Chapter 2

"And one more thing," I paused, locking eyes with Grace. "The cleaner Mary handles our floor and the executive area upstairs. She's solid and quick on her feet.

"Most importantly, she knows how to open all the important file cabinets in every department, plus the backup safe in the small conference room upstairs.

"The admin team gave her the codes ages ago to make things easier.

"It's about time she got a raise this month. It doesn't have to be much, just a token so she knows she's valued. She won't forget it."

Grace's smile slipped off her face. She probably thought I was trying to embarrass her with these petty little "secrets."

"Are you done?" Grace's voice went icy as she snatched the black notebook from my hand without even looking at it.

She smirked, "Ms. Dorsey, you really are thorough. Even after you're leaving, you're still worrying about every little thing."

She waved the notebook, strode over to my computer, bent down, and hit the power button to force it off. "But you won't need to worry about anything here anymore."

She straightened up and jerked her chin at Clara by the door. "Ms. Edwards, take Ms. Dorsey for a final check of her stuff before she leaves. The IT department will wipe and reinstall the computer."

Clara quickly responded, her smile looking a bit forced.

I took one last look at my old computer, whose screen was dark.

It held countless late nights, projects that nearly fell apart, and those early, fiery but naive debates from our team. All of it was bits of data waiting to be erased.

"Alright," I said, picking up the cardboard box. It wasn't heavy, but somehow it felt like it was cutting into my fingers.

At the door, I paused, not turning back. "Ms. Hawkins, hope everything goes well for you at work."

There was no response behind me. All I heard was the crisp sound of heels turning toward my old chair, and the slap of papers being dropped onto the desk.

The hallway seemed endless, the harsh white lights almost blinding. Clara stayed half a step beside me, trying to find something to say.

She began, "Caroline, don't take it personally. That's how things go in the workplace. You're young and capable. I'm sure you'll find something better out there."

I gave a quiet hum in reply. The elevator went down, the numbers flickering like a countdown to the end.

As I stepped out through the revolving glass doors, the evening wind hit me, carrying the city's familiar, gritty scent.

I stood on the steps, holding my box. Behind me was the building where I'd spent three years, its lights starting to flicker on floor by floor, like a sleeping giant slowly stirring awake.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a new message from an unknown number.

It read: [Received everything. The audio's crystal clear. Take care.]

I deleted the message and put my phone back in my pocket. I looked up at the sky. Dusk was settling in, thick clouds blocking out the stars.

But I knew they were still there.

The edges of the cardboard box dug into my arm, a little painful. I switched hands, took a deep breath, and stepped into the thickening night.

The first step was steady.

It was time for step two.

My name was Caroline Dorsey. I used to be a tiny, invisible but essential cog in this massive corporation.

Now, I'd pulled myself out. But I knew, with one piece missing, some gears were bound to jam sooner or later.

I happened to catch that warning grind before anyone else.

And I was looking forward to the moment it really hit.

A week later, I met Alex at a café in a creative industry center on the other side of the city.

He was huddled in the farthest corner, wearing a baseball cap.

When he spotted me, he waved frantically, his eyes darting around like he was at some secret rendezvous.

Once I sat down, he leaned in and sighed, looking miserable. "Caro, thank god you're here. I feel like I'm meeting an undercover agent or something.

"Ms. Hawkins keeps tagging me in the department group chat every single day, asking why that data interface you used to handle keeps throwing errors."

"What did you tell her?" I asked, stirring my iced latte as its bitter scent drifted up.

"What else could I say? I told her you always took care of it, and if she wanted the specifics, she'd have to dig up the original documents," Alex said, scratching his head.

He went on complaining, "And guess what? She told me to find them. Where am I supposed to look?

"All those troubleshooting notes and backup solutions were in your black notebook, right?

"I saw her dump it in the pile of scrap paper right next to the shredder that day."

I froze for a second. That black notebook had been my sidekick for three years, its corners all scuffed and fuzzy.

It wasn't just boring work logs. It was packed with random thoughts, spur-of-the-moment flashes, and all those off-the-books hacks I figured out after endless trial and error.

None of that made it into the official handover documents, but it was usually what kept a project running smoothly.