The words I know wouldn't leave him.
They followed Alexander Drake from the marble corridors of the Drake Building to the glass walls of his penthouse, haunting every reflection. He heard them in the quiet hum of his refrigerator, in the whisper of silk sheets as he turned restlessly in bed. They echoed like a verdict — two syllables that had stripped him bare.
He had built his life on being known. His face graced magazine covers, his name headlined markets, his signature commanded obedience. And yet, the way she'd said it — calm, unafraid, almost pitying — had undone all of that. She knew him in a way no one was supposed to.
Sleep refused him.
The penthouse, once his fortress, felt cavernous and accusing. The skyline of Noctaris glittered outside his windows, but even the city seemed to mock him — its neon arteries pulsing with life while he lay still, dissecting the moment she'd met his eyes.
By dawn, he had made a decision.
He was going to find her.
It wasn't rational. It wasn't strategic. It was something primal, raw — the instinct of a man who'd glimpsed the edge of his own control and wanted to understand the thing that pushed him there.
He arrived at the office before sunrise. The building, stripped of its daytime noise, was a cathedral of shadow and silence. The faint hum of power lines above the polished floors felt like a pulse.
Greg wasn't in yet. Neither were the analysts, the interns, or the endless tide of assistants who populated his empire. For once, Alexander preferred it that way.
He walked the halls like a detective through a crime scene. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. His footsteps echoed against the marble, the sound too loud in a place that felt suddenly foreign.
He wasn't sure what he was searching for — only that he had to find something. A trace. A breadcrumb. Proof that she existed outside the haze of memory.
And then he saw it.
A fingerprint.
It was faint, barely visible on the corner of a filing cabinet, just above the handle. A swirl of oil and dust — almost nothing. But he knew. Somehow, instinctively, he knew it was hers.
He reached out, hovering his fingertips over it, careful not to smudge the mark. It was absurd — a billionaire CEO standing reverently before a smudge of dust — but the absurdity didn't matter. The mark was real. Proof that she had been here, moving through his empire while he slept.
He took a photo, zoomed in until the pattern filled his screen. The ridges looked almost deliberate, like a signature.
His mind was already moving ahead. He had contacts. Old ones. Men who specialized in things the public never saw — data brokers, retired operatives, information merchants who dealt in ghosts and whispers.
He scrolled through his phone until he found the name: Isaac.
The call connected after two rings.
"Alexander," came the low, sandpaper voice. "You don't call unless it's complicated."
"It is," he said quietly. "I need you to find someone."
A pause. "Corporate espionage? Competitor? Government contract?"
"A cleaner," Alexander said. "From my building."
Silence stretched, followed by a dry laugh. "A cleaner? That's a new one. You finally lost it, or did someone steal your mop?"
"Just find her," Alexander said sharply. "Her name's Elena. Night shift. I don't know the rest."
Isaac's tone shifted — wary now. "You don't usually care about staff, Alex. What's this really about?"
Alexander hesitated, staring at the faint fingerprint on his phone. "She looked at me," he said softly. "And I couldn't look away."
Isaac exhaled, long and low. "That's not a reason, that's a confession."
"Can you find her or not?"
"I can," Isaac said after a moment. "But it'll cost you. Not money — I've got plenty of that. I'll want a favor later."
"Anything," Alexander said.
"Then send me what you've got."
He hung up, sent the photo, and sat there, staring at the smudge until it blurred.
The sun was just rising when Elena left the Underflow.
The early trains were mostly empty — a few factory workers, a handful of street vendors, no one who looked twice at the quiet woman in the gray jacket. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, light but organized, every item in its place.
She stood by the window as the train climbed toward Luminar Heights, watching the city shift colors. In Shadowcross, the neon lights still glowed faintly against the dawn, while Highspire shimmered in pale gold.
She had felt him watching her the night before. Of course, she had. Alexander Drake didn't know how to hide. Men like him never did. Power was a scent, and his lingered everywhere — sharp, metallic, intoxicating.
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached her eyes.
He's looking now, she thought. They always do.
Hours later, his office was filled with sunlight, but it brought no warmth.
He tried to focus — meetings, calls, signatures — but his attention drifted constantly back to that single fingerprint. His empire, worth billions, ran on efficiency and precision, and yet his mind clung to a smudge of dust.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
By noon, his phone buzzed. A message from Isaac.
"Found her.
Real name: Elena Mirek.
No public record before five years ago. No address under her name, no tax history. She's off the grid, Alex. Whoever she is, she's good at staying invisible.
You want me to dig deeper?"
He read it twice, a chill prickling the back of his neck. No history. No record. No trace.
He typed back:
Dig. As deep as you can.
He stared out the window, the skyline glinting like a thousand blades. Somewhere in the city below, she was walking, breathing, existing outside his reach.
The imbalance unnerved him. He wasn't used to chasing. He wasn't used to not knowing.
But there it was — curiosity, sharpened to obsession.
That evening, he stayed late again.
He told Greg he had after-hours work, dismissed the staff early, and waited. The routine felt ritualistic now — the quiet, the hum, the anticipation.
At exactly ten o'clock, he heard it again: the faint, rhythmic sound of the floor polisher.
He stood, but didn't move toward the door. Not yet. He wanted her to come to him.
And she did.
Elena entered the office with her usual composure, her gaze lowered, her movements precise. But something was different tonight. Her hair was down — not much, just loose enough for a strand to fall across her face as she worked.
He noticed the small things now — the cadence of her steps, the faint trace of soap on her skin, the rhythm of her breath.
"Long day," he said softly.
She glanced at him once, then back to her work. "For you, maybe."
He smiled faintly. "You don't think so?"
She shrugged. "Days aren't long when you live in the quiet."
"Then you must know the city better than anyone."
Her eyes flicked up at that — brief, sharp. "Better than you think."
Something in her tone sent a tremor through him. She wasn't avoiding him; she was assessing him.
He stepped closer. "You left a mark in the accounting wing," he said quietly. "A fingerprint."
She stilled. Then, without turning, she said, "Everyone leaves something behind."
"Yes," he said. "But some marks don't wash away."
At that, she turned fully, her gaze meeting his, steady and unreadable. "Be careful what you try to uncover, Mr. Drake. You might not like what's beneath."
And before he could respond, she was gone again — cart rolling down the corridor, footsteps swallowed by the hum of the city.
When the elevator doors closed behind her, Alexander exhaled slowly. The fingerprint photo still glowed on his phone, the ridges forming a spiral that now looked less like evidence and more like a warning.
A trail of dust. A trail he was following deeper into the shadows.
And for the first time, Alexander Drake — master of empires, sculptor of destiny — wondered if he was the one being led.