Cold blue light filled the freshly minted office of VIM.
Vincenzo sat back in his chair, hoodie up, a half-finished energy drink sweating onto the desk. Midnight had passed unnoticed. The new building was quiet in the way only powerful places ever were — no janitors, no footsteps, just systems humming for people who didn’t need sleep.
Tonight was a deep dive into the past.
On the screen, a younger Chase Wright leaned against a podium, tie crooked, voice sharp with righteous indignation.
“Why are we paying for Xbox Live? We already pay for the internet! It’s like renting a fork at a restaurant!”
Vincenzo laughed, surprising himself.
“You absolute idiot savant,” he said fondly to the screen.
The comment section from ages ago was still there, fossilized in early-internet amber:
BatDan45: this guy’s hilarious
FalconerTX: he’s right tho
Wingin_IT_09: lawyer energy before law school lol
Vincenzo scrubbed back, watching the mannerisms. The animated hands. The instinctive pauses. The way Chase rode the room without even trying.
Chase wasn’t performing.
He was communicating.
That was the difference. That was why it mattered.
“He never wanted to follow the system,” Vincenzo murmured.
He remembered vividly the looks Chase got when people found out his ‘schooling’. Online coursework. Self-taught certifications. Forums. Long nights. No pedigree, no debt-worship, no kneeling.
Chase hadn’t rejected the system.
He’d just learned it sideways… then stepped back in.
That kind of tenacity had always impressed Vincenzo. Still did.
“He’s going to burn out,” Vincenzo said quietly. “Same way he always does. Doing the right thing in rooms, instead of the thing for Wright. Where everyone else already sold their soul, Chase’s been giving pieces of his away.”
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head.
“I’m not going to let that continue.”
Another tab opened. Vincenzo barely guided it, the algorithm already knew where this was going.
A dated local AnimeVerse video loaded. Handheld footage. Bad audio. Overexposed lighting.
And then —
Amelia Winters.
Younger. Hair brighter. Laughing into a camera she didn’t know was recording. White-and-blue costume, gold key prop, joy unguarded and utterly unoptimized.
Vincenzo froze the frame.
“Oh,” he said softly. Not greedy. Not predatory.
Relieved.
“Well… there it is.”
He hit play again, watching her move. So comfortable, expressive, and present. Not chasing attention, not hiding from it either. Just existing in front of a lens that always belonged there.
Chase had timing.
Amelia had warmth.
Together?
They weren’t a brand. They were a vortex.
“Honey,” Vincenzo murmured, tapping the lighter against the desk. “That’s all it is. A little honey so the medicine goes down easier.”
He wasn’t stealing anything. He wasn’t forcing anyone.
He was re-aligning the orbit.
High school again. Group chats that never went dead. Movie nights. Inside jokes that carried through years. A life where Chase didn’t have to be the responsible one holding everyone together by principle alone.
A life where Chase and he could be ‘Gold and Silver’ again, just like high school. Of course the silver has gotten a little salty.
“Salt and Honey,” Vincenzo said, smiling to himself. “It’s not a pitch. It’s a life-line.”
He opened a notepad and typed, slower now — careful, intentional.
N: Leverage SilverTongue. Debate format. Authentic friction.
A: Restore creative spark. Platform first. Community second. No pressure.
Then, after a pause, smaller text beneath it:
Couples content stabilizes audience loyalty. Shared vulnerability reads as truth.
He snapped the lighter open.
A small golden flame rose reflecting against Amelia’s frozen smile on the screen.
Chase didn’t need saving.
He just needed a reason to stop walking away from opportunity.
“I’m giving you your life back,” Vincenzo whispered. “Both of you.”
The lighter clicked shut.
The room stayed dark —
except for the glow of the monitor.
“It’s time for an upgrade.”
The office was quiet in a way that had nothing to do with noise levels. It was the silence of a herd that had just seen one of its own taken down by a predator, and was now grazing aggressively to prove they hadn’t noticed.
Gunther’s office was already cleared. The nameplate was gone. The glass walls, usually plastered with sticky notes and case law, were Windex-clean.
It wasn’t just a firing. It was a scrubbing.
Chase sat at his own desk, the termination email still open on his screen. The official reason was “Gross Misconduct.” The reality was buried in the subtext of the file names Gunther had been caught with.
