I stared down at Carson's map, my fingers tracing the printed lines.

The corridors stretched out before me, their faded walls bearing the marks of time, neglect, and something else I couldn't quite name.

My footsteps echoed in the silence, as though the building itself was whispering to me, echoing back that it knew I was there.

Every twist and turn felt the same—endless. The more I walked, the more disoriented I became, as if the map was intentionally misleading me.

I glanced at it again, frustration bubbling up as I realized I had somehow managed to go in a circle, ending up where I started, noting the same dulled painting I had just passed a few minutes ago.

I huffed out a breath and stuffed the paper back into my pocket, getting mad at whoever okayed this floor plan. This place had been designed to confuse, and I was falling right into its trap.

I continued and passed more doors—offices that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. Dust coated the handles, and old, forgotten furniture was haphazardly shoved into corners.

As I pressed on, my pace quickened.

Why had James crammed everyone into the central hub when these rooms sat empty? It didn't make sense. There was space here for everyone to have their own office, and yet it felt like this entire wing had been deliberately blocked off.

Eventually, I came upon a new hallway—its bare brick walls different from the painted ones I had seen before. I hadn't been here yet; I was certain of that. The air was heavier, colder, as if this section of the building had been left to its own devices for far longer than the others.

Ahead, a door caught my eye. It was made of solid metal, the paint on its surface chipped and faded. A small, cloudy window, barred with rusted metal, sat at eye level. It felt out of place—sturdier than the other doors.

I approached cautiously, my pulse quickening as my hand hovered over the handle. When I turned it, the door gave way with a groan, revealing a narrow stairwell leading downward.

I paused, staring at the worn steps and the faint light spilling through the dense shrubbery. Beyond it, I caught a glimpse of a cobblestone path, uneven and overgrown, with a wooden fence leaning precariously against the weight of time.

I'd found a way out.

For a moment, I lingered at the threshold. The door's cold metal surface felt firm under my hand, grounding me in the moment.

Beyond it, the cobblestone path seemed to stretch into a different area. My grip tightened on the handle, torn between the urge to press forward and the familiar tug of hesitation.

I hadn't planned to come this far. The idea of venturing deeper, of crossing into unknown territory with time running out, felt reckless. Someone would notice my absence soon.

Then I heard it—a sound, faint at first, threading through the still air. Voices.

At first, I thought it might be my imagination playing tricks on me, but as I strained to listen, the murmur became clearer. Distant conversation echoed faintly from the direction of the main work area. The steady rhythm of speech drifted toward me, too distinct to ignore. My pulse quickened as the warning registered—there was movement, and worse, commotion.

I released the handle, stepping back cautiously. The floor groaned softly beneath my weight, the sound far too loud in the stillness of the hallway. The door eased shut with a muted click, but even that seemed to echo unnaturally.

I turned quickly, forcing my legs to carry me away. Each step was deliberate yet hurried, my senses on high alert. The corridors that had felt like an endless maze earlier now seemed even more menacing, as though the shadows themselves were closing in. Every creak of the worn floorboards grated against my nerves, each one a reminder that I couldn't afford to be caught.

With each stride, the tension coiled tighter in my chest, my breath shallow as I retraced my path through the twisting hallways. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. The commotion was growing louder, closing the distance between me and whatever lay ahead.

Rounding the corner too quickly, I slammed into something hard—a stack of rusted filing cabinets wedged haphazardly against the wall. The impact jolted through me, sending a sharp pain shooting up my arm as my elbow struck the jagged edge of a dented cabinet.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, cradling my arm instinctively. A dull throb pulsed through the tender spot.

I forced myself to keep moving, brushing off the pain and hurrying past the scattered mess of yellowed papers and cracked binders spilling onto the floor. Every step felt heavier, my heartbeat thudding in sync with the ache in my arm.

As I neared the entrance to the main work area, the hum of voices grew louder, pressing against me like a rising tide. I paused just outside, willing my breathing to steady, but it was useless. The energy on the other side of the doorway was palpable, tense and charged.

When I slipped into the room, it was exactly as I'd feared. James stood at the center, effortlessly composed, his mere presence commanding attention.

He was surrounded by a tight cluster of staff, their faces turned toward him in anticipation. His dark suit was crisp, his tie neatly knotted, a stark contrast to the weary expressions and disheveled postures of those around him.

I swallowed hard, instinctively shrinking back into the shadows of the room. Beneath my sleeve, my arm pulsed with a dull, stinging pain, a reminder of how close I'd come to being caught in a place I had no business being.

I didn't dare glance down at the stain forming on my cuff. All I could do now was blend in and hope no one noticed.

Grabbing a random stack of papers from the nearest desk, I busied myself with shuffling them, trying to look engaged. The buzz of conversation in the room filled my ears, but I couldn't catch the specific words he was saying. His tone, however, was unmistakable—calm, deliberate, seemingly not angry looking at all.

