Page 77 of Falling Off Script

I grin. “I’m proud of you.”

“Ugh. I hate that compliment.”

“Good. Means you earned it.”

Matt exhales. “Anyway. Just wanted to say it straight. I know I kinda got everyone hyped for the idea.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. To be honest, that was one of my dumber ideas. And I have plenty to choose from.”

He gives me a quick, awkward nod. “Later.”

I watch him go. His posture is still a little too performative, like he’s walking to background music only he can hear—but the volume’s lower now. And for once, I don’t feel the need to fix him.

***

When I get to the office, the first thing I notice is the silence.

Not the good kind. Not focused, productive silence.

The kind that usually comes right before a PR crisis or a Slack meltdown involving the phrase "accidental nudity."

I slide into my office, power up the screen, and see it.

The folder.

Raw_logs

Still in the shared drive. Still wide open like a goddamn bear trap.

I curse under my breath and click. The files are all there. Same time stamps. Same titles. A solid hour of audio Emily definitely doesn’t want me—or anyone else—hearing.

And then I hear the footsteps.

Of course it’s Tyler.

He leans against the doorframe like a smug little algorithm with too much access and not enough shame.

“You know,” he says, “I was gonna ping you, but I figured you’d see it eventually.”

I don’t look up. “What exactly did you see, Tyler?”

“Let’s just say your girl has a vivid imagination. And impressive breath control.”

I exhale slowly. Count to three.

Then look up.

“Delete them.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Delete the folder. Lock it. Kill it. Burn the server.”

Tyler gives me a look that belongs in a courtroom drama. The kind where someone’s about to say “But Your Honor, the footage speaks for itself.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead.”

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