Monday morning.
The office, sharp and polished, pulsed with a familiar buzz—the hum of quiet urgency, the shuffle of shoes, the low clatter of keyboards. But before Iris could even reach her floor, it was already different.
Her phone vibrated once.
She glanced down.
Then stopped walking.
A picture stared back at her—the photograph clearly taken from a distance, blurred by fog and shadow, but unmistakable. Aldrin, standing beside her at the funeral. Her posture angled toward him, his head turned toward her. Intimate in silence. Framed like a scene from a story no one had permission to write.
Below the image: "Comforting words... or something more?"
Her name wasn't tagged, but the caption was suggestion enough. It had made the rounds.
By the time she stepped off the elevator, the sideways glances had returned. Only now, they were bolder. Some laced with curiosity. Others with envy. One or two with something more bitter. But no one said a word.
Not to her.
Not yet.
She didn't slow her pace. Didn't check her messages. She knew exactly where she was going.
Human Resources sat like a quiet island near the northeast corner of the building—sparse, still, too pristine. Like the air hadn't been breathed in yet. But one office inside wasn't quiet at all.
She didn't bother knocking.
The door to Melina Cargill's office opened with one swift push.
Melina blinked up from her monitor. Too late to minimize the window.
Iris saw the photo again. Open. Cropped. Framed. Headline in progress.
"You're bold," Iris said, voice low and deliberate, "but not very careful."
Melina's lips parted, some mix of surprise and annoyance crossing her otherwise polished face. She leaned back in her chair, twirling the stem of her glasses.
"It's not illegal to have an opinion," she said smoothly. "Especially when it concerns the moral integrity of leadership. Or… analysts fraternizing upward."
Iris shut the door behind her with a soft click.
"There is no fraternizing. And there's no story here—except the one you're building out of shadows and silence."
Melina tilted her head. "Oh, but you've given people just enough to wonder. You show up late one day, leave the building with him, disappear, and then resurface beside him at a funeral. I don't even need to write a story, Iris. It writes itself."
Iris took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing. "Then let me give you a new headline: HR Rep Fired for Conduct Unbecoming, Weaponizing Gossip, and Breaching Privacy. Want to see if that one writes itself too?"
Melina flinched, just slightly.
"I don't care if you don't like me," Iris continued, voice firm now. "I don't care if your ego's bruised because Aldrin doesn't even know your name. But I earned my position. I've bled for it now—quite literally. And I will not have someone like you cheapening what we do, turning a battlefield into a tabloid."
Melina scoffed, eyes flashing. "You think he'll protect you?"
"No," Iris said. "I protect myself. And believe me when I say—I fight better than I flirt."
Silence stretched between them.
Iris stared her down for one final beat before she turned on her heel, leaving the door open behind her.
The whispers would continue, no doubt.
But she was done playing defense.
Let them talk.
She had work to do.
By the time Iris reached her floor again, she wasn't just walking—she was moving, with intent.
Eyes flicked up from screens as she passed. A few voices hushed. A chair creaked nervously. The storm that had been swirling quietly behind glass and inboxes had now taken a shape they didn't expect: her.
She didn't pause. Not for a second.
She stepped into the main operations floor, central enough to be noticed but not dramatic, and placed both hands on the nearest workstation desk—drawing attention with purpose.
"All right," she said, voice clear and firm, cutting through the low murmur like a blade. "Let's address the elephant in the room, shall we?"
A few people froze mid-scroll. A few looked away. But no one dared interrupt her.
"Yes," she continued. "I was at the cathedral with the Chairman yesterday. No, it wasn't what you think. It was a funeral. A real one. For people we worked with. For people who died doing their damn jobs. Not everyone in this room knew them, but some of you did—and if you think the takeaway from all that should be office romance fan fiction, then you're in the wrong profession."
Silence thickened.
A few heads bowed. A few faces flushed.
"I've worked late, doubled my hours, taken on projects most of you wouldn't touch unless someone dangled a promotion in front of you. The Chairman didn't escort me anywhere. He trusted me. Like Director Marek. And if you still think I got that kind of trust by batting eyelashes, then you've just revealed more about yourself than you have about me."
That landed. Sharp. Real.
She straightened, scanning the room.
"And in case it still needs saying: I have no romantic involvement with Aldrin El-Amin. But if I did?" She let the pause linger, a deliberate flick of fire in her eyes. "I'd still be more qualified than half the people spreading whispers in this building."
No one breathed.
She turned toward her desk, heels steady, and added as she walked away:
"Back to work, everyone. There's a lot to be done—and rumors don't debug systems, don't recover data, and sure as hell don't build anything worth keeping."
She slid into her seat, letting the adrenaline melt off in waves. Her chest was tight, her pulse still fierce. But she didn't look up again. She didn't need to.
The whispers were already changing tone.
