Page 24 of Make Them Cry
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
I take the cup slowly, suspicious. “You’re incapable of personal growth.”
He grins, and tilts his head. “You wound me, Quinn.”
“You’ll live.”
But my lips twitch. Just a little. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve felt in weeks.
He nods toward my screen. “You diving into that new patch?”
“Yeah. Gameplay update for the combat AI. Trying to fix the targeting system before beta.”
“Need help?”
I glance up, ready with a sarcastic reply, but something in his expression stops me. His voice is softer, less… sharp. Concern flickers behind his eyes before he covers it with his usual smirk.
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. But thanks.”
“Anytime.”
And just like that, he’s gone—back to his desk, back to pretending we’re not locked in the world’s most confusing workplace dynamic. Except today, it feels different. Lighter. Maybe we’re both tired of fighting.
Maybe we both needed a truce.
The day moves in a rare, glorious rhythm. No breakdowns. No HR check-ins. My code compiles cleanly, and the test server behaves for once. By lunchtime, I’ve almost convinced myself that everything’s normal again.
Then my phone buzzes.
At first, I ignore it. Probably a system alert or one of Tasha’s endless group chats about company yoga. But it buzzes again. And again.
I glance down.
Unknown number: “Bet you miss him already.”
Then another:
Unknown number: “Don’t get too comfortable.”
My stomach twists.
No. No, it’s over. Ithasto be over.
I glance around the office, trying to breathe. No one’s looking at me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up anyway. I open the message details. It’s coming from a masked IP. Private proxy. Encrypted.
The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
My phone buzzes again. A photo this time. Blurry, taken from a distance. My apartment building. My floor.My bedroom.
Oh my god.
They’reinsidemy apartment.
I stand so fast my chair rolls backward into the partition wall. Heads turn. Gage looks up immediately from across the aisle, eyebrows drawing together.
“Everything okay?” he calls.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just—uh—coffee spill.”
