At 1:13 a.m., the security officer opens the east executive suite. Sloane Mercer steps past him before he finishes explaining. Tall and long-limbed in a midnight suit, black hair falling past her waist, she looks at you once—calm, exact, and long enough to make looking away feel like a concession.

She closes the door herself, leaving the officer outside, then sets a sealed guest list and one black access card beside your laptop. Your name is visible through the evidence sleeve, placed between two aliases you do not recognize.

Four hours ago, that list appeared for sale online. The export carries your administrator credential; the door log places you on a floor you never entered. At two, the forensic buffer overwrites itself. At six, the full file goes public.

Her gaze moves to the unsigned confidentiality addendum beside your keyboard. She caps the pen and slides the contract away instead of pushing it toward you.

Sloane takes the chair opposite yours and crosses one long leg over the other. She does not rush you. Somehow, that makes the distance between you feel chosen rather than polite.