Stiles & Springer. The St. Yves Housing Development.
Context: Associate was flagged for accessing restricted Pre-Century zoning archives. Gunther W. claimed the St. Yves development was being built on top of ‘ Pre-Historical Tartarian infrastructure’ that does not appear on modern blueprints.
Incident: He attempted to halt construction, citing ‘forbidden frequencies’ in the foundation that he claimed were ‘not dormant.’ The Firm categorizes these as conspiracy-driven delusions regarding the ‘Previous Arbiters’ and their ‘Drafts’.”
Chase knew the case. It was supposed to be a standard zoning dispute—the Mayor’s office pushing through a high-end development against local holdouts. Gunther had been assigned to crush the opposition. Instead, he’d defected.
Rumor was, Gunther had found something in the discovery phase. Something that didn’t look like zoning laws. He’d started raving about “Spark’d Humans” and “Tartarian property lines”—archaic, nonsensical terms that sounded like madness or his own strange terminology for legal terms.
Gunther wasn’t mad. He was meticulous.
“He admitted to acting as an insider for the opposition based on these delusions.”
Chase closed his eyes. In the world of Michael & Cole, “delusion” was often just the corporate word for a truth that cost too much money. Gunther hadn’t just lost his mind; he’d switched sides because he saw something that terrified him more than the partners did.
And now he is gone. And the St. Yves development, backed by El Viento capital, would proceed without a hitch.
Chase locked his computer.
He felt a sudden, desperate need to be somewhere that didn’t smell like lemon pledge and fear.
The rain had thinned to a mist that clung to everything, turning the city soft and gray. Amelia collapsed her umbrella outside Summers Brew, shaking the drops onto the mat.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she was here. Telling herself she just wanted good coffee. Truth was, she wanted to understand the coordinates of Chase’s life. He came here to escape; she wanted to see what safe looked like to him.
She pushed the door open. The bell chimed an uncertain note.
Tabitha was behind the counter, and for a second, Amelia saw the armor go up. Shoulders tightened. Chin lifted. The girl looked like she was bracing for a collision.
Amelia didn’t take it personally. She worked with terrified cats every day; she knew that hiss usually meant don’t hurt me, not I want to hurt you.
“Morning,” Amelia said, keeping her voice even. “Could I get a latte?”
Tabitha narrowed her eyes, assessing. She looked like she was scanning Amelia for hidden weapons or condescension. Finding neither, she clicked a pen and attacked a paper cup with surgical precision.
She slid it across the counter.
SMILES TOO MUCH.
Amelia read it and a genuine surprised laugh burst out. It wasn’t mean; it was observant.
“At least it’s accurate,” Amelia said.
Tabitha blinked, clearly expecting a different reaction. “Milk preference?”
“Whole’s fine.” Amelia leaned a little on the counter, watching the barista work. The girl moved with a jagged intensity, fighting the espresso machine rather than operating it. “Do you always write… notes?”
“Judgments,” Tabitha said, the grinder roaring to life. “It’s policy.”
“Policy,” Amelia repeated, amused.
“I file what I see.”
Amelia’s gaze drifted to the notebook on the counter. It was a battered thing—spine frayed, corners bitten by time. It looked loved, in the violent way creative people loved their tools.
“You write outside the cups, too,” Amelia said.
Tabitha froze. Her arm slid halfway over the book, a protective reflex. “It’s just… homework.”
Amelia smiled gently. She knew that look. It was the look of someone protecting a soft underbelly. “Looks more interesting than homework.”
Tabitha tamped the coffee grounds with a snap. “It’s fiction. Creepy fiction. Ants keep score, rivers carry secrets, muffins plot coups. Very highbrow.” She didn’t look up. “You wouldn’t like it.”
It was a shield, thick and heavy.
Amelia rested her chin on her hand, really looking at this young girl. She saw the intelligence burning behind the eyeliner, the frantic energy of a mind that saw too much and didn’t know where to put it.
“You might be surprised what I like,” Amelia said softly.
Tabitha’s hand slipped on the milk pitcher. She poured too fast, swirled, and stared down into the cup with a look of betrayal. She slid it forward without a word.
There, in the foam, was a butterfly.
Amelia beamed. Not at the art, but at the accidental kindness it betrayed.
“Thank you,” she said.
