The air in the Deverell Technology Centre lobby tastes of clinical precision and expensive ozone. It is a cathedral of white glass and brushed titanium, designed to make everyone inside feel replaceable. Nisha stands at the security turnstile, her thumb hovering over the scanner. Her old badge shouldn't work. She was escorted from this building two years ago with her career in a cardboard box and a non-disclosure agreement burning a hole in her pride. Yet, here she is, a silver soldering iron tucked into her bag like a hidden blade. The internal telemetry on the new power unit is failing, and it seems the dynasty finally found a problem their billions couldn't fix without her.
Don't look at the trophies, she tells herself, but the glass cases are everywhere. They are mirrors of what she helped build. Every championship wall is a reminder of the data she scrubbed and the ledgers she questioned. She slides her new temporary lanyard across the reader. The gate chirps a welcome that feels like a threat. The silence of the atrium is absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the wind tunnel.
The private elevator at the end of the hall chimes, and the man inside reaches for the close door button.
