CHAPTER 20: THE SIEGE — Part 1
Day two started with breakfast at seven AM.
Same cafeteria. Same industrial food. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Coffee that was surprisingly decent.
I sat with Emily and Mark. Normal conversation. Weekend plans, favorite shows, the kind of small talk that filled spaces between professional acquaintances.
The training schedule said we'd start at eight—advanced crisis management scenarios. Ironic, considering.
I checked my watch. Seven forty-five.
Fifteen minutes.
My stomach tightened. Not hunger. Anticipation. Fear trying to surface.
I pushed it down. Ate my eggs. Drank my coffee. Stayed present.
Seven fifty.
People started heading toward the conference room. I followed with the group. Twenty-eight trainees total. Two instructors. Normal Tuesday morning corporate training.
Except it wasn't.
I felt it before I saw it. The Empathy Engine pulsing—danger, rage, desperation flooding toward us from multiple directions.
The doors burst open.
Three men. Guns raised. Marcus in front, face carved from stone and fury.
"Nobody fucking move!"
Screaming. Immediate, primal. Chairs scraping as people stood, fell, scrambled backward.
"I said don't move!" Marcus fired once into the ceiling. The sound was impossibly loud in the enclosed space. Plaster dust rained down.
Everyone froze.
The nervous man—I could see his name tag now, Jerry—moved to block the other door. His hands shook. The gun shook. He looked terrified of what he was doing.
The third man—Dennis, older, calm—positioned himself where he could see everyone. His gun was steady. His eyes were cold.
"Everyone sit on the floor," Marcus said. Voice like gravel. "Hands where we can see them. Do it now."
We sat. The fear in the room was a physical thing. People crying. Someone praying quietly. The woman next to me hyperventilating.
And me.
Roman's body wanted to collapse. I felt it—muscle memory of helplessness, of being trapped, of childhood terror that had nothing to do with the transmigrator's memories but everything to do with the flesh I inhabited.
The cage. The fear. The absolute certainty that fighting back only made it worse.
My breathing quickened. Vision narrowing. Panic surging—
No.
I pushed. Hard. Reached for Trauma Lock with desperate force.
The power activated like a dam breaking. I felt it wash through me—not removing the fear, but containing it. Boxing it. Creating distance between the trauma response and my conscious mind.
Still scared. Still aware of the danger.
But functional.
I breathed. Deliberately. In four, hold four, out four.
The woman next to me was still hyperventilating. Gasping. Eyes wide.
I kept my hands visible but turned slightly. Caught her attention. Started counting quietly. "Four in. Hold four. Four out. Match me."
She stared at me. Terrified.
I kept counting. Kept breathing.
She started matching. Her breathing slowed. Still scared but no longer drowning in it.
Marcus paced in front of us. Gun sweeping across the group.
"You're all managers, right? Executives? People who matter?" His voice was bitter. Raw. "You work for Waystar Royco. You make decisions. You cut budgets. You lay people off."
No one answered.
"Twenty years," Marcus continued. "I worked here twenty years. They promised us pensions. Healthcare. Job security. You know what I got instead? A fucking pink slip and a handshake."
I let the Empathy Engine extend. Carefully. Reading Marcus.
Beneath the rage: They have to hear us. Someone has to listen. We're people. We matter. They can't just throw us away like garbage—
Not madness. Desperation.
Jerry near the door was a different story. His surface thoughts were chaos: Oh god what are we doing this is insane we're going to prison they're going to shoot us Marcus said it would be fine but it's not fine—
Unstable. Dangerous because he was terrified.
And Dennis. The calm one. I tried to read him but got... nothing. Either he had genuine mental discipline or he was so cold there wasn't much emotional noise.
That was concerning.
Marcus stopped pacing. His eyes swept across us. Landed on someone.
Me.
He walked closer. Leaned down. Read my name badge.
"Roman Roy." He looked up at my face. Back at the badge. "Roy. Like the company name."
Fuck.
"Yeah," I said. Kept my voice steady. "That's right."
Marcus grabbed my arm. Hauled me to my feet. The gun pressed against my ribs.
"One of them," he said. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "One of the family that owns us. Owns this company. Decides our lives."
The other hostages were staring. Some with fear. Some with calculation—would Marcus focus on me and leave them alone?
Dennis's eyes narrowed. Assessing me with new interest.
Jerry looked confused. "Marcus, what are we—"
"Shut up!" Marcus snapped. Then, back to me: "You're a Roy. You know what they did to us?"
"I know some things were handled badly," I said carefully. "I'm listening if you want to tell me."
"Handled badly." He laughed. Bitter. "That's what you people call it. Handled badly. Like our lives are just items on a spreadsheet."
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"That I'm listening." I met his eyes. "You went to all this trouble to make someone listen. I'm here. I'm listening."
Marcus stared at me. The gun was still pressed against my ribs. I could feel my heart hammering. But Trauma Lock held. The fear was contained.
Behind Marcus, Dennis shifted. Watching our interaction with cold calculation.
This was the moment. The pivot point.
Either Marcus would accept me as someone worth talking to, or he'd decide I was just another enemy.
"Okay," Marcus said finally. "Let's talk."
He didn't lower the gun. But he didn't shoot me either.
Outside, in the distance, I heard sirens starting to approach.
The siege had begun.
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