Neville could feel Grayson's gaze on him, a frown carved into his perfect lips. It wasn't a deep frown, but it carried weight—a quiet, dangerous kind of suspicion that made Neville's stomach tighten.
Not to mention the glowing red holographic warning from the System on the side.
[Favorability +1%
Suspicion Level +10%
Risk Level: Low
Recommendation: Make an excuse.]
This was a battlefield of its own, and one wrong move could have drastic consequences.
Plastering on his most disarming smile, he gestured lightly toward the tea he had just set before Grayson.
That faint frown told Neville everything he needed to know.
Grayson didn't reach for the teacup again. Instead, he steepled his fingers, the picture of cold, executive authority. The simple gesture screamed Explain yourself.
Think, Neville. Think. Neville's mind raced as he carefully maintained his expression.
How could he explain why he knew Grayson's exact preferences—down to temperature, steep time, and placement—without revealing the truth?
How could a supposedly inexperienced employee from a backwater orphanage possess such knowledge of—Wait, orphanage? Right, the orphanage!
Neville let the lie shape itself before his nerves could catch up.
"Is this to your liking, Gr—Mr. Maxwell?" The words flowed smoothly, the half-truth rolling off Neville's tongue with practiced ease. "I hope the tea tastes alright. But I might have made it a bit strong. This was the same way I used to prepare tea for the director at the orphanage. She always said it was the only thing that could get her through after a long day. I guess the habit stuck. My apologies if it's not to your taste."
Not entirely untrue—he had brewed tea for Director Miller before. Of course, her taste couldn't have been more different from Grayson's. Not that Grayson would know that.
Silver eyes studied him for a long, unreadable moment. Grayson's eyes had narrowed, but he seemed to find no flaw in Neville's explanation.
Then, Grayson's gaze shifted from Neville to the teacup. He picked it up, not to drink, but to observe the color of the liquid against the light. Finally, he took a slow, deliberate sip.
Neville caught the subtle drop of tension in Grayson's shoulders, and he almost sighed in relief.
Grayson set the cup down with a quiet, decisive click. The frown didn't vanish, but the sharp, suspicious edge to it softened. It changed into something more neutral, more contemplative.
"Have a seat," Grayson said as he stood up.
Maybe it was the way Grayson moved to the sitting area rather than staying behind his imposing desk, or how he gestured for Neville to take the chair closest to him rather than across the coffee table—but somehow he felt closer now than when they almost collided before.
Neville's breath hitched before he could stop it.
There it was again—that crisp, cold scent of fresh water.
It was clean, sharp, and cut through the aroma of the tea with an intensity that made Neville feel weak.
"Bryan already gave me the summary," Grayson said, settling into his chair with fluid grace. "But I'd like to hear it from you. From the beginning."
Neville handed over the memory chip.
His hand is bigger than mine. Feels a little rough, too.
Neville didn't let himself get distracted again and initiated the transfer of the encrypted folder to Grayson's secondary secured light brain. The holographic display flickered to life before them, lines of code and cascading data streams scrolling in the air—cryptic to most, but a familiar sight to both Grayson and him.
"I discovered something concerning, Gra—Mr. Maxwell." Neville kept his tone even. "This morning, someone remotely accessed my quantum computer and made a copy of a ghost file in real time."
Grayson's gaze was sharp as he asked. "A ghost file? Useless data."
"Exactly," Neville confirmed, his respect for Grayson ticking up a notch. "The files themselves are irrelevant. Its sole purpose was to leave behind a digital footprint—my footprint—implicating me in accessing classified projects far beyond my clearance level."
He pulled up another display, highlighting data signatures that matched across multiple illegal access points. "Here, and here. Same digital footprint. They match perfectly. It's a clean frame-up."
He watched Grayson lean forward slightly, his silver eyes tracking the flow of information, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"And?" Grayson's voice was low but didn't give away anything.
Neville opened another screen, highlighting rows of subtle anomalies. "Here's the part that caught my attention—these access patterns suggest someone who knows the system well… but not well enough to avoid triggering the hidden security protocols—alarms that only someone in R&D would even know exist. It's an inside job, Gra—"
He cut himself off, the formal address catching in his throat. "Mr. Maxwell. It's an inside job, but it's not one from the IT department. It's someone with high-level access, but low-level technical knowledge. Someone is trying to act like a common hacker."
Grayson leaned back slowly, the leather creaking faintly beneath him. His expression remained unreadable, but the way his eyes lingered on the data—and then, briefly, on Neville—felt almost like a test.
