2. Layla

2

LAYLA

The clock ticks past midnight as I hunch over my desk, bleary eyes straining against the harsh glare of the computer screen.

Another impossible task from Emmitt Dawson to add to the never-ending pile of "emergency" deadlines. This internship was supposed to be my golden ticket into the tech world, but instead I've become a slave to the whims of a lecherous supervisor.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, racing against exhaustion to de-bug this code before going home. The office is eerily quiet, most employees having gone home hours ago. Only the low hum of sleeping computers and the click-clack of my typing break the silence.

Until heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, sending a spike of dread through my weary body. I know those languid footfalls all too well.

Dawson slinks into my cubicle, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

"Burning the midnight oil again, Layla? "

Dawson's voice drips like poisoned honey behind me.

Before I can respond, his hands grasp my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension.

I flinch, skin crawling at his unwanted touch. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down. Endure , I remind myself. You need this internship .

His hands linger a moment too long before finally falling away.

"I admire your dedication, Lay. You'll go far in this company."

His implications slither down my throat like the midnight oil he's so fond of. I want nothing more than to flee his presence, but I'm stuck in place. All my life, I've fought against men like him, yet here I am, allowing him to paw at me like an object.

No . I refuse to be cowed. I shrug out of his grip and meet his beady eyes. "I should get back to work, sir. I have an early morning."

Dawson's smile turns icy. He knows I've rebuffed him. "Don't stay too late. They're shutting off the heat soon for some work on the system and testing the air conditioning. Place'll be freezing."

He skulks away, but his stench lingers like a disease.

I let out a shaky breath, skin still crawling from his unwanted touch. This would be the tenth time he's invaded my space after hours, and I've worked here for five months. But I can't dwell on it. My future's too important.

Raised by a single mother after my father abandoned us, I've had to learn to be self-sufficient and independent—especially when the boyfriends came along. The power of invisibility is something I gave up a long time ago. With my eyes the color that they are, I'm an immediate curiosity to anyone I inadvertently make eye contact with .

Doll Eyes. Ghost Girl. Vampire. Witch. Temptress. Whore.

The cruelest moniker of all, spat at me by one of Mom's more articulate Lotharios. As if the color of my irises alone could bewitch a grown man, absolving him of any accountability for his own wretched behavior.

The screen blurs as hot tears sting the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, refusing to let Dawson or the memories of my fractured childhood distract me any longer. I owe it to myself and to the memory of the broken woman who raised me to rise above the role of victim.

Mum's Men, as I've termed the assholes who came in various forms but with the same type of brain, came up with these nicknames throughout my life until I found my escape hatch out of that house at eighteen.

My mother may have chosen the fleeting affection of despicable men over the well-being of her own daughter. She may have looked the other way while her boyfriends lewdly objectified a child. But her mistakes, her weakness, do not have to define me.

I draw in a deep breath, imagining I can expel the rancid odor of Dawson's cologne on the exhale. Conjuring an image of wide-open skies and sprawling hills, I let the dream of freedom that saved me as a child flow through my veins, steadying my hands.

The office air conditioner kicks on with a wheeze, blasting frigid air into my cubicle. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I've been so involved in my work, I didn't realize the heat must've shut off some time ago. I pull my jacket tighter around me and continue typing.

As the progress bar inches toward completion, my mind wanders to the box of Mom's belongings sitting in my closet. I haven't opened it yet. Part of me wants to throw it away, to sever that last connection to a past I've tried so hard to escape. But something holds me back.

The clock on my desk reads 1:37 a.m. when I finally finish debugging the code. I save the file and email it to Dawson, cc'ing the project lead. I envision going home and curling up in front of a warm fire in the new, slightly ramshackle home I inherited after my mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was killed for it.

How did Mom get caught in a shoot-out at a bar? My questions only multiplied when her ex, an attorney, read me her will and her long-kept secret that she— we— owned a decrepit lighthouse in a remote coastal town, left by a father I never knew.

My mother dated men with all kinds of occupations, from deadbeats to lawyers, but a lighthouse keeper wasn't one I ever would have predicted.

Or that he'd be my father.

He's dead, too. He was killed in a drunk driving accident on one of the many narrow, cliffside roads in Greycliff twelve years ago.

Maybe you think I'm cold for talking about my parents this way. But for so long, I was the only parent I knew. I supervised myself more than these two ever could, and while I'm sad that I'm actually an orphan now, I've kind of always felt that way.

Which is why the foggy coastal town of Greycliff was perfect for me and the resulting internship at one of the latest start-up tech firms in the industry. My skills and the atmosphere were a perfect match.

