The next morning, Maren Helle woke to the smell of roasted chicory and a faint, rhythmic clanking from a small attached workshop. Sunlight, thin and pale, filtered through the unfamiliar window blinds. She was in a tiny, sparsely furnished apartment – a studio, really, with a kitchenette tucked into one corner and a narrow bathroom off to the side. The mattress, surprisingly supportive, spared her aching joints. Her muddy dress was gone, replaced by a clean, oversized tee and sweatpants laid out on the bedside chair. Stellan was nowhere in sight.
She found him in the workspace, hunched over an exposed engine bay, a wrench glinting in his hand. His back was broad, his movements precise. He wore a grease-stained jumpsuit, his dark hair falling over his brow. He looked every bit the mechanic he claimed to be, and Maren, with her persistent knack for ignoring anything that might disrupt her fragile peace, found herself settling into the lie with practiced ease.
“Morning,” she mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. The clanking stopped. Stellan straightened, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Slept well?” His voice was low, devoid of inflection. He didn’t smile, but his gaze, though brief, felt oddly attentive. Too attentive for a man she’d known for less than twenty-four hours.
“Like a dead man,” she admitted, a wry twist to her lips. “Thanks for… everything.”
“You needed a place.” He gestured to a small, worn table in the kitchen. “There’s chicory brew on the counter. I packed you something for your first day.”
Her first day. Korsar Industries. The thought sent a dull throb through her temples. She navigated to the table, her eyes falling on a sleek, matte-black bento box resting beside a thermal mug. It was made of high-grade, insulated alloy, the kind that retailed for more than a week’s groceries. Inside, carefully compartmentalized, lay a delicate array of pan-seared scallops, vibrant stir-fried greens, and a portion of perfectly steamed wild rice. A small, elegant daikon salad completed the spread. This wasn’t a mechanic’s lunch. This was the sort of meal her former executive self would have picked up from the exclusive ground-floor bistro in the corporate tower. A brief pang of suspicion nudged her instincts. Maren, however, simply blinked, picked up a scallop with the provided bamboo chopsticks, and popped it into her mouth. Delicious. Stellan must have a side gig, she decided, or maybe a surprisingly refined palate. Either way, it meant she didn’t have to scrounge for food. Problem solved. She ate every bite, enjoying the quiet hum beyond the doorway.
The monolithic corporate headquarters was a spire of chrome and black glass, scraping the sky like a jagged tooth. The intern bullpen, located five floors below ground level, felt more like a bunker. Maren’s cubicle was a cramped alcove, its holoscreen perpetually flickering with data streams from various Cryo-Siege matches. Her task: analyze team compositions for ‘Squad Zero,’ the company’s flagship e-sports division. A prestigious gig, if you ignored the fact that she was basically data entry.
“Helle! My office. Now!”
The voice, a grating bark, belonged to Roric Varkis, her senior executive manager. Roric was a man sculpted from resentment and cheap chicory brew, his face a perpetual sneer beneath thinning grey hair. Maren sighed, pushing away from her desk. She knew what this was about. Her proposed lineup for Squad Zero’s secondary ‘Development’ team.
She entered his spartan office, the stale air thick with his cheap cologne. Roric jabbed a finger at his holoscreen, displaying Maren’s carefully constructed lineup. “What is this garbage, Helle? ‘Axton the Anchor’? ‘Vane the Viper’?” He spat the names out like venom. “These aren’t players, they’re rejects from the amateur circuit! What happened to the ‘cutting-edge tactical analysis’ you promised?”
Maren squared her shoulders. “Axton has an 87% success rate with breach maneuvers in high-pressure scenarios, despite his low K/D. Vane is an unparalleled scout, able to identify enemy rotations before they even commit. They’re unconventional, but—”
“Unconventional? They’re losers! We need star power, Helle! Not your little pet projects! I’ve already replaced half your selections with my own picks – players with actual market appeal, sponsorship potential.” He scrolled, revealing a list of flashy, but strategically weak, players. “We’re not running a charity here. You want to make a name for yourself, you play by my rules. This draft goes in, or you go out. Understand?”
The threat hung in the air, thick and acrid. Maren felt a familiar weariness settle over her. This was exactly why she hated corporate. She opened her mouth to argue, to fight for her team, but before a single word could escape, the office door burst open.
Two impeccably dressed private security officers, their faces blank, stood in the doorway. One of them, a woman with a severe topknot, stepped forward. “Roric Varkis. You’re to come with us.”
Roric’s sneer faltered. “What is this? I’m in a meeting!”
