Leaning against the rail, I reviewed the latest reports. My stock prices are rising rapidly thanks to the success of the multi-billion-pound deal. Nine years of wage deductions are finally paying off, breaking even at last.

  "Mr Grayson, Mr Grayson!" Mark yelled excitedly. "I tripled my stocks. Look!"

  Meanwhile, I earned 5 pounds and 32 pence. Barely enough to fill my car.

  "Why the sad face, Grey?" Barbara chuckled. "Did you opt out of the employee investment plan?"

  I sighed, my brow creasing as I questioned my life choices.

  "Didn't you lose more than I did?" I grumbled.

  The snake leaned in, the sweat and perfume like a slippery aphrodisiac, her lips like ice.

  "Senior managers get 25.772% off our purchases."

  I did the math quickly in my head and sank further into the balustrade rail. I only got 5% off—10% for being a middle manager. I was clearly getting ripped off.

  "I need a cigarette." I sighed.

  However, when I turned my coat collar up and started to walk, a new voice cut in—

  “My, my. Well done. I hadn’t expected you to bring the newcomer.”

  A tall, gangly man stepped from the shadows by the loading bay, suit stripped, shoes that had never known a commute or puddle.

  Edward Dickson—Head of Production.

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  The name alone sounded like a mouldy coolade; crisp, sharp, and dreadfully oily.

  “I would’ve smashed that terminal myself,” the rat sneered, squeaking like a rodent relishing a pointless, ego-driven display. He stepped closer, fingers flexing. A gutless insect pretending to be a predator.

  I kicked a maintenance bot as it rolled past, more reflex than thought, and fixed my glare on the newcomer.

  “You rigged this on purpose?” I hissed.

  “I—I don’t understand—” Mark started.

  Edward didn’t wait. His hand moved forward in a small, vicious gesture. The kind you'd use for signatures, thin and sharp.

  Mark screamed once; then the sound cut out.

  The name badge flew from his chest and slapped the concrete in a splatter of blood.

  MARK CARTER.

  The badge began to turn red.

  The name was erased from this world.

  The boy...

  Then, to my surprise, Barbara made a choking sound.

  I snapped a look, not out of concern, but because my fingers itched.

  She was my target.

  However—

  “There are cameras everywhere,” the woman said quickly. “You—”

  I looked at the screens. The terminal had shown me one thing when Mark rebooted: CAMERAS: OFF. They’d been offline before he touched the keyboard. Someone had taken them down. Someone had planned for a body.

  Reluctantly, I placed a hand on Barbara's shoulder, then shot my coldest glare at Mr Dickson.

  “The Head of Technical Marketing would start to question his missing Manager if she disappeared too soon.”

  Barbara scoffed, "What do you mean, too soon?”

  I bit back a grin, my eyes too busy on that rat-faced prick to tell her to shut up. This asshat reminded me of Geoff. I didn't need another Geoff.

  “Back off,” I hissed.

  But as Edward licked his bleached veneers, he straightened and dabbed a finger at the smear on Barbara's chin as if removing a smudge of ink.

  “We don’t leave variables lying around,” he said flatly, as flat as an invoice. “You brought a variable. I removed it.”

  Standing between us. Me, Barb, and Dickson—the supplier bots blinked, queued, and resumed distribution as if nothing had happened. Somewhere upstairs, an automated alert queued for 'maintenance incident.' Dozens of machines came to life and descended upon the corpse.

  The sweepers hummed like clockwork vultures; their brushes smeared and spun, taking the stain away. Until nothing was left but bags of biohazardous material.

  I felt something cold and algebraic run through my blood. Barbara wasn’t the only cunt on my list now. Edward Dickson had just introduced himself.

  And I don't like sharing.