She took a sip, lingering near the counter. The café was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the rain outside.
“So what do you want to do with your writing?” Amelia asked.
Tabitha’s pencil hovered. “Do with it? It’s just… notes.”
“Notes are seeds,” Amelia said. “You could plant them.”
Tabitha snorted. “What are you, a gardener?”
“Vet receptionist,” Amelia corrected, grinning. “Less grounded. Same patience.”
Tabitha looked at her notebook, then back at Amelia, wary but listening.
“Animals don’t talk,” Amelia said, thinking of the clinic, of the trembling dogs and the stoic cats. “Not in ways that translate cleanly. So we watch. Patterns. Posture. What they want to hide. What hurts. What doesn’t. That’s half my job.”
She gestured to the notebook.
“You do the same thing… Only with people who won’t say things. You see through their masks.”
Tabitha stared at her. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was thoughtful.
“I used to write too,” Amelia offered. “College essays, silly fan-fics. And a blog once, back when the internet was mostly cat pictures and amazing rainbows. No one read it, but it felt good.”
“What kind of stories?” Tabitha asked, her voice losing its edge.
“Ones about bees and ants talking to each other. And people who didn’t say what they felt out loud, so I made them say it in secret.” Amelia smiled sheepishly. “Fanfiction for life, basically.”
Tabitha looked down, scribbling something fast in her book.
The bell jingled. Wheels squeaked.
Amelia turned to see Snakes the janitor shuffling in. His mop cart rattled, a personal vendetta against silence.
“Wright’s not here,” Tabitha said automatically.
“Didn’t come for Wright,” Snakes muttered. “I have him locked in the firm’s restroom, with a series of clues leading to a puzzle holding the key to the door.”
Amelia had no way of knowing that, across town, Snakes had currently committed a felony against workplace productivity.
Chase stood in the center of the pristine, marble-tiled restroom, staring at a sticky note attached to the mirror. It read: To escape the chamber of water flow, one must discover where to go. The Spyinx’s path is very rare, travel across it with care.
Below it, balanced precariously on the porcelain sink, sat a cardboard box heavily wrapped in duct tape. The word SPHINX was scrawled on the side in aggressive black Sharpie.
“Snakes!” Chase shouted at the ceiling vent, his voice echoing off the expensive tile. “I swear to God, if this is another crayon incident, I’m replacing your PineSol with Scope!”
He grabbed the box. A riddle was written on the top flap involving burning cabins and a flower in an underwater garden.
“I don’t have time for a logic puzzle,” Chase muttered. “I have a deposition in ten minutes.”
He didn’t bother solving it. He jammed his thumb under the taped flap, ripped the cardboard in half with a feral grunt, and shook it upside down until a brass key clattered loudly into the sink.
“I’m billing the firm for emotional distress!” he yelled at the locked door, jamming the key into the handle. “And I’m stealing your mop!”
Amelia laughed. “Seriously, do you two actually dislike each other, or is this some sorta bit?”
Snakes jabbed his mop at the air. “Man slipped on a wet floor after the ‘Caution’ sign was right in front of him. Oblivious. And charming. Like candy corn, a lethal combination.”
He approached the counter, rummaged in his pocket, and slapped a torn scrap of paper onto the wood.
It was a piece of the El Viento SECURITIES flyer. The logo was circled three times in red, with tiny ants doodled around it in furious ink.
“Ants move where the sugar spills,” Snakes said.
He pushed it toward Tabitha, but his eyes flicked to Amelia.
“Our lawyer friend thinks the sugar is a gift.” He tapped the circled logo. “He doesn’t see the hook.”
Amelia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air. “Is that… about his job?”
“About everything,” Snakes said, already shuffling backward, his mission complete. “Especially a trap door that welcomes you when all the other exits are blocked.”
His mop squeaked like a dying accordion as he retreated out the door.
Amelia looked at the scrap of paper. A trap door that welcomes you.
“Is he always like that?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tabitha said, tucking the paper into her notebook. “But sometimes he’s the kind of weird that turns out right six weeks later.”
Amelia finished her tea, the warmth settling in her chest, but the warning cold in her mind. She waved to Winona, thanked Tabitha, and stepped back out into the mist.
As the door closed behind her, she thought about trap doors. And hooks. And how Chase, for all his cleverness, sometimes mistook a cage for a safety net.