The rhythmic hum of the floor buffer was Alex's only companion on Floor 42. Hank had vanished hours ago, likely asleep in some hidden maintenance nook. Marco had texted thirty minutes ago: *Stuck buffing exec lounge. Boss-man Thorne's floor. Creepy vibes. U ok?* Alex had replied: *Just waxing existential dread. All good.* He wasn't, but Marco didn't need his worry piled on top of his own.
The office air was thick with the chemical tang of polish and the unsettling quiet of a space built for bustling life now devoid of it. Alex pushed the heavy buffer in slow, overlapping arcs, the whine echoing off the glass walls overlooking the sleeping city. $21,200. Each pass felt like grinding away a microscopic fraction of that impossible sum. The coveralls itched. His shoulders ached. Resignation had settled into a heavy numbness.
He didn't hear the elevator arrive. The soft *ping* was swallowed by the buffer's drone. It was the sudden shift in the air, the prickle on the back of his neck, that made him glance up.
Ethan Thorne stood at the edge of the carpeted workstation area, watching him.
He wore dark trousers and a charcoal sweater, not a suit, but the effect was no less imposing. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. The stark overhead lights carved sharp angles in his face, making his blue-grey eyes look even colder, more assessing. He looked utterly out of place amidst the smell of wax and the bulky cleaning equipment.
Alex froze, his hand tightening on the buffer handle. The machine whined on, oblivious. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the numbness, followed instantly by a surge of defensive anger. What was he doing here? Midnight strolls through janitorial zones?
He killed the buffer. The sudden silence was deafening.
"Mr. Thorne," Alex managed, his voice sounding rough in the quiet. He didn't add 'sir'. He couldn't make himself.
Ethan didn't respond immediately. His gaze swept the floor – the gleaming paths left by the buffer, the untouched areas, the cart with its array of sprays and cloths. It was an inspection. A silent assessment of his work. His property.
"Moretti," Ethan finally acknowledged, his voice a low rumble in the vast space. He took a few slow steps onto the freshly waxed floor, his polished loafers leaving faint, disapproving marks on the high-gloss surface. Alex flinched internally. "Night shift agrees with you? Or is existential dread part of the uniform?" The question was delivered with icy detachment, but the reference to Alex's flippant text to Marco was unmistakable. He *had* been watching.
Alex felt a flush creep up his neck. Surveillance. Of course. "It's work," he stated flatly, avoiding Ethan's eyes, focusing instead on a smudge near the buffer's base. "I'm doing it."
"Are you?" Ethan stopped a few feet away. The scent of his expensive cologne, something cold and woody, cut through the chemical smells. "The east quadrant appears… neglected." He gestured vaguely towards a section Alex hadn't reached yet.
"It's next," Alex said through gritted teeth, the unfairness of the accusation burning. "I work systematically. Hank said—"
"Hank," Ethan interrupted, his lip curling slightly, "is irrelevant. *I* am assessing the efficiency of this… arrangement." His gaze locked onto Alex, sharp and intrusive. "The debt accrues interest, you know. Administrative fees. The longer it takes you to fulfill your obligations, the more burdensome it becomes."
It was a lie. The contract had specified a fixed sum. But the threat landed with precision. Alex felt the noose tighten. "I'm working as fast as I can," he said, the anger simmering closer to the surface.
"Fast is meaningless without precision," Ethan countered, taking another step closer. Alex could see the fine weave of his sweater, the cool assessment in his eyes. "Carelessness seems to be your defining trait. Spilling champagne. Failing to control a child near valuable property. Leaving sections of floor unwaxed..." His gaze dropped pointedly to the faint scuff marks his own shoes had just made. "Perhaps janitorial work is beyond your limited capabilities after all. Maybe garnishment *is* the more efficient solution. Simpler. Cleaner."
The threat to his family, veiled but clear, shattered Alex's control. He straightened up, meeting Ethan's icy gaze head-on, the buffer forgotten. "Is that why you're here?" Alex's voice was low, trembling with suppressed fury. "To threaten me? To gloat? To make sure I know my place, scrubbing your floors in the middle of the night?" He took a step forward, closing the distance. "I get it, okay? I'm the speck of dirt in your perfect world. I ruined your suits. I'm paying for it. What else do you want? Blood?"
For a split second, something flickered in Ethan's eyes. Not anger, but surprise. Surprise at the raw defiance, the lack of cowering. Alex stood before him, coveralls and all, vibrating with a potent mix of anger, fear, and a desperate pride that refused to be extinguished. It was the same fire from the community center corridor, undimmed by the servitude.
Before Ethan could respond – whether to crush the defiance or dissect it – the elevator *pinged* again. Marco Silva strode out, his expression thunderous. He'd clearly seen Ethan on the security feed or sensed the tension.
"Everything okay here, *sir*?" Marco asked, his voice deceptively level as he positioned himself slightly between Alex and Ethan. His gaze was fixed on Thorne, protective and challenging. "Just checking on my partner. Floor 42's a big job for one guy."
Ethan's gaze shifted from Alex to Marco. The flicker of surprise vanished, replaced by glacial displeasure at the interruption, at the protective stance, at the easy use of "partner." The dynamic he'd observed on camera was even more palpable in person – the unwavering loyalty, the shared burden. It felt like an affront to his carefully constructed isolation for Alex.
"Your concern is noted, Silva," Ethan said, his voice colder than the night air outside the windows. "But unnecessary. I was merely… evaluating the return on Thorne Enterprises' investment in human capital." He gave Alex one last, lingering look, a look that held a disturbing mix of contempt and something else – a sharp, unsettling curiosity. "Ensure the east quadrant meets standards, Moretti. Efficiency. Precision. They are not optional." With that, he turned and walked back to the elevators, not waiting for a response, leaving the smell of cold cologne and unresolved tension hanging heavy in the air.
**(End of Chapter 14)**