I edged away from the doorway, half-hidden behind a row of desks, keeping my head low and my movements slow.

My breath came in shallow bursts, the earlier rush of adrenaline still clinging to me. He hadn't seen me yet—I was certain of that—but the thought of what would happen when he did sent a cold ripple of unease down my spine.

I clung to the papers as if they were a lifeline, my grip tight enough to crumple the edges. My legs trembled faintly, whether from exertion or nerves, I wasn't sure. I only knew I had to remain unnoticed. Invisible.

His voice cut through the hum of the room again, quieter now but no less commanding. As he handed off a stack of papers to someone nearby, he shifted, his gaze sweeping across the room like a searchlight.

My heart jumped into my throat, my pulse hammering in my ears. I ducked my head further, bracing myself for the inevitable moment when his eyes would land on me.

But they didn't.

Instead, he turned toward his office, his movements precise, purposeful. The clean lines of his suit cut through the dim light as he walked, the gathered staff parting slightly in his wake.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my grip on the papers to relax before they crumpled completely. A faint trickle of relief crept in, fragile but welcome. Maybe I was in the clear. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't notice me at all.

I stayed frozen for a moment longer, just to be sure. My grip on the papers loosened slightly, and I let out a slow, steady breath. It was fine. I was fine. I'd avoided him—

Jane?"

James's low, distinct voice caught me off guard, and the relief I'd felt moments ago vanished, replaced by a rush of tension.

My head snapped up, and I caught sight of a younger worker pointing toward me, her bright smile oblivious to the weight of what she'd just done.

"There she is," she chirped, her finger drawing an invisible line directly to where I stood.

James's gaze followed her gesture, his dark eyes locking onto mine with quiet intensity. The air seemed to grow thicker, pressing down on my chest.

He didn't say anything at first, just studied me from across the room. His expression remained neutral, but there was something in his eyes—sharp, observant—that set my nerves on edge.

I clutched the papers to my chest, the edges digging into my skin as I braced myself. It was too late to hide. Too late to run. He was already making his way toward me, his steps slow but deliberate, each one measured and sure.

I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to stay steady as he drew closer.

When he stopped in front of me, the silence stretched uncomfortably. I lowered my gaze, letting my hair fall forward like a curtain.

"Afternoon," I muttered, the word stiff and hollow.

James tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to see through the shield I'd put up. "Did you deliver the documents I left for you this morning?" His tone was calm, casual even, but there was a subtle edge beneath it, a hint of something more probing.

I nodded quickly, too quickly. "Yes," I said, my voice tight.

"Good," he replied. His tone was even, but his gaze lingered.

I shifted on my feet, adjusting the papers so they shielded the stain seeping through my sleeve. My scraped arm throbbed beneath the fabric, the damp warmth of blood a constant reminder of what I was hiding. If he saw it, if he asked what happened...

I tightened my grip on the papers, forcing myself to stay composed.

James's eyes flicked downward, catching the subtle movement. His brow furrowed slightly, and though he didn't say anything, I could feel his focus shift.

"Are you alright?" His voice was softer now, quieter, but it struck a nerve all the same.

The question hit me harder than it should have, like an accusation wrapped in concern. My chest tightened as I scrambled to keep my expression neutral. He couldn't know—not about the injury, not about where I'd been.

"I'm fine," I said sharply, the words brittle and defensive. Too defensive.

His hand lifted slightly, a gesture of hesitant reassurance, but I stepped back before he could close the gap.

The motion was instinctive, abrupt. His hand faltered mid-air before dropping to his side.

"Jane—"

"I said I'm fine," I interrupted, harsher than before. The words came out too fast, too sharp, as though I could cut off his questions before they came.

He hesitated, his eyes searching my face as though he could find something I wasn't ready to show. The silence between us stretched painfully, tension rising like a tide neither of us could stop.

Finally, his expression hardened slightly, his concern replaced by something cooler, more distant. "If you're so fine," he said, his tone clipped, "you should focus on finishing your work, Amanda always has more paperwork."

The words stung, but I bit down on the emotion before it could show. I forced myself to nod, keeping my movements stiff and controlled. "I will," I said, my voice low, flat.

I turned before he could say anything else, walking away with deliberate steps. I didn't stop until I was sure I was out of sight, hidden by the bend in the hallway. Only then did I exhale shakily, my hands unclenching from the crumpled papers.

My arm throbbed beneath the stained sleeve, the dull ache mingling with the sharp sting of his words. I told myself I didn't care that it didn't matter if he was upset. But deep down, I knew it wasn't true. It wasn't just the sting of his words—it was the weight of what I couldn't let him see.

I wasn't fine. Not even close. But I couldn't let him know. Not now. Not ever.