Mara did not go to the police immediately. That decision would later be criticized by commentators who had never stood inside a collapsing institution while murder wore a corporate badge.

Instead, she called an emergency meeting without executives.

At 3:15 p.m., the women of LyraNova’s overlooked departments gathered in the old training theater: data auditors, junior engineers, compliance assistants, two reception supervisors, a cafeteria manager, and Tamsin, who had stopped crying and started looking angry.

Adrian arrived five minutes late and stopped at the door when he saw the room.

Mara crossed her arms. “This meeting is not for leadership.”

“I’m not here to lead,” he said. “I’m here because you told security to revoke my access.”

“I told security to revoke everyone’s access.”

“That was unpopular.”

“I’m not running for prom king.”

Someone in the back snorted. The tension shifted by one degree.

Mara faced the group. “Elian Shore believed someone inside this company altered Aurora to discriminate while hiding the evidence from regulators. He was killed before testimony. The official narrative is being shaped right now by people with more power than conscience. I need information that doesn’t exist in board minutes.”

A cafeteria manager raised her hand. “Does gossip count?”

“Gossip is data before men put it in a spreadsheet.”

That earned a ripple of grim laughter.

Then the stories came.

A night janitor had seen Nella Cross near the east lift at 11:00 p.m., though Nella claimed she had left by nine. A junior engineer named Priya admitted she had been ordered to patch Aurora’s audit logs by an anonymous internal ticket routed through Legal. A receptionist remembered Elian arguing with a woman in a red coat two days before his death. Tamsin found that the erased corridor footage had not been overwritten from security but from a boardroom terminal.

Adrian listened from the doorway, face unreadable.

Mara should have sent him away. Instead, she found herself watching how he reacted when junior staff spoke. He did not interrupt. He did not explain. He took notes on a paper cup because no one had given him a laptop.

Priya’s voice shook as she described the patch. “The ticket said it was a bias correction. But when I ran the before-and-after model, the correction made the outcomes worse for women over forty applying for emergency credit.”

Mara’s stomach hardened. “Why didn’t you report it?”

Priya laughed once, bitterly. “To whom? The same legal team that sent it?”

At that, Adrian lowered his head.

Mara saw it: not guilt this time, but shame.

The cafeteria manager spoke again. “There’s something else. Mr. Shore came to the kitchen last week. He asked if the basement cold storage still had the old analog cameras.”

“Why?” Mara asked.

“He said digital eyes could be taught to lie.”

The basement.

Mara and Adrian took the service stairs because elevators were too easy to track. Halfway down, the emergency lights switched to red.

“Do you always build rebellions in under ten minutes?” Adrian asked.

“Only when men in suits make it necessary.”

“I wear suits.”

“I noticed.”

It slipped out too quickly. He glanced at her, and despite everything—death, scandal, danger—the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Director Venn,” he said, “was that a compliment?”

“That was evidence of situational awareness.”

They reached the basement cold storage. The analog camera system was ancient, dusty, and blessedly offline from LyraNova’s network. Mara rewound the tape with fingers gone numb from the cold.

Static. Empty corridor. A flicker. Then Elian appeared on screen at 11:18 p.m., alive, carrying a small black case.

A second figure entered: not Adrian.

Nella Cross.

The Chief Legal Officer wore a red coat.

On the tape, Nella handed Elian an envelope. They argued. Elian turned away. Nella raised her phone, made a call, and looked directly toward the camera as if she had just remembered old eyes still watched.

Then a third figure stepped from the shadows.

Mara leaned closer.

The image distorted, but the height, posture, and silver hair were unmistakable.

Garrick Hove, LyraNova’s founder—the man who had supposedly resigned and moved to Lisbon six months ago.

Adrian whispered, “He’s here.”

The basement door slammed above them.

Someone locked it from the outside.