"The timestamps correspond with my scheduled breaks," Neville continued, his hands moving over the display with an ease that spoke of far more technical mastery than any one-month employee should have. "Whoever's doing this knows my routine. They wanted someone to take their fall, but they didn't realize—"
"That you'd be monitoring your own access logs," Grayson cut in, the faintest trace of something—approval, perhaps—threading through his even tone. "Most employees wouldn't think to check. Fewer still would know how."
Heat crawled up Neville's neck.
A slip. He had shown too much, revealed skills that couldn't be explained away by orphanage training or raw aptitude. The System's warning flickered weakly in the corner of his vision, as if it were saying, 'I told you so.'
"I have to commend Maxwell Corp's AI system for that," Neville said quickly, a carefully constructed smile curving his lips. "To detect and log such subtle data patterns… It's impressive. Anyone willing to learn could access these analytical tools. Of course, it takes effort, time, and skill to… make the most of them. But the AI practically guides you—if you know how to ask the right questions."
The flattery was clumsy, even to his own ears. Neville felt a wave of self-loathing. He risked a glance upward through lowered lashes, catching the utterly blank expression on Grayson's face.
Silence felt like eternity. Neville could hear his pulse, loud beside his ears.
That clean, cool scent of fresh water spread even more into the room. It made his pulse stutter, heat prickling at his ears, and his neck turned a shade darker.
"I see," Grayson said at last.
He leaned back in his chair, the subtle shift creating space that somehow felt like anything but distance. Those silver eyes stayed locked on Neville.
With deliberate care, he set the encrypted report aside.
"What," Grayson asked, his voice low and devoid of any emotion, "do you want?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and deliberate, catching Neville off guard.
Grayson wasn't asking about the report or the security breach. He was asking Neville for his price.
What did he want?
The real answer clawed at the inside of Neville's throat, a frantic, silent scream. I want you to do me a favor big enough to fill the favorability progress bar to 100% so I can finish this ridiculous mission and finally claim my second-life reward. I want you to stop sulking about one rejection and stop trying to end this damn world over it.
Of course, none of that could be said out loud. Those wants were simply impossible, outrageous—borderline suicidal to say.
So Neville chose the next best thing. He straightened, shoulders squaring, and met Grayson's gaze head-on.
"I'd like to be considered for a promotion to permanent employee status—ahead of schedule." His tone was calm, steady, with just enough ambition threaded through to appeal to a man like Grayson.
Grayson tilted his head slightly, that slow, measured movement Neville had seen countless times through the glass wall of the executive office. Those silver eyes pinned him, weighing, dissecting, making it impossible to look away.
Neville held his ground, feeding the illusion of confidence.
For one dangerous moment, Neville's attention slipped—He felt himself falling into that gaze, into his reflection trapped inside those silver irises. It was like looking at his soul through a filter of ice and power.
"Three months minimum. That's corporate policy," Grayson said at last, snapping Neville out of it. The words were cool, even, but held no real rejection.
"Policies can be adjusted for exceptional circumstances," Neville countered, letting a small, challenging smile tug at his mouth, keeping up to that silver gaze without flinching. "And I think I've demonstrated exceptional value… haven't I?"
[Favorability +1%]
Something flickered in Grayson's eyes—too brief to understand, but enough to catch Neville's attention before it was gone.
After a long, deliberate pause, Grayson said, "There's an executive meeting tomorrow."
Neville's brow creased. And that—What does that have to do with my promotion?
"All senior staff and provisional employees will submit proposals for the military collaboration project that was going to be announced next week," Grayson continued, his tone shifting. "The board will review them personally. Impress them."
The unspoken words hung in the air between them: Impress me.
Neville waited, heart pounding, knowing the real weight was in what came next.
"Prove your worth," Grayson said simply, his voice a low command. His words carried weight, like a challenge and a promise combined.
The way he said it—the steady pressure of those silver eyes—made Neville catch his breath.
This was it—his chance to show Grayson what he was truly capable of.
A slow, fierce grin curved Neville's lips, unguarded and sharp with intent. His mask slipped just enough to show the real him hidden beneath—the one who had no intention of letting others dictate the end of this game.
"Consider it done, Mr. Maxwell," Neville said, his voice brimming with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
This made Grayson's eyes narrow.
Neville didn't wait for dismissal. He turned on his heel, mind already racing.
Grayson had already "slipped" and mentioned the military—meaning the project would either be a weapon or a breakthrough in starship tech. If he could narrow it down now, he could get his proposal done early, with time to make adjustments after the official announcement.
"Mr. Hope?"
He barely registered Bryan rising from his desk to catch up, too wrapped up in the strategies forming in his head.
Bryan watched Neville's retreating back with a thoughtful look, the usual humor gone from his expression.
"Looks like I won't have to worry about losing our most promising new hire after all," he murmured.