And somewhere deep in the building, Aldrin probably hadn't heard a single word she'd just said.
But maybe that was for the best.
This wasn't about him.
This was about her.
Aldrin was halfway through another round of paperwork when the office door clicked open. He didn't need to look up. He knew it was his secretary. Their routine was seamless, as always.
"I'm sure you're swamped, sir," she said softly, placing a thin file on his desk. "But I think this is worth your time."
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the file before he set his pen down and opened it, his fingers briefly grazing the folder. Inside was a small USB stick. His fingers hovered over it, the familiar weight of curiosity already pulling at him. He didn't need to ask what it was. He had an idea.
"What's this?" he asked in a quiet voice, keeping his tone neutral.
The secretary hesitated for only a second, then spoke, voice slightly lowered. "Security footage from the main operations floor. Ms. Alvarez had quite the conversation with the team—well, several conversations, actually."
He narrowed his eyes slightly at the mention of her. He hadn't expected this to come through so soon. She'd been nothing but professional, but he knew well enough that there were undercurrents in this building, and most of them swam around her lately.
"You'll want to see it, sir," she added, a hint of urgency threading her words. "Before anything else circulates."
He could already imagine it—the office gossip, the whispers. But this? This wasn't a routine report. There was something different about the urgency in her voice.
Aldrin's lips tightened slightly. He'd seen his share of drama within the walls of the building. But this… this was something new. He plugged the USB stick into his laptop, the screen flickering to life.
The footage started—Iris. He could see her, just a few minutes earlier, walking briskly into the operations area. The cameras caught her in full view as she made her way to the center of the room. There was no mistaking the intent behind her steps. This wasn't just a passing glance, a few words exchanged.
She had come to own the moment.
The footage showed her pacing in front of the team, speaking with intensity, her voice cutting through the silence of the office. Her posture was firm, her expression unwavering. She wasn't just defending herself—she was taking control. Aldrin leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening around the edge of his desk as he observed, the cold distance of his demeanor beginning to give way to something more.
His gaze flickered to the security feed as Iris' words rang out, sharp and deliberate, about the rumors circulating. Aldrin saw the quick glances exchanged in the background, the flinch from some, the red-faced shame from others. She had called them out. She had fought back with the same strength he'd come to admire in her—and something more. He watched her stand there, unwavering, as though the weight of the building's judgment was nothing compared to her own sense of resolve.
"You think the takeaway from all that should be office romance fan fiction?" Her words rang clear even through the filtered speakers. "Then you're in the wrong profession."
He could feel the slightest tug of amusement on his lips before it vanished, replaced by a more calculating look as he watched her continue. The way she stood her ground, the way she handled herself, it wasn't just a defense. It was a declaration. And it wasn't just about the rumors.
No, it was about power.
When the footage ended, Aldrin didn't move. He was still watching the screen, his mind turning over the weight of the scene. His secretary lingered by the door, giving him space, but her eyes were curious, waiting for his reaction.
Finally, Aldrin leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "Is there more?" he asked, his voice quieter now, touched by something more contemplative than his usual detached tone.
"No, sir. That's the full recording." She stepped forward then, her gaze flicking back to the screen before returning to him. "You… didn't expect that, did you?"
Aldrin didn't respond at first, his thoughts still lingering on the words Iris had spoken, the way she had handled herself with such grace under pressure. He hadn't expected this from her. Not like this. But then again, he'd never really seen her in this light—fighting for herself, commanding the room.
"I'll handle it." His tone was calm, but there was an edge there now. A quiet understanding. The rumors would die down. But the power she had displayed wouldn't. It would shift things in ways neither of them had anticipated.
The secretary didn't question him. Instead, she nodded, turning toward the door.
"I'll make sure to file the report, sir," she said, her voice a mix of professionalism and something unspoken, a shared understanding hanging in the air between them.
Aldrin didn't acknowledge her words, his mind still on the video. When the door closed behind her, he turned back to the screen. For a moment, the silence was profound, filling the room with the weight of unspoken thoughts.
And somewhere, beneath the surface of everything, Aldrin felt a shift in himself too.
He hadn't expected this. But now that it was here, he knew something important had changed.
For both of them.
The sun hung low over the skyline, painting Aldrin's office in a dusky hue. The cathedral in the distance, once the backdrop to whispered rumors and quiet confessions, now sat cloaked in a reverent stillness.
His desk was quiet for once. No papers, no gunmetal dossiers, no clandestine footage looping in shadows. Just silence—until his phone buzzed.
Aria.
Aldrin smiled faintly as he picked up.
"Another fire fight?" came her teasing voice, sweet and sharp like citrus. "Should I even ask if your suit's still intact?"
"You know I never leave without a spare," Aldrin replied, settling deeper into his chair, eyes momentarily drawn to the faint reflection of himself in the darkened glass. "And for the record… I didn't start it."