“Effective immediately, your employment with this firm is terminated,” the officer stated, her voice devoid of emotion. “All access privileges revoked. You are to vacate the premises under escort.”
Roric’s face went pale, then mottled with fury. “This is outrageous! I demand to know who authorized this! I’m a senior executive! I’ve been here for twenty years!”
“The CEO authorized it,” the officer replied simply. “Your continued harassment of junior staff, specifically Maren Helle, and your attempts to sabotage company projects, have been noted. This is not up for discussion.”
Roric looked from the enforcer to Maren, a dawning horror in his eyes. He tried to speak, but only a choked gasp emerged. He was dragged out, sputtering and protesting, his cries echoing down the silent corridor. Maren watched him go, a strange mix of relief and bewildered shock washing over her. She hadn’t even filed a formal complaint. Someone, somewhere, had been watching. The CEO? Why would the CEO care about an intern’s lineup?
Later that afternoon, a nervous energy permeated the bullpen. Everyone whispered about Roric’s abrupt, humiliating dismissal. Maren was still processing the sudden shift in her fortune when a familiar hand clapped her shoulder. “Maren! There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”
Tova Nilsen, Maren’s best friend since their days at the Arkadius Tactical Academy, pulled her into an unused data archive room. Tova was all sharp angles and restless energy, her vibrant red hair a stark contrast to her usually muted clothes. Today, her eyes were wide, her movements agitated.
“What’s wrong, Tova? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Maren said, concern etching her brow.
“Worse than a ghost, Mare. I’m in trouble. Big trouble.” Tova wrung her hands. “It’s… the bookmakers.”
Maren frowned. “The ‘Onyx Ring’ betting outfit? You’re still messing with them? I told you, Tova, they’re dangerous. They chew people up and spit them out.”
“I know, I know! But I needed the pay, Mare! My sister’s medical bills… they just kept piling up. And everyone said the ring was a sure thing.” Tova’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “I bet heavy on the Cryo-Siege circuit last month. We all thought ‘Vanguard Apex’ was a lock for the Iron Gauntlet trophy, but then they choked in the semi-finals. I lost everything. And now… now I owe the collector a fortune.” The collector was a notorious bruiser for the Onyx Ring, known for his creative methods of debt collection.
“How much?” Maren asked, her voice quiet.
“Fifty thousand chips,” Tova confessed, her eyes pleading. “And he wants it by the end of the week. Or… or he’ll take fingers, if you catch my drift.” Her collar hung damp against her skin in the oppressive heat of the room. “But there’s a way out! A new opportunity. A high-stakes match coming up, between our own ‘Squad Zero’ and the ‘Spectre Sentinels’ from Aevum Corp. The ring is taking private bets, huge payouts.”
Maren stared at her, a cold dread twisting in her stomach. “What do you want from me, Tova?”
“You’re on the Squad Zero analysis team now, Mare! You’re seeing their training data, their scrimmage results, their weaknesses! You know the real stats, not the propaganda they release to the public. I need it, Mare! I need insider information. Tell me who’s truly strong, who’s got a hidden flaw. Just enough to get my funds back, to pay that monster off. Please, Mare. You’re the only one I can trust.”
The silence stretched between them, thick with Tova’s ragged breathing. Maren saw the fear in her friend’s eyes, the genuine terror. She knew the Onyx Ring’s reputation. But betraying the company, leaking confidential team data… it was unthinkable. Yet, abandoning Tova to a thug’s mercy felt even worse.
“I… I don’t know, Tova,” Maren finally whispered, her voice barely audible. “This is… big.”
“Please, Mare! Just one time!” Tova’s grip on her arm tightened, her gaze imploring.
Maren promised nothing, only a noncommittal nod, and escaped back to her cubicle, her mind a tangled knot of worry. The rest of the workday blurred. The smell of grease and faint chicory welcomed her home. Stellan was still in the bay, but now he was cleaning up, humming a low, tuneless melody. As she walked past the open doorway, her gaze drifted to a dark, shrouded shape in the corner, covered by a tarp. It was too large for a spare tire, too angular for a workbench. Curiosity, a rare visitor, tugged at her. She pulled back the heavy canvas with one hand, revealing a brand-new, cutting-edge Cryo-Siege VR combat rig, its sleek lines and integrated neural interface glowing faintly in the dim light. The latest model, the ‘Phantom Core X-7,’ it cost at least fifty thousand units. More than Stellan’s beat-up groundcar, more than Tova’s entire debt. Maren blinked, stared, then slowly dropped the tarp back over it. Must be something he won in a raffle, she thought, and then, with a shrug, rationalized that it was probably too much hassle to deal with the paperwork for returning it.