Thorne Tower at midnight was a different beast. The bustling lobby was deserted, lit only by security lights reflecting off the cold marble. The silence was profound, broken only by the distant hum of HVAC systems and the squeak of Alex's industrial cleaning cart. He wore stiff, ill-fitting grey coveralls with a Thorne Facilities logo stitched onto the chest. They felt like a prison uniform.
His trainer, a bored man named Hank who smelled faintly of cigarettes and resignation, had given him a cursory tour: the cavernous lobby, the executive elevator bank (off-limits), the maze of service corridors, the cavernous basement where supplies lived, and the specific floors he was responsible for – primarily mid-level office spaces currently unoccupied. Hank demonstrated the buffer, the industrial vacuum, the chemical sprays with unpronounceable names, then vanished, muttering about a break room somewhere.
Alex was alone. The sheer scale of the empty office floor was daunting. Endless rows of identical desks, dark computer screens like watching eyes, the smell of dust and stale carpet cleaner. His first task: vacuuming. The roar of the machine was loud in the silence, a welcome distraction from the churn of his thoughts. *$21,200. Minimum wage. How many nights? How many years?*
He pushed the vacuum mechanically, the repetitive motion numbing. The humiliation of the job was secondary to the crushing weight of the debt and the knowledge of *why* he was here. Ethan Thorne's cold, calculating face loomed in his mind. This was punishment. Control. A billionaire's whim disguised as a debt agreement.
A flicker of movement near the elevators made him jump. He killed the vacuum. Marco stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He wore identical grey coveralls, looking incongruously tough and out of place amidst the sterile office furniture. A small, defiant smirk played on his lips.
"Marco!" Alex hissed, hurrying over. "What are you doing here? Hank said these floors were just me tonight!"
"Hank doesn't know shit," Marco said, pushing off the wall. "I got assigned to the executive conference levels. Two floors up." He jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. "Took a detour." His gaze swept over Alex. "You okay? This place is creepy as hell at night."
"I'm fine," Alex muttered, though he was profoundly grateful not to be alone. "Just… vacuuming. You shouldn't be down here. What if someone sees you?"
"Who? The night manager's probably asleep in his office. Security's watching cameras, not wandering empty floors." Marco stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I meant what I said, Al. I'm not letting you be alone with that bastard if he decides to make an appearance."
"He won't," Alex said, though he wasn't sure. "It's midnight. He's probably in his penthouse or some fancy club."
"Probably," Marco conceded, but his eyes were watchful, scanning the shadowed corners of the floor. "Still." He nudged Alex's shoulder. "Show me the ropes, partner. How does this fancy vacuum work?"
Despite himself, Alex felt a small smile tug at his lips. Marco's presence was a shield against the oppressive silence and the crushing weight of his circumstances. They worked side-by-side for a while, Marco making deliberately loud, clumsy swipes with the vacuum, cracking terrible jokes about dust bunnies plotting world domination, trying to lighten the mood. For a brief moment, the grey coveralls and the looming debt faded, replaced by the familiar comfort of their friendship.
**The Penthouse: Unwanted Observations**
Ethan Thorne rarely slept. The Singapore deal required constant vigilance. He sat in his penthouse study, bathed in the cool glow of multiple monitors displaying market data and contract clauses. A half-empty glass of Scotch sat beside him. He'd intended to work, but his focus kept fragmenting.
He pulled up the internal security feed on a secondary monitor. Not the main lobby or sensitive areas – that was security's domain. But the general office floors had cameras. He navigated to the feed for Floor 32, Alex Moretti's assigned area.
The image showed the empty office space. And there he was. Pushing a vacuum, shoulders slumped, head down. The picture of defeated drudgery. Ethan felt a flicker of cold satisfaction. *Contained. Controlled.*
Then, another figure entered the frame. Taller, broader, moving with a loose-limbed confidence Ethan recognized instantly – the protective presence from the community center. *Marco Silva.* Security had flagged his employment application, noting his request to be placed near Alex. Ethan had dismissed it as irrelevant sentimentality.
Seeing them together now, however, sparked a different feeling. Irritation. Marco leaned against a desk, saying something that made Alex turn. Even in the grainy black-and-white feed, Ethan saw Alex's posture shift. The slump eased slightly. He saw Alex smile. A small, weary thing, but genuine. Marco clapped him on the back, a gesture of easy camaraderie that lingered.
Ethan's fingers tightened on the edge of his desk. The satisfaction curdled. This wasn't just containment. Alex wasn't isolated in his punishment. His… friend… his *protector*… was here. Sharing the burden. Offering comfort. Defying the isolation Ethan had intended.
He watched as Marco took the vacuum handle from Alex, demonstrating some exaggerated, clumsy technique, making Alex laugh. A short, sharp sound that the microphone barely picked up, but Ethan imagined it clearly. The sound grated.
Why did it bother him? Alex Moretti's suffering was the point. His isolation was part of the punishment. Yet, seeing him find solace, find defiance even in this servitude, through the unwavering presence of this Marco Silva… it felt like a challenge. An intrusion.
He zoomed the camera slightly, focusing on Alex's face as he laughed at Marco's antics. The defiance from the community center corridor was gone, replaced by a weary warmth directed at his friend. It was a vulnerability Ethan hadn't seen before. A glimpse of the person beneath the insolent waiter and the protective brother.
Ethan abruptly switched off the monitor feed, plunging the secondary screen into darkness. The cold satisfaction was gone, replaced by a restless, unfamiliar agitation. He picked up his Scotch and drained it. Sentiment was inefficient. Control was paramount. Marco Silva's presence was an unforeseen variable. An obstacle to the pure, isolating punishment he'd designed. And the ease between them, the shared laughter in the face of his retribution… it felt like a personal affront.
He stared at the darkened screen. Alex Moretti was in his tower, under his thumb, working off his debt. But he wasn't broken. He wasn't alone. And Ethan Thorne, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate, found that unacceptable. The game had just become more complex. The watchful billionaire had noticed the watchful friend, and the first cold ember of possessiveness flickered in the glacial depths of his control.
**(End of Chapter 13)**