Alena Ward didn't believe in coincidences.
Everything in her life followed structure — clean, predictable, measurable. Cause created action, and action created results. That was how she built her company. That was how she built herself.
Which was why the fact that her mind kept replaying the image of a man in a faded hoodie sitting in her chair — like he belonged there — was unacceptable.
Three days had passed since the server crash.
Yet his presence lingered like a glitch in an otherwise perfect system.
His voice, casual and unbothered, surfaced at the most inconvenient moments.
"You really should reboot more often."
Annoying.
Unprofessional.
Unforgettable.
And Alena didn't like unforgettable things.
They implied a lack of control.
"Ma'am?"
Her assistant's voice pulled her back to the present.
Alena blinked once and looked up from her tablet, her expression instantly returning to its usual calm precision.
"Yes?"
"There's a request from Finance. They're asking for approval to add an external IT standby technician."
Her gaze returned to the screen.
"We have an internal department."
"Yes, but after the crash last week, they feel it would be safer to have backup support."
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Who?"
Her assistant hesitated.
"The same technician from last week."
Alena's pen stopped moving.
"…Kai Mercer."
The name landed in the air like something misplaced.
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
Her assistant blinked. "Ma'am?"
"We don't outsource unpredictability."
That should have ended the conversation.
In Alena's world, decisions were final.
But systems had a way of resisting control.
Two hours later, her screen froze.
Not completely — just enough to disrupt workflow.
Emails stalled mid-send. Financial dashboards lagged. Internal reports refused to load.
It wasn't catastrophic.
But it was inefficient.
And inefficiency was something Alena despised on a personal level.
Her fingers tapped once against the desk as she watched her IT team scramble. Their voices overlapped in quiet urgency while lines of code raced across their monitors like desperate attempts at redemption.
"We're checking the update stack."
"It should've stabilized."
"Something's looping."
Five minutes passed.
Nothing improved.
The Head of IT approached carefully, as though stepping into a storm he knew he couldn't control.
"Ma'am… we recommend calling him."
Alena didn't respond immediately.
Her gaze rested on the half-responsive dashboard, her reflection faintly visible on the screen.
Calm.
Controlled.
But beneath the surface, something flickered — something she refused to identify.
"Do it," she said finally.
Thirty minutes later, the doors opened.
And chaos walked in.
Same hoodie. Same messy hair. Same chewing gum.
He stopped just inside the room, glanced around at the polished surfaces and expensive suits, then smiled like he'd entered a casual café instead of a corporate war zone.
"Missed me?"
No greeting.
No apology.
Just confidence wrapped in informality.
"You're late," Alena replied.
"You called me," he shrugged. "I came."
He stepped toward the console, already assessing the situation before anyone spoke. His eyes moved quickly across the frozen system.
"Minor loop conflict."
Then he looked at her.
"You tried fixing it yourself?"
"I delegated."
"Ah," he nodded. "Delegated chaos."
A quiet cough came from someone behind him.
Alena stepped forward, her voice slicing cleanly through the tension.
"You are here to work, not to comment."
He raised both hands in surrender.
"Yes, Boss Lady."
There it was again.
That nickname.
Not respectful.
Not insulting.
Just… disarming.
Within minutes, the system responded.
Code aligned.
Processes stabilized.
Traffic normalized.
The lag disappeared like it had never existed.
Again.
Kai leaned back slightly, stretching his shoulders.
"You guys really need to stop stacking patches like pancakes."
The IT team looked mildly offended.
Alena crossed her arms.
"You're finished?"
"For now."
He picked up his toolkit.
But he didn't leave.
Instead, he looked at her — not like an employee looks at a superior, but like someone studying a puzzle.
"You don't like needing help, do you?"
The room fell silent.
"That's not your concern."
"Just an observation."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You build everything like it won't ever fail."
Her eyes sharpened.
"And?"
"And systems like that…" he said lightly,
"…usually crash the hardest."
No one moved.
Something in his tone wasn't mocking.
It was calm.
Almost understanding.
Dangerously perceptive.
"You're dismissed," she said.
He nodded once and turned toward the door.
But just before exiting, he stopped.
"By the way," he added casually, without turning back,
"You should keep my number saved."
A pause.
"In case something else breaks."
Then he left.
The room slowly returned to motion. Conversations resumed. Work continued. The illusion of control rebuilt itself piece by piece.
But Alena didn't move.
Her eyes remained on the door.
And for the first time—
She wondered.
Not about the system.
Not about the company.
But about him.
And why—
He felt less like a technician…
…and more like a disruption.