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I do not sleep. Instead, I spend the night pacing my apartment, walking circles around the half packed boxes and unpaid bills. My phone sits on the counter, dark and silent, but I keep checking it as if expecting another message. Nothing comes.
At three in the morning, I give up on sleep and shower. The water runs cold because I have not paid the utilities bill, but the shock helps clear my head. I need to be sharp tomorrow. I need to walk into Helios Tower with whatever dignity I have left intact.
I choose my clothes carefully, selecting black jeans, a white blouse, and a leather jacket that has seen better days but still looks professional. The outfit says I am taking this seriously without trying too hard. It says I have nothing to prove. It is all lies, of course. I have everything to prove and no way to prove it.
By six, I am dressed and drinking instant coffee that tastes like regret. The eviction notice still hangs on my door. I should take it down, but I leave it as a reminder. This is why you are doing this. This is what you are trying to escape, even if you are walking into something worse.
I cannot stand my apartment anymore by seven thirty. I grab my bag and head out, leaving early to walk instead of taking the subway. The morning air is cold and sharp, clearing the fog from my sleepless brain.
Helios Tower is downtown, in the district where glass and steel reach toward the sky with corporate arrogance. I have avoided this neighborhood for two years, taking longer routes rather than risk seeing that building again. Now I am walking straight toward it. The tower appears between buildings as I get closer, growing taller with each block. It is fifty stories of reflective glass, designed to make the structure seem both weightless and infinite. The Helios logo blazes at the top, visible from miles away. It is a monument to power that does not need to justify itself.
My phone buzzes. 42nd floor. Don’t be late.
I cross the street. The lobby is exactly as I remember, with its marble floors, soaring ceilings, and architectural excess that announces you have entered a place where money and power are the only languages spoken. Security guards flank the entrance, their presence subtle but absolute.
I approach the desk, where a receptionist with a perfect smile looks up from her screen.
“Claire Davis,” I say. “I’m expected on the 42nd floor.”
She does not ask for ID or check a list. She just nods and hands me a visitor badge. “Elevators on the right. Use the express.”
The badge is heavier than it should be, made of reinforced plastic with an embedded chip. I clip it to my jacket, feeling the weight against my chest like a mark of ownership. The express elevator is empty. I step inside, and the doors close with a soft hiss. The button for the forty second floor is already illuminated, as if the system knew I was coming.
As the elevator rises, I watch the city fall away below me. From this height, everything looks clean and manageable. The streets are just patterns and the people are just dots of movement. From this height, you can pretend individual lives do not matter.
The doors open onto a reception area that is all minimalist design and hidden expense. A woman in a gray suit stands waiting. “Ms. Davis. Director Rostova is ready for you. Follow me.”
We walk down a hallway lined with glass walled conference rooms. The woman stops at a door at the end of the hall. She opens the door and steps aside, and I am left with no choice but to walk through.
The office beyond is a corner suite, with floor to ceiling windows that offer views of the entire city. A massive desk dominates the space, positioned to make visitors feel small and insignificant. Behind the desk sits Director Eva Rostova. She looks exactly as I remember, in her late fifties, with silver hair pulled into a severe knot and a dark suit that costs more than my rent. Her eyes are what I remember most, frigid and assessing, the eyes of someone who sees people as assets or obstacles, never as humans.
She looks up from her tablet and smiles. It does not reach her eyes. “Claire Davis. Please, sit.”
I cross the room and take the chair across from her desk. The leather is cold through my jeans, and the chair sits lower than hers. It is a classic power play, making the visitor literally look up.
“Thank you for accepting our offer,” Rostova says, setting down her tablet. “I trust you understand the gravity of the project.”
“I understand the money,” I reply. “Everything else is a mystery.”
Her smile does not change. “The mystery is intentional. Fatal Script is a proprietary project, and we maintain strict information control. You will understand once we begin.”
“And if I don’t like what I learn?”
“Then you will discover that our legal team is very thorough. But I do not think you will want to leave.” She leans forward slightly. “This show will resurrect your career, Ms. Davis. You will be more famous than you ever were before.”
“Is that what this is about? Giving me a second chance?”
“This is about giving you exactly what you want, a return to relevance. What we get in return is a talented actress who understands what it means to fight for something, who knows how to channel authentic emotion. Fatal Script demands authenticity. You have that in abundance.”
I meet her glacial gaze. “Because you destroyed everything else.”
“Because you destroyed it yourself,” she corrects, her voice still pleasant. “You chose to make accusations you could not prove, to damage a company that had invested significantly in your career. Actions have consequences, Ms. Davis. You learned that lesson harshly.”
“I had proof.”
“You had circumstantial evidence and a savior complex. Neither plays well in this industry.” She picks up a folder from her desk and slides it across to me. “This is a preliminary agreement and a non disclosure addendum. It binds you to the project and its secrecy protocols. Read it carefully.”
I open the folder. The salary figure on the first page makes my breath catch, even higher than the number in the encrypted message. It is enough to make me ignore the warning bells ringing in my head.
I flip through the pages, scanning the dense legal language. Standard exclusivity clauses, publicity requirements, intellectual property assignments. There is no mention of the neural interface I suspected, not yet. This is just the first lock on the cage door. It obligates me to participate in pre production and development, and it gags me from speaking about any part of the project to anyone. Breaking it would trigger financial penalties that would leave me in even worse debt than I am now.
Rostova watches me with those dispassionate eyes. “You have two choices, Ms. Davis. Sign the agreement and embrace this opportunity, or walk away and return to your current situation. The eviction, the debt, the blacklist. We both know which choice makes sense.”
She is right, and I hate that she is right. I pick up the pen from her desk. It is heavy, expensive, designed to make signing feel important.
“Where do I sign?”
“Every flagged page. My assistant will witness.”
I flip through the contract, finding the signature lines. My hand shakes slightly as I write my name the first time, but it is steadier with each subsequent signature. By the final page, my hand is calm. Surrendering gets easier with practice.
I close the folder and slide it back across the desk. Rostova takes it without looking, already moving to her next task.
“Welcome to Fatal Script, Ms. Davis. Report to Studio B tomorrow at 10 AM for preliminary casting sessions. After that, pre production begins. Do not be late.” She dismisses me with a glance, returning her attention to her tablet. I am no longer interesting now that I am bound.
I stand and walk to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. In the elevator, descending through those fifty floors, I watch my reflection in the polished doors. I look the same as I did an hour ago, but everything has changed. I have just sold my silence. And soon, I know they will come for much more.