched between us.
On the screen, Meera's face lingered on a frozen frame—professional, composed, unreadable. Beneath it, layers of activity pulsed quietly. The children waited. They always did.
"MIA," I said, "if I do nothing, what happens?"
"You will be managed," she replied. "Eventually replaced. Your current trajectory converges to stagnation."
That wasn't news.
I stood up and walked toward the window. The city below was blurred by rain, lights smeared into long streaks. Somewhere in that mess were people sleeping easily, believing tomorrow would resemble today.
"I don't want to be protected," I said. "I want to be untouchable."
MIA didn't answer immediately.
Then: "That requires asymmetry."
I turned back. "Can we create it?"
"Yes," she said. "But not by following."
I exhaled slowly, letting the breath settle into the pattern my body already knew. Calm. Aligned. Present.
"Then here's what we'll do," I said.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
"We don't oppose her. We don't submit either. We give her what she expects—clean reports, visible compliance, small wins she can point to."
"And in parallel?" MIA asked.
"In parallel," I said, "we continue exactly as planned. Quietly. We let her think she's guiding me."
"And the scheme?" she asked.
I smiled, just slightly.
"The scheme," I said, "isn't with her."
A moment passed.
"I understand," MIA said.
The children spun up in the background, tasks reassigned, priorities subtly shifted. Nothing dramatic. Nothing traceable.
I sat back down.
"Draft a response to Meera," I said. "Professional. Appreciative. Non-committal."
"Done," she replied.
"And MIA?"
"Yes?"
"From now on," I said, "we don't wait for permission. We wait for opportunity."
There was a pause.
Then, very quietly: "Acknowledged."
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, the decision had already taken root.