I was there because of a contract audit, the kind of job that pays well enough to ignore how empty those glass buildings feel inside.
My name is Javier Ortega, and I’ve spent years reading numbers, judging people based on paper, deciding who gets a chance and who doesn’t, without ever expecting anything to feel personal again.
The lobby was quiet, polished, controlled, the kind of silence money builds to keep everything predictable, and I was already thinking about schedules when I heard her voice.
Small. Clear. Certain.
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