Until Emmitt Dawson.

I swallow down my gag reflex, remnants of adrenaline and repulsion, as I slip out of my cubicle. The floor-to-ceiling window completes my small office square, dark and bone-chillingly cold at this late hour.

With a warm fire and maybe a hot bath still on my mind, I grab my trench coat off my chair and—stop .

The glow of the other computer monitors on this floor covers my arms in a creepy blue light as I reach down and tap on my keyboard, and before I know it, my ass is following my reach and returning to my seat.

I've had it with meaty, asshole men. Thinking about my dead mom, my dead dad, and my dead past causes a spiral of rage inside me when I equate them with Dawson.

I'm not going to be used again. I refuse.

But I'm also non-confrontational and extremely passive-aggressive.

Using skills I learned not in college but in college basements with the other tech nerds in darkened, monitor glow rooms, I hack into my company's surveillance in just under ten minutes and pull up all the times I remember Dawson approaching me, touching me, and giving those gross one-liners of his.And calling me Lay. Ew.

Dragging them to a folder I've falsely titled HR Compliant Files , I unclip my Hello Kitty USB port from my keychain and insert it into the computer's tower.

Then I hit copy files.

I lean back with folded arms and a smirk. I don't know what I'm going to do with the evidence quite yet, but I'm happy I'll have it in case Dawson gets smart and decides to cover his ass.

While I'm smirking, I hear the low rumble of voices in an enclosed office behind me—Dawson's. I guess he never left despite his warning that the office would turn into a fridge after two.

Curious, I pull up real-time surveillance in his private office from a camera he's long forgotten about. He believes himself invincible, what with his Nepo-baby managerial title.

I watch and listen with half-interest, and then my smile falls .

"Project Oracle's complete. Don't lie to me, Dawson."

"I never denied it!" Dawson's voice rises to a panicked pitch. "I was merely running it through last-minute tests. It's not easy, you know, having a floor's worth of analysts write hidden code without them knowing about it."

The stranger with Dawson, a man I can't see, has placed himself just outside the camera's peripheral view. But I hear him just fine. His low tone is easy and calm.

"We don't have time," the man says. "Give the AGI to me."

I tense so hard, the tendons of my neck strain. AGI? Did I hear that right? Artificial General Intelligence. That's a highly illegal form of AI. AGI can learn and understand any intellectual task that a human can.

Minimizing the surveillance feed, I open the company's project files and search for any mention of Project Oracle. Nothing.

As if he can hear my racing thoughts, Dawson says, "Look, the progress on Oracle is exceeding our expectations. Its predictive models are already influencing the trial markets we've tested. But I can't hand it over to you this second."

"It should have been operational yesterday."

"We're moving as fast as we can without arousing suspicion," Dawson responds, using his hands as if to calm the situation—though the mysterious man is more than calm. "This isn't a simple algorithm. It's closer to Pandora's box. If you want it to influence the economy, elections, Wall Street, then we have to?—"

"You promised a deliverable, Dawson. The organization doesn't take kindly to lies."

Mystery Man advances, his silhouette slithering over Dawson's desk. Between two blinks, he grips Dawson's throat, bringing him halfway over the desk like a rag doll bent the wrong way .

"Do you understand the kind of people you're dealing with?" Mystery Man hisses. "We're not some corporate investors you can pacify with jargon. You are at the edge of our knife."

"I understand. Please…"

"Shit. Shit ," I hiss under my breath.

Heart hammering, I bolt out of my chair and grip my coat like a lifeline before rounding my cubicle and getting the fuck out of here.

Wait. The flash drive.

Hunching over so I'm hidden by the rows of cubicles, I stealth-crawl back to my computer and detach my USB, pocketing it before Dawson's door rams open.

My clenched jaw catches my gasp. I melt to the floor, huddling under my desk.

A tall man in a dark suit emerges. But from this angle, I can't see his face.

"You have very little time left," he growls over his shoulder at Dawson. "If you so much as?—"

The man stops, his head turning toward my desk lamp.

"Is someone else here?" he barks.

My muscles tense. I could run, but they'd see me. I could stay hidden, but they'd find me. Either way, I'm fucked.

The man's hand disappears into his jacket. I bite down on a whimper.

"Dumb interns," Dawson's scratched, raw voice responds in his office. "They're always leaving shit on before they leave, like a high electric bill will really stick it to the man."

Heavy footsteps approach my cubicle. I press against the wall under my desk, my mind going blank with terror, the USB drive burning a hole in my pocket.

The steps pause. A shadow falls across the cubicle entrance .

