Lila meets Rhys Carrigan, a sharply observant man in his 40s who runs logistics. He has a sharp tongue, a dry wit, and a haunted look. It's implied he's seen people destroyed by Blackwell before. He warns her, subtly.
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Last moment:
[She picked up the stylus. Dragged one bold red line across the white screen. A dare. Come see what I'll do.]
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The red line glowed on the screen like it had meaning.
Lila stared at it without moving. It wasn't a sketch. Not yet. Just a single bold stroke of color across an endless white canvas. It cut diagonally, rising upward—intentional, defiant. She didn't know why she'd drawn it. She hadn't planned to. Her hand had moved on its own, the same way a heartbeat doesn't wait for permission.
The silence pressed in around her like padded walls.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. No heel click, no panic. Just measured pacing, the kind of walk that belonged to someone used to being ignored, or choosing when not to be.
Lila turned, muscles tightening.
A man stood just outside the glass pod. He didn't knock. Just stood there, looking at her with the calm expression of someone who'd seen too much and no longer pretended to be surprised by anything.
He was tall, wiry, maybe mid-forties. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, a few lines carved along the edges of his mouth and eyes—not from smiling, but from squinting into things people shouldn't have to see. His hair was slightly tousled, flecked with early gray, like someone who used to care about appearances and had learned better.
He met her gaze and gave the faintest smile.
"You must be Hart."
She stayed seated. "Let me guess. You already know my blood type, last address, and unpaid student loans."
"Only the first two," he said dryly. "The loans are between you and God."
She blinked. A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
"Rhys Carrigan," he said, stepping into her pod. "I handle logistics, crisis smoothing, and occasionally making sure no one dies before we invoice them."
"Very comforting."
"I try."
He didn't sit—there was no second chair. He stood off to the side of her desk, arms folded. He didn't look at the red line she'd drawn. Not yet.
"I figured I'd stop by and welcome you. They don't exactly do orientation here."
"No kidding." She nodded toward the tablet. "Just get thrown into a glass box and told to create something worthy of the gods."
"You're not wrong." He looked past her, toward the far wall. The mirror. His expression changed—barely. But it changed.
"You've noticed, then," he said softly.
"The glass?" She nodded. "Hard not to."
"That's not glass. That's observation." He took a step closer to it. "You ever sit in a two-way mirror room before?"
"Not unless childhood trauma counts."
He looked at her, something flickering in his eyes—approval, maybe. Or concern.
"That wall," he said, "isn't just for observation. It's for pressure. People perform differently when they think they're being judged."
"Am I being judged?"
"You will be."
Lila folded her arms. "Why do I feel like you're trying to scare me?"
"Because I am," he said simply. "And because no one else will."
He finally glanced down at her screen. The red line. Still glowing.
He didn't comment on it. Just looked.
Then: "You came in wearing that dress."
She tensed.
"What about it?"
"I've worked here twelve years. I've seen three people wear red into this building. Two of them are gone. One still walks around—but not in color anymore."
"You saying it's a mistake?"
He hesitated. Then shook his head.
"No. I'm saying it's a flag. And flags attract attention. Especially his."
He didn't need to say the name.
Damien Blackwell was etched into the floor of this place—into the air, the bones, the very silence.
"Why are you really here, Rhys?"
"Because people like you walk into this place thinking they've been chosen. You haven't. No one gets chosen here. They get used. Moved around like pieces on a board. The minute you think you're special is the minute you're already falling."
She stared at him. He didn't flinch.
"And you?" she asked. "You still standing because you don't think you're special?"
"I'm still standing because I stopped asking why." He stepped back toward the edge of the glass. "And because I know where not to look."
Their eyes met.
He wasn't threatening her. Not exactly. But he wasn't lying either.
"You're smart," he said. "I can see that. You'll learn quickly. But if I were you, I wouldn't touch that wall."
"What happens if I do?"
"Someone touches back."
He started to turn away.
"Wait," Lila said.
He paused.
She tilted her head. "Why me?"
He was silent for a long time. Then:
"That's the part that should keep you up at night."
And with that, he left.
The door hissed quietly closed behind him.
Lila sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly, like she'd been holding her breath since the moment he walked in.
She looked again at the glass wall across from her.
Still black. Still unreadable.
But now it felt different.
Not like an eye.
Like a mouth.
Waiting to open.