“Keep Jarek in Oltava until the 14th, or the Monolith will bury you both.”
My past self, apparently, had a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for cryptic warnings. The ink on the note was my own, the looping ‘O’ on ‘Oltava’ unmistakable. It had the same slightly-too-much pressure on the downstroke that always made my college professors sigh. The date had hovered like an unread notification count. I spent those final days in the fog cracking jokes about stray alley cats and Boko’s squid skewers, treating the slip of paper like an overzealous viral stunt. Yet across midnight bowls of broth, whenever Jarek looked up in silence, grease congealed on my tongue and the alleys felt three sizes too tight.
Now the deadline was behind me. The neon-slicked district was already blurring into salt spray, vanishing noodle counters, and a wandering companion who asked for zero credentials. I was back in the stale air of my home country, the scent of exhaust fumes replacing the sea-salt tang and mystery spices of the liminal city. My former self refused to let go. A stark, simple email had landed in my inbox three days ago, from an unknown sender, with only a time, a date, and an address for ‘Sintis Corporation – Interview, Executive Assistant.’ No name, no details, just a summons.
Sintis Corporation. The search results returned a sprawling enterprise anchored by a slab of raw concrete and smoked glass that engineers dubbed the Monolith. It rose into the grey haze like an unpolished chisel, cold and mathematically indifferent. Inside, the air hummed with a sterile quiet. The lobby was a cavern of polished dark stone and a single, impossibly tall desk manned by a woman whose smile looked like it had been painted on with a ruler. She directed me to the 78th floor.
The boardroom was exactly what you’d expect: an endless slab of obsidian, surrounded by chairs that cost more than my first car, and a panoramic window overlooking a city that looked less like home and more like an algorithm. I sat, adjusting the skirt of a borrowed suit jacket, feeling like a particularly unconvincing spy. My internal monologue, usually a vibrant circus of self-deprecating humor, felt muted. This whole charade was absurd. What was I even doing here? My skills were in digital hygiene and reputation management, not executive assistance. Maybe my past self had a particularly dark sense of humor, forcing me into a job I’d spectacularly fail at. I imagined myself accidentally deleting the company’s entire server farm, and a tiny, terrified laugh bubbled up in my chest.
The heavy steel door at the far end clicked open. I smoothed my lapels, preparing for some executive ghoul. Jarek walked through the frame. Gone was the oilskin coat and the stubble; he wore a charcoal two-piece cut to sharp angles, dark hair brushed back from a pale forehead. The weary slouch had vanished beneath the iron posture of someone used to buying city blocks.
He stopped at the head of the obsidian table, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on me. A flicker – was it surprise? – crossed his features, quickly replaced by a cool, unreadable expression. He looked less like a man escaping his life and more like a man who owned entire chunks of the world. The betrayal hit me with the force of a physical blow. Every late-night stall, every dry remark traded over steam—all of it had been an act.
“Ms. Morast,” he said, his voice level and stripped of the quiet resonance from our walks. “Thank you for coming in.”
I managed a strangled sound that might have been ‘you’re welcome,’ my mind reeling. My cheeks felt hot. The sheer audacity of it. The gall. He had merely been slumming it, observing me like a specimen in a jar. My fight-or-flight response, honed from years of public humiliation, screamed at me to run, to smash a fondant cake into his smug, tailored face. But the note. The Monolith. It buried people. And Jarek, it seemed, *was* the Monolith. He was the CEO. This wasn’t an interview; it was a trap. *My past self had set me up.*
“Perhaps we can discuss your qualifications, Ms. Morast,” he continued, settling into the executive chair, his fingers steepled. He did not bother pretending we were strangers; he merely moved the pieces.
I wanted to scream, to lash out, to make a scene that would make my previous cake-smashing incident look like a polite tea party. But something in his gaze, a hard edge I hadn’t seen before, told me that would be a very bad idea. He was dangerous. More dangerous than a million internet trolls. More dangerous than a vanishing diner.
The interview proceeded like a surreal dream. He asked questions about my experience, my strengths, my weaknesses, all while maintaining that infuriatingly neutral expression. I answered with a brittle professionalism I didn’t know I possessed, my mind racing, trying to find an escape route, a logical explanation for this elaborate charade. Was it revenge? A twisted power play? Or something far more sinister, connected to my own erased past? I barely remembered what I said. The words just tumbled out, a flimsy defense against the enormity of his deception.
When he finally concluded, nodding curtly, I rose, my legs feeling strangely numb. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sintis,” I managed, the name feeling like ash on my tongue. I needed air. I needed to be anywhere but here. I needed Boko’s fermented squid jerky, anything to take away the bitter taste of betrayal.
I reached the lift bank and jabbed the brass call button. The doors slid open with a soft sigh. I stepped inside, grateful for the momentary solitude. Just as the doors began to close, a hand shot out, jamming the mechanism. The air in my chest turned thin.
A man, older than Jarek, with a face like a crumpled map and eyes that held the cold, calculating glint of a predator, stepped in. His suit, though expensive, seemed to sag on his wiry frame, and his tie was slightly askew. He radiated an unpleasant, stale energy. Before the panel sealed, he shoved me against the brushed steel wall, his forearm wedging my collarbone. The scent of old cigars and desperation clung to him.
“You’re Morast,” he hissed, his voice a low growl, his breath hot against my ear. “Don’t play coy. I know what you’re here for. Where is it? The overseas drive.”
Overseas drive? I gripped his wrists, but his weight kept me pinned flat. No joke here, just stale tobacco and raw muscle.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I rasped, trying to twist away. My usual witty deflections felt utterly useless.
His eyes narrowed, hardening to chips of flint. “Don’t lie. We know you stayed in contact with Sintis while he was off the grid. That excursion wasn’t a vacation. Hand it over. Now.”
Before I could formulate another denial, he reached for a small panel above the elevator door. A sharp click echoed in the confined space, and the lights flickered, then died. Blackness dropped over us, the motor cable dying with a sharp lurch that left the cabin dangling between floors. I heard a faint metallic creak from above. A rectangular hatch in the ceiling, previously unnoticed, swung open with a groan, spilling a thin shaft of emergency light into the gloom. Two pairs of lugged boots dropped onto the metal floor, followed by geared figures holding suppressed submachine guns.