Morning light spilled through the high windows, pale and brittle after a night of rain. The office buzzed with its usual rhythm — phones ringing, printers humming — but Leah felt detached from it all, as though sound reached her through water.
She'd barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, the message replayed in her mind: You shouldn't have opened that file.
By the time she reached her desk, Adrian's door was already shut. His schedule showed no meetings until noon, yet she could hear muted voices inside — one male, one female, both sharp, deliberate. She caught only fragments.
"…not supposed to resurface…""…containment clause still valid…"
The conversation stopped when she stepped closer.
Leah turned away, pretending to review her notes, pulse tapping in her throat.
A moment later the door opened. A woman in a charcoal suit strode out — elegant, unsmiling, phone in hand. She brushed past without a word, leaving a faint trail of perfume and tension.
"Ms. Reinhart," Adrian called quietly after her.
Leah froze. Clara.
Clara glanced back, expression unreadable. "We'll finish this off record," she said. "It's safer that way." Then she was gone.
When Adrian noticed Leah standing there, he didn't flinch. "You're early."
"I wanted to finalize the compliance draft."
"Inside," he said. "We'll go through it together."
The door clicked shut behind her. He moved to the window, sleeves rolled, tie loose — composed, yet every motion too controlled, as if holding something fragile in place.
She handed him the folder. "About yesterday—"
"Stop." His tone was low but firm. "Whatever you saw, forget it."
She met his gaze. "You asked me not to open anything labeled Halcyon. You didn't say why."
"I don't owe you an explanation."
"No," she said quietly. "But you do owe me trust. Especially if I'm working on the same data you're protecting."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the room.
Adrian's jaw flexed. "Do you think this is about data?"
"Then what is it about?"
He studied her — long enough that she felt exposed, as if he were weighing whether she could bear the truth.
Finally, he spoke. "Halcyon was an internal probe — confidential clients, sealed testimony. Someone breached the files once before. That incident destroyed reputations and almost ended the firm. If it leaks again, it won't just hurt me."
"Then why is my initial in the record?" she asked.
He hesitated. That single pause said more than any answer could.
"Coincidence," he said at last. "Old shorthand. Nothing to do with you."
She knew he was lying — not maliciously, but with the precision of someone protecting too many fronts at once.
Her fingers tightened around the folder. "You said you value precision, not omission."
He looked at her then — really looked — the mask slipping just enough to reveal fatigue, regret, something close to vulnerability.
"Leah," he said quietly. "You're good at what you do. Don't make yourself a target by knowing too much."
Her breath hitched. "That sounds like a threat."
"It's a warning."
The words hung between them, charged and fragile.
For a moment neither spoke. The city noise filtered faintly through the glass — horns, footsteps, rainwater dripping from the roof.
Then Adrian straightened, smoothing his cuff. "Send me the compliance draft before noon."
"That's all?" she asked.
"For now." His voice softened. "And… close the blinds when you leave. I'm expecting another call."
She turned to go, but his next words stopped her at the door.
"Leah."
She looked back.
"Whatever you think you saw," he said, eyes steady, "remember — context can destroy truth faster than lies."
She didn't reply. She simply nodded, stepped out, and let the door shut behind her.
The blinds stayed open.
From her desk, she could still see his outline — still, deliberate, phone pressed to his ear. She watched as he paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking briefly toward her reflection in the glass, then away.
Her screen blinked with a new notification: SYSTEM ALERT — Restricted File A/V/Clara accessed 09:14 today.
Leah's stomach dropped. She hadn't touched anything since last night.
Someone was inside the system again — and this time, it wasn't her.