RYAN'S POV
My fingers were hovering over the mechanical keyboard, poised like a pianist about to strike a dissonant chord. For three years, I had sat at this desk three rows behind Nate Cole and two cubicles over from Clara Hayes. I was the "Junior Analyst," the guy who fetched the high-caffeine roasts and ran the secondary decryption cycles that Nate didn't have time for.
I was the guy who stayed in the background. And that was exactly why I was still breathing.
The bullpen was a morgue with the lights turned up too bright. Since the news of the "St. Jude's Key Incident" broke, the atmosphere at the CSI had shifted from professional tension to a kind of paralyzed, existential dread. We were all staring at the same empty desks. We were all thinking the same thing: If Nate Cole couldn't make it out, what chance do we have?
