62

Lena

I don’t plan it. It just happens—quiet, clean, like instinct.

Stewy’s in the break room. Probably harassing the Keurig. His laptop’s open on his desk, angled carelessly like always, screen unlocked. Slack is active, Outlook minimized. He thinks HR won’t touch him. He’s probably right.

I glance around. No one’s looking.

Sliding into his chair, I don’t hesitate. No pause, no breath. Just a new tab. Gmail, sign out of his account, log into the one I created this morning. New name. Random numbers. No recovery. No signature.

I plug in the drive.

The spreadsheet is already prepped—three columns across, sixty-three rows down: Date, Department, Deaths. No names. No causes. Just patterns. Trial groups that ended early. People who never showed up in onboarding again. Medical notes tagged termination complete .

Two hundred thirty-one confirmed. Twenty-four still labeled in progress. All internal. All buried.

I attach the file.

Then I type: Shergar Corp internal mortality during closed trials. You missed this. 231 dead. Ask for the audit logs. They won’t give them to you.

—An internal witness

I send it to three reporters. Same message. Same file. One covers health ethics. One works investigative tech. The third’s a freelancer I found—she writes exposés that get quietly buried.

I don’t log out. Don’t delete the tab. I just close the window and nudge his mouse an inch to the left.

Then I walk away. Back to my desk. Back to normal.

Three minutes. Total.

Not revenge. Not even sabotage.

Just insurance.

And if they trace it? Let them.

Stewy can explain why an anonymous tip about internal trial deaths went out from his IP address at 11:12 AM. on a Tuesday.