Chapter One
Present Day
Time is harder to track when I’ve been inside too long. On Friday afternoons, minutes slip into hours, and my equilibrium tilts just enough for me to notice.
The air in the building goes stale. People leave early, and everything slows in uneven increments. Approvals stall. Messages queue. Small inefficiencies stack until the waiting becomes the work.
I don’t mind it most of the time. The quiet of Systems makes patterns easier to see. But by the end of the week, I’m ready for my favorite socks, a mug of tea, and two solid days where I don’t have to manage every expression, every reaction.
I open the next report in my queue and scan it once.
Then again. Slower.
There’s a timestamp mismatch in the metadata. Three seconds. Too small to matter on its own. Or for anyone else to notice.
I correct it, add a brief explanation the program requires—even if no one will ever read it—and save my changes. The system recalculates, spinning for longer than it should, and I turn my gaze to my office window.
The mountains on the other side of Puget Sound have a fresh dusting of snow that wasn’t there this morning. I may not have wanted a desk job, but the view helps.
The Global Security Directorate runs ops all over the world.
But Cyber and Systems both operate out of GSD’s main hub in Seattle.
Cyber hunts live threats in real time. Systems audits the aftermath–tracking decisions, flagging inconsistencies, and making sure nothing in the official record contradicts what actually happened.
I don’t miss the field. Much.
I miss being trusted without having to explain why I’m right.
Patterns make sense to me—unlike so many other things. They’re logical. Consistent. They either hold or they don’t.
I rub my eyes, then turn back to the laptop.
The next file is clean. The one after that, too. I settle into the rhythm of review, fingers moving without conscious thought, my brain already half a step ahead.
Until another anomaly flickers on the screen.
A contractor ID I recognize scrolls by for the second time today. I stop and look back at my last few files.
The same ID appears days apart, attached to unrelated ops. That’s not unusual. A good contractor can be reused time and time again.
What’s strange is the timing. The first assignment hadn’t been closed out when the second one opened.
That should have triggered a review. It didn’t.
Systems generate noise—small inconsistencies that mean nothing on their own. Noise isn’t unusual. It only matters when it repeats. So I don’t stop or chase down why it happened. I make a mental note that it did, and move on.
My shoulder twinges as I reach for my mouse, and my thumb moves to the edge of the ring on my index finger, tracing the line of tiny diamonds set into the band until my pulse settles.
A shadow crosses the frosted glass wall of my office.Tessa, the junior analyst I’ve been mentoring for the past few months, peeks her head in, then drops into my guest chair with a dramatic sigh. “You look like you’re about to argue with a spreadsheet,” she says.
“I already won.” I offer her a small smile. “The spreadsheet just doesn’t know it yet.”
Tessa chuckles. She’s younger than me by a decade, maybe more. Still green, but also smart and observant. The kind of analyst who’ll be very good once she learns which questions belong on the record—and which don’t.
No one teaches you how much damage can come from caring about the wrong thing. You figure that out by watching who stops showing up to briefings.
“What are you working on?” she asks.
“Clean-up,” I say. “End-of-week triage.”
She makes a face. “I hate triage.”
“That’s because you still think everything deserves saving.”
Her expression shifts to mock outrage, then laughter. “Fair.”
She swivels in the chair, twirling a pen in her hands. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
She gapes at me for a beat. “You’re always so literal.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say, softening my expression into something socially…acceptable. “Go on. Ask.”
“When you see something that’s…off, but not incorrect, how long do you wait before you care?”
My lips curve into a frown. “That depends. Does it repeat?”
She picks at a piece of lint on her sleeve. “Yes.”
“Then you document it,” I say, my voice even. “Carefully. Don’t escalate until you’re certain, and make sure whatever you write down is defensible.”
Tessa nods slowly, not quite meeting my eyes. I’m about to ask her what she found when she pops up from the chair.
“Thanks, Raine. I should get back to work.” She plucks a mint from the small jar on my desk and heads down the hall.
I return to my own queue.
Half an hour later, the contractor ID shows up again, this time attached to a field op in Barcelona. That’s not possible. No one can be on site in Seattle and halfway across the world simultaneously. I check the activity log. All the timestamps are blank. Not redacted. Blank.
Contractors don’t teleport. Every assignment has to log arrival and departure time. It’s a rule no one violates.
I open a private note. It isn’t something I’ll send. Not yet. Just a scratch pad I keep on my laptop to help me organize my thoughts. I enter the contractor ID and the codes for all three ops it's linked to. No conclusions. I don’t know enough yet.
As I type, a memory surfaces unbidden.
A debrief from years ago, back when I was still in the field.
The final report listed our team as “on location” for six hours.
We’d been there for twelve. I pressed my handler to correct the discrepancy.
A week later, I was sent back to Seattle for two days of training on “proper escalation procedures.”
That taught me something important.
Not every mistake warrants formal documentation.
I save the note and move on.
My system lags, blank fields taking several seconds longer than usual to populate. A resource allocation column fills with a code I don’t recognize, then clears again. Odd.
But it resolves itself in the next breath, and I finish the last of my assignments without issue. By the time I log off, the floor is quieter, the building settling into its after-hours hum.
I pack up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and pause with my hand on the light switch.
Monday, I’ll pull the archived activity logs tied to that contractor ID. Just to confirm the scope of the problem.
I don’t like unanswered questions.