Page 55 of Thunder

Amelia

I sit at my desk, the sterile, professional place adorned with blueprints, permit approval forms, and digital models related to the Eco Resort project. The walls are decorated with conceptual drawings and renderings that, on any other day, might make me smile—my visions brought to life. Well, close enough. But today, the usual, comforting professional ambiance has taken a turn towards the surreal.

Because I feel trapped, like an animal about to be put down.

My chair is a snare, its comfortable cushioning no longer offering any relief. Despite the chill of the air conditioning, a sheen of sweat forms on my forehead. I've always been one to keep a cool head under pressure, I sailed through my tests in college and always finished ahead of time, but there's something different about today.

Something unnerving.

I can't shake this feeling, like I'm a mouse in a cage observed by invisible eyes. Eyes attached to a snake or a cat or some other mouse-consuming predator. It gnaws at me, making it impossible to concentrate on my work. The sensation of being watched lingers, disquieting me more than the invasive chill of the office air.

"Stop freaking yourself out, Lia," I mutter to myself as I erase a stupid typo in a memo I was about to send out, trying to focus on the task at hand. "You've got deadlines to meet."

I try to dive into my work—calculations and plans that could makeMar y Tierraan incredibly carbon negative project, which, even just a couple weeks ago, would have me vibrating with an insane amount of excitement—but the feeling won't go away. It haunts me, reminding me of some stories I heard the other night about the Steel Reapers and their conflict with the Covington family; the danger, the adrenaline, the risks they took—all part of a life so different from mine. A life that both fascinates and terrifies me.

Those are the stories that swirl through my mind right now, drowning my rational thought with blood, gore, and more blood.

My phone vibrates on my desk, cutting through the oppressive atmosphere like a beacon of light. It's a text from Marcus. Just seeing his name on the screen brightens my mood, but it also deepens my unease.

"Hey babe, how's your day going?" His message reads.

I want to confide in him, tell him about this gut-wrenching feeling that something's not right. But I'm afraid—I know all too well the danger Marcus and his friends have faced in their past, and any message from me hinting that I might be in danger will bring Marcus here in an instant. If he comes here, there's no doubt in my mind that somebody will get hurt, probably many somebodies, and I can't bear the thought of putting him in harm's way. Or getting either of us arrested for murder.

"Everything's fine," I type back hesitantly. "Just another busy day at the office."

It feels sickening lying to him, even though I know it’s for the best. I feel so overwhelmed, not just with the threats that seem to lurk in every shadow, but in the dangerous data that sits on the flash drive I stole from work; there’s so much information there, and even though I’ve been digging into it with every spare moment I have, it’s a daunting web of deception, of financial transactions and accounting ledgers that make my head spin just thinking about them. There’s so much there, and though I know it’s important—because why else would it be hidden within the deepest reaches of Mr. Russell’s secured computer?—it feels so undecipherable that it might as well be in a foreign language.

"Alright. Stay safe, Lia. I'll see you later," he replies, his concern palpable even through the impersonal medium of text.

"Stay safe" echoes in my head as I stand up from my desk, restless.

That's when I catch movement from the corner of my eye: strangers in the hallway, men in sharply tailored suits and carrying leather briefcases. They exude a tense air of urgency unlike anything I've ever seen in this building. They're not architects, developers, or investors—I can tell just by looking at them. These men have a hardened, dangerous look to them, and it sends shivers down my spine.

"Who are they?" I wonder, my heart pounding in my chest. The fear is almost paralyzing, but I force myself to breathe, reminding myself that I need to stay focused, stay vigilant.

I focus.

Or I try to.

But focusing is easier said than done when every instinct inside me screams that these men don't belong here, that some sinister, suffocating cloud follows them around, and if I don’t act immediately, this office will be listed on the police report about my disappearance as the last place anyone saw me alive.

"Stay safe, Lia," Marcus' words echo in my mind once more, and I know what I have to do. I need to find out more about these men. Are they really a threat, or am I just jumping at shadows?

I stand and leave my office.

"Hey, Sarah," I say, approaching the receptionist's desk as nonchalantly as possible. She looks up from her papers with a friendly smile and I force one of my own. "How's your day going?"

"Can't complain, Lia," she replies, setting down her pen. "Just the usual paperwork. And you?"

"Same here. A bunch of schematics and math and… stuff," I say, trying to sound casual despite the knot of unease coiling tighter in my stomach; unease that makes me talk like I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. "Working on the Eco Resort project. You know, the hotel, uh, thing we’re building. Hey, um... speaking of work, have you noticed all these new guys around the office today?"

Wow, if these new guys aren’t here to kill me, I just might die anyway. From embarrassment.

Why am I talking like I’m both drunk and stoned at the same time?

Sarah's eyes flicker towards the hallway, and she lowers her voice. Thankfully, she seems too excited by these new guys and the opportunity to gossip to take notice of the fact that I’m talking like I’ve been hit in the head with a baseball bat every day for the last ten years. "Honestly, I have no idea who they are. They're apparently some big shots; even Mr. Russell seems concerned. He's been locked in 'urgent' meetings with them all day. Him and Mr. Mancini, they’re both just, like, so preoccupied with all this."

"Really?" I say, barely holding back my alarm. "That's... interesting."

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