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Lena

I take a breath—steady, even, calm. Then I step through the revolving doors of One Plaza.

The building is sleek, modern, aggressively corporate. One of those places designed to make you feel both insignificant and replaceable.

At the security desk, I state my name. Before I can even reach for my ID, the guard slides a visitor badge across the counter.

Lena Blackwell, Executive Assistant Candidate.

Already printed. Already waiting for me.

That’s... interesting. I’ve never had an interview where my name tag was pre-made before I even walked through the door. It’s efficient, yes, but now I can’t help wondering if I’ll measure up to their expectations.

But there’s no time to dwell on my inadequacies. The elevator is waiting. No buttons. No panel. Just a glowing screen that reads:

30th Floor – Authorized Access Granted.

I should be impressed by the VIP treatment. Instead, I feel herded.

The doors close, and I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls.

I don’t look like myself. My makeup is crisp, my hair neatly pinned—like I’m trying too hard to be the kind of person who belongs here.

The doors open into an expanse of glass and white marble.

A woman waits behind a sleek white desk. She has that effortless, power-woman grace that makes you feel like an underdressed extra in a movie you weren’t invited to star in.

“Miss Blackwell,” she says, rising with robotic efficiency. “Right on time.”

I plaster on a polite, neutral smile. “You sound surprised.”

Her brow twitches. “Not at all.”

She doesn’t check my name, doesn’t ask for ID. Doesn’t ask what I’m doing here. Just turns and starts walking.

I follow because what else am I supposed to do?

She leads me down a too-long corridor lined with identical frosted-glass doors. I take a mental note of the layout, but it’s useless. Every inch of this place looks the same. Then, halfway down, she stops.

“Restroom is just through there,” she says smoothly. “We’ll begin shortly.”

She waits just long enough to make it clear that I should take the hint.

I nod and step inside.

The restroom is eerily empty. No sound. No faint voices or running water. Just silence. I pick a stall in the middle, the kind of choice that feels safe.

I sit, close my eyes, and breathe. Steady, Lena.

I don’t even need to pee. I just need a second.

I count to ten, inhale deeply, then stand, flush the toilet to keep up the illusion of normalcy, and step out of the stall.

Then I see it.

And my stomach drops.

THIS PLACE IS GOING TO KILL YOU.

Scrawled in red across the mirror.

Lipstick. At least, I tell myself it’s lipstick.

I freeze.

It wasn’t there when I walked in.

I’m sure of it.

No. No way. I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I?

My pulse kicks up. Someone had to have come in after me. Someone close enough to touch.

I stare at the message, heart hammering. I grab a paper towel and frantically wipe it away, but the words linger in the imprint, like a shadow.

I take a breath. Then another.

And then I walk out, pretending I didn’t see a damn thing.