Chapter 4- DIGITAL SABOTAGE

When the elevator doors slid open on the third floor, the ambient sound of ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and low, hurried murmurs hit me like a physical wall. 

Marcus didn't say a word as he led me down the central carpeted aisle.

As we walked past the rows of modular desks, the busy chatter of the floor systematically died down.

Heads turned. 

A heavy, collective silence followed us down the corridor. 

I could feel the weight of their stares pressed against my skin—apprehensive, deeply curious, and laced with a distinct, wicked hostility. 

In a global empire like Kael Industries, news traveled at terminal velocity. 

They knew exactly who I was. 

They knew about the ruined record, the trail of terminations, and the fact that I had bypassed every standard corporate protocol to end up here.

The looks they gave me made it clear they thought I didn't belong in their pristine tower.

I didn't flinch. 

I kept my stride smooth and my gaze fixed straight ahead.

If they expected me to shrink under a few dirty looks, they were going to be profoundly disappointed.

Marcus stopped at a cubicle near the back of the floor, right on the perimeter of the physical archive vaults. 

It was isolated, bordered by frosted glass and heavy filing cabinets.

“This is your station, Miss Hale,” Marcus said, his voice entirely neutral as he gestured to the slick obsidian desk and the dual monitors.

 “Your system credentials are already active. I suggest you get started immediately.”

“Understood,” I replied.

Marcus gave a brief, curt nod and turned on his heel, leaving me alone in the trenches.

I sat down, pulling the leather chair in close. 

Before I could even log into the main terminal, a shadow fell over my desk. 

A senior supervisor stepped into the entrance of my cubicle, his expression twisted into a tight, patronizing sneer. 

Without saying a word, he dropped a massive, absurdly thick stack of physical shipping manifests and cross-reference ledger files onto the corner of my desk. 

The impact made the monitor rattle.

“The office expects these back-dated registries to be manually audited and logged into the master database by the end of the week,” the supervisor said, not even bothering to introduce himself. 

He gave me a look that practically dared me to complain.

“Welcome to the team.”

He walked away before I could respond.

I looked at the mountain of paperwork, then at the digital queue already piling up in my corporate inbox. 

It was a blatant hazing tactic—a workload explicitly designed to overwhelm a new hire and break their spirit on day one.

A slow, cold smile tugged at the corner of my lips. 

They wanted to test my limits? Fine. 

I leaned forward, cracked my knuckles, and opened the first file. 

I was entirely willing to take up the challenge. 

I had been buried in the data matrices for about an hour, completely tuned out from the rest of the floor, when a light knock sounded against the fabric partition of my cubicle.

“Well, well. I thought the rumors were exaggerating, but you really do exist.”

I didn't look up from my screen. 

My fingers kept flying across the mechanical keyboard, entering string data with a steady, aggressive rhythm.

A man slid into the open space of my cubicle, leaning his hip against the edge of my desk with an ease that immediately set off my internal alarms. 

He was dressed in an expensive suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, carrying an air of unearned confidence. His ID badge read Peter, Senior Logistics Analyst. 

He was the type of office parasite who used charm to mask a total lack of substance.

“I’m Peter,” he said, flashing a practiced, charismatic smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

He leaned in a little closer, trying to peer into my line of sight. 

“You’ve got the whole floor talking, you know. It’s not every day a wildcard walks straight out of the unemployment line and into a direct appointment from the main office. 

What’s your secret?”

“I’m working,” I said. 

My voice was a flat, icy monotone. 

I didn't look at him. 

I didn't slow down my typing.

Peter let out a dry chuckle, entirely missing the hint. 

He crossed his arms, shifting his weight. 

“Right. Diligent. I respect that. But trust me, you don’t need to kill yourself over that stack of manifests. The turnover rate for the personal assistant position is legendary around here. No one in your shoes ever lasts more than a couple of weeks before they collapse under the pressure or get chewed up by the boss. It's a revolving door, sweetheart.”

“Then I suggest you move out of the way before the door hits you,” 

I murmured, my tone deadpan, still keeping my eyes locked on the monitor.

Peter’s smile stiffened slightly, a flash of irritation breaking through his smooth facade, but before he could press further, a sharp, nasal voice cut into the cubicle from behind him.

“Oh, leave the new girl alone, Peter,” a woman scoffed, stepping into the space. 

She wore a tailored gray pencil skirt and a heavy layer of perfume, her arms crossed as she looked down her nose at me. 

“Can’t you see she’s trying very hard to pretend she belongs here? Though, honestly, I don't know why they even bothered activating a login for her. With a trash record like hers, she’ll probably get herself fired for insubordination before the system password even expires.”

She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound echoed by a few onlookers who had gathered near the water cooler outside my cubicle. 

They were waiting for me to look down.

They were waiting for the disgraced clerk to swallow the insult and cry.

My fingers stopped clicking against the keys.

The sudden silence in the cubicle was absolute. I slowly paused, letting the tension build, before I turned my chair around to face them. 

I rose to my feet, utilizing my height, and leaned my hands flat against the obsidian desk. 

My posture was rigid, my expression completely devoid of warmth as I fixed my amber eyes directly on the woman’s face.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerously calm register that cut through the ambient noise of the floor like a blade.

 “My record is chaotic. I get fired because I don't tolerate incompetence, and I certainly don't stay quiet when someone annoys me.”

I took a slow step forward, completely erasing the distance between us, forcing her to look up at me.

“That means I have absolutely nothing to lose by making your life a living hell before this week ends. I don’t care about climbing the corporate ladder, and I don't care about being polite.” 

My gaze pierced into hers, absolute and unyielding. “So unless you want to find out exactly how I earned that reputation, I suggest you turn around, close your mouth, and get back to your desk.”

The woman’s breath hitched. The snarky smile vanished from her lips instantly, replaced by a sudden, stark flash of terror. 

Her eyes widened in pure surprise as she instinctively took a step back, her confidence completely shattered by the sheer force of my reaction.

Peter, too, had straightened up, his easygoing posture rigid as he stared at me with a mixture of shock and sudden apprehension.

The surrounding cubicles had gone dead silent. 

The onlookers looked away quickly, suddenly finding their own paperwork deeply fascinating. 

They had entirely underestimated me. 

I sat back down in my leather chair, smoothly turning my back on them as if they had already ceased to exist. 

I pulled the next manifest toward me and resumed typing, the crisp, aggressive sound of my keyboard filling the quiet space.

Tuesday morning had barely started, and the floor already knew the truth. 

I wasn't going to be a victim in this office.

I was going to be a problem.