My fingers curl, ready to claw or flee. The man's hand reappears from his pocket, holding a pistol.

Dawson pokes his head out.

"Hey," he says to the gun-wielding man. "The office cleaning crew will be in here any minute. If you don't want to be seen, you'd better make yourself scarce."

I see enough of the man to watch him pocket his gun and straighten his suit before receding out of view. "This warning is the last courtesy you'll receive, Dawson. Next time, it'll be far less friendly."

Huddling my knees to my chest, I wait for the elevator to ding its presence, taking Mystery Man with it to the ground floor. Yet I'm still not alone.

I listen to the sounds of Dawson collecting himself, clearing his throat multiple times, and muttering hoarsely under his breath as drawers bang and keys jangle when he steps out of his office and locks the door behind him.

His silhouette comes next, the edges illuminated by the city's lights through the windows as he passes by at a fast clip, his briefcase clutched close to his chest.

Thank God for Dawson's inflated ego—he's so convinced everyone jumps at his commands, he'd never imagine I'd still be here after he told me to leave before two o'clock.

After the second elevator ding comes and the doors slide shut behind Dawson, I allow my shoulders to relax and lift my head. But I still don't move.

Fifteen minutes pass before I'm comfortable enough to slide out from the cover of my desk and take the same route Dawson and Mystery Man did to exit to the ground floor.

The rain pelts my back as I slip out a side door, the wet rivulets seeping through my thin jacket. I quicken my pace, head down, hurrying through the empty streets. The cobblestones shine slick under the streetlamps, the fog swirling around my feet.

My mini-Coop is parked a half a block away. I pay for street parking because the garage is for full-time employees only, and right now, I've never been more thankful for that.

The engine rumbles to life, its vibrations slinging through the driver's seat like the fizzing of my blood as I navigate my way home, checking the rearview mirror religiously, praying that I won't notice headlights through the wash of rain. It becomes more of a terrifying possibility the farther I drive from the main expanse of Greycliff and into the narrow, winding road that snakes along the peninsula's spine, a precarious path lined with gnarled trees bent from the relentless sea winds. The road is an undulating ribbon of asphalt, offering glimpses of the rocky shoreline on one side and dense, tangled woodland on the other.

The lighthouse itself, an imposing structure of weathered stone and iron, rises stoically from a grassy outcrop up ahead. Its base is encircled by old, salt-stained boulders that have borne the brunt of countless storms like this one. The narrow piece of land it stands on extends into the restless sea like a slender finger. I speed toward it like one that beckons me closer.

With the help of the blanket I keep in the back seat because of the constant temperature drops, I scuttle into my home with it draped over my head—a plaid, wet-blanket-ghost seeking safe harbor.

I discard the blanket and peel off my damp clothes in the small entryway, my skin prickling with a residual chill. Clad in my bra and underwear, I wrap a quilt that's draped on the couch around my shoulders and light the stone fireplace that dominates one wall. I'm happy to report that the small house retains its historical charm by having no central heating .

The tempest rages outside, but in here, all is still but for the crackling of the growing fire.

Curling up on the couch facing the flames, I drag my laptop onto my lap.

It hums to life, casting an electronic glow that battles with the dancing light of the natural fire. With trembling fingers, I stick my USB in and click open the files, dreading what I'm pretty sure made it onto the stick in addition to Dawson's subtle groping.

I click on the newest file and the footage starts, the top of my supervisor's balding head darting across the screen as he seeks shelter behind his desk from a figure just out of view on the right.

Mystery Man knows where the camera is.

He edges near the frame but never comes into it. His dark suit, topped with a black fedora that I didn't notice before, obscures any profile I might screenshot.

I slam the laptop shut and shimmy away from it, biting my nails, wishing I could unsee the footage and un-hear my boss's damning words. But it's too late. I know his secret.

Who is the mystery man? What kind of organization would risk creating an AGI capable of influencing global events?

I've always been a loner, keeping to myself and avoiding conflict. A people-pleaser who never makes waves. But now fate has dropped a live grenade in my lap, forcing me to make an impossible choice.

Outside, the wind shrieks as if mimicking the churning in my gut. Do I keep quiet and pretend I never saw the video? Turning a blind eye goes against my conscience, but whistleblowing could place me directly in sight of a gun. Powerful people seem to be at play here, and I have no allies.

If they realize what I know, there's no telling how far they'll go to silence me .

Illegal AI … a black market sale … Jesus, Emmitt, what the fuck were you thinking?

I sink further onto the threadbare sofa, head in hands.

It finally occurs to me how my mother might've found herself in the middle of a shoot-out that cost her life.

Sheer and utter bad luck.