Chapter 2 #2
They weren't discussing me anymore. They weren't meme-ing me. They were hunting me.
I moved to the door, pressing my ear against the painted wood. Silence. The low, electric hum of the vending machine down the hall. The distant, mournful sound of a siren, heading away from me towards Islington.
Think, Rowan. Calculate.
If the photo was posted two minutes ago, and the timestamp on the metadata, I fumbled to check, dropping the phone, snatching it back up with sweaty palms. Either the shooter was in the hallway now. Or they had just left.
Or they were standing right there, waiting for the rat to panic and run out of the maze.
I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.
It was a discordant rhythm, messy and loud, drowning out my thoughts.
I wasn't built for this. I negotiated contracts in glass-walled rooms. I argued about catering riders and font sizes and gross revenue splits.
I didn't deal with physical threats. I dealt with email threats.
I dealt with lawyers, not lynching parties.
"Fix it," I hissed to myself, grabbing my folio case.
But there was no math to solve. There were the laws of physics and that was it. A locked door versus a kicked boot. My legal acumen meant nothing against kinetic energy.
I shoved my laptop into the bag and threw in the burner phone, then hesitated. If they were tracking the GPS...
No. The photo. They tracked me visually. Someone followed the black cab I swore by. Or the cabbie, my trusted night exit, had sold me out for a tabloid payout. It didn't matter how. It mattered now.
I grabbed the handle of the window. I yanked. It didn't budge. I looked closer. Decades of landlord white paint had sealed the frame shut. Of course. This was a second-floor room in a dive hotel; suicide prevention via landlord neglect.
Panic began to rise in my throat, tasting of sour copper and bile. I was trapped in a box, and the internet had just handed out the key to every angry fanatic with a train pass and a grudge against "frigid" women.
Bzzzt.
The burner phone in my bag vibrated against my hip bone.
I froze. Another tag? Another photo? This time of me standing in the window, looking like a deer in headlights?
I pulled the phone out, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped it again.
The screen was dark, but a single message box hovered in the center, glowing with a stark, green urgency that didn't match the phone's native user interface.
It wasn't a text. It was a direct bypass to the operating system, a secure overlay.
I recognized the encryption signature, military grade, or black market high-end.
The kind of tech that cost more than my entire university education.
Sender: Juno
Subject: Correction
The name meant nothing to me. But the message block below it stopped my heart.
You’re trying to think your way out of a brawl, Ms. Quill. You have approximately four minutes before the group in the lobby bypasses the night clerk. He’s taking a bribe, not a stand.
My eyes widened. I looked at the door. I hadn't heard anyone in the lobby, but the walls were thick with asbestos and apathy. The message continued, scrolling automatically, the text crisp and authoritarian.
Logic is for boardrooms. Survival is about location.
A map pinned itself to the screen. A blue dot pulsed about four blocks away. An alley behind an industrial laundry service.
Attached: GPS Coordinates.
Instruction: Move now or you’re content.
Content. Not as in happy. Content as in media. Content as in a video clip of a Beta manager being dragged out of a budget hotel room by her hair to be made an example of. Content for the 24-hour cycle.
I looked at the window again. Painted shut.
I looked at the heavy deadbolt. It would buy me thirty seconds, maybe. Enough time to scream, not enough time to negotiate.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my thumb hovering over the screen. But there was no reply button. It was a broadcast, not a conversation. A directive.
I heard it then. A heavy thud from the stairwell.
Voices. Low, male, agitated. The dampening effect of the cheap carpet couldn't hide the vibration.
The smell of aggression, sour sweat, cheap body spray, and adrenaline, seemed to seep under the door gap, faint but unmistakable to anyone who had spent time in green rooms with angry bands.
My brain finally hit the hard reset. The spreadsheet vanished. The draft apology disintegrated.
I wasn't a manager right now. I wasn't a Beta. I was a target.
I ran to the bathroom. No window. Just a toilet with a heavy porcelain tank. I grabbed the ceramic lid, the only object in the room with mass, and hefted it. It was heavy, cool, and brutal.
I stormed back into the bedroom and swung the lid with every ounce of repressed fury I possessed.
CRACK.
I smashed it against the window latch. The paint cracked. The wood splintered. The glass shattered outward in a glittering spray.
Cold London air rushed in, biting my face, shocking my lungs. It smelled of rain, diesel exhaust, and wet pavement, the sweetest perfume I’d ever encountered.
I scrambled onto the sill, glass crunching under the soles of my shoes and a spared a single second to thank my past self for choosing practical footwear. I looked down. It was a ten-foot drop to a wheeled dumpster filled with wet cardboard and refuse.
I adjusted my grip on my folio case, clutching it to my chest like a shield. Old habits die hard; I wouldn't leave the paperwork behind. I looked at the phone one last time. The blue dot pulsed, a digital heartbeat demanding synchronization.
Move now.
The door handle behind me rattled. A heavy shoulder slammed against the wood.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate. I jumped.