"Oh, good. Just finished it dramatically, then?"
He huffed a soft laugh. "Something like that."
There was a pause on her end, the kind he knew well—Aria never stayed too long on surface-level talk.
"So," she began, casually… too casually, "who is she?"
Aldrin blinked. "Who?"
Aria snorted. "Don't play dumb with me, Ald. There's buzz even on the other side of the city. Some intern you keep brushing off but suddenly defend like a mythic beast? Word is, she was on fire—metaphorically. Hopefully."
Aldrin tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting his voice drop into a quieter tone.
"She's not just some intern," he said. "Her name's Iris. And I didn't plan to notice her. But I did."
"Oh?" Aria perked up. "Now this is interesting."
He ignored the teasing tone. His mind wandered back—security footage flickering with firelight, her voice steady even under scrutiny, the way she emerged from cover to bring him word of Marek's survival when the air still reeked of smoke and gunpowder.
"She's… sharp. Observant. Defiant when she needs to be. And in the middle of all this noise—" Aldrin paused, choosing his words carefully, "—she chose to fight the right battle. Even when it wasn't required of her. Even when it meant standing alone."
Aria was quiet now. Then, softly: "That sounds like someone you'd admire."
"I do," he admitted. "That's what makes it complicated."
"You've been in war zones, Aldrin," she said. "And now you're afraid of an intern?"
"I'm not afraid of her," he said, chuckling low. "I'm… curious. And curiosity in my world gets people killed."
"But not this time," Aria said. "Not this one. Right?"
There was silence on his end again, before he spoke, voice like flint being struck against stone.
"She walked through fire and didn't flinch. I don't think she's going anywhere."
Aria made a mock sigh. "Well, if you do decide to finally bring her to dinner, give me enough time to emotionally prepare. I'll need at least a week's notice to not pry... too much."
"I'll let her know," Aldrin said, amusement creeping into his voice.
"You do that," she replied warmly. "Take care of yourself, brother."
"You too."
The line clicked dead, and Aldrin sat in the quiet once more. The city outside his window pulsed on, indifferent to the lives it cradled and shattered daily.
He glanced down at a note Iris had left on his desk before heading out:
"There's still work to be done. No bullets. Just brains."
Aldrin smiled faintly.
The city faded behind him.
Aldrin drove in silence, the hum of the engine a steady companion to the winding climb up into the hills. The road curled around sharp edges and breathless views, but he knew it well. It was the place you went when the world felt too heavy and your soul needed room to breathe.
At the summit, the mountain cradled a wide clearing that overlooked the endless sweep of the city. Orange bled into lavender across the horizon, painting the sky with the last light of the day. It was quiet—almost holy in its stillness.
He stepped out and found them already there. Ainsworth was seated on a makeshift bench, legs stretched, the arm in a sling barely slowing the way he gestured wildly in his story. Marek stood beside him, a bandage wrapped high around his neck and another around his arm, but the glint in his eye was unmistakably the same.
"Al," Marek called, grinning. "Look who finally learned how to tell time."
"You said 'sunset.' Not 'sunrise two days from now,'" Ainsworth added, smirking.
Aldrin approached, hands in pockets, letting the view soak into his chest like cool water.
"You two look like hell," he said dryly.
"And still better than you on your best day," Marek quipped, wincing as he clapped Aldrin on the back.
They laughed, the kind of laugh that comes only from men who'd seen death and managed, somehow, to keep living.
"Got something to show you," Aldrin said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled for a moment, then handed it to Ainsworth.
They leaned in together as the screen lit up with the confrontation in the HR hallway. Iris, all fire and fury, calling out the room with her head high, owning her truth, her voice ringing clear and unshaken.
By the end, Marek gave a low whistle.
"Well, damn."
"She's got bite," Ainsworth added, passing the phone back. "Where was this version when she first got here?"
Aldrin didn't answer immediately, just watched the sun sink another inch lower.
"I think," he said eventually, "she was always that version. The rest of us are just catching up."
There was a silence, thoughtful, as the wind tugged gently at the collars of their coats.
"So," Marek said slowly, "how long till she's running the department?"
"Or you," Ainsworth added with a smirk.
Aldrin gave them both a long look.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
"Oh, we heard you," Marek grinned, leaning back. "You've got that 'I'm intrigued but pretending not to be' thing going on. It's cute. If dangerous."
"She's good," Aldrin said simply. "One of the few people who didn't flinch when everything burned. I respect that."
"And respect turns to—?" Marek prompted.
"Bullets, usually," Aldrin said with a faint smirk. "But… we'll see."
Ainsworth shook his head with mock disbelief. "The man dodges emotions better than bullets."
But then none of them spoke for a while.
They just stood together, the three of them, shoulder to shoulder in the high place where the wind carried away the weight of the city, and the light danced over their scars like old friends greeting each other once more.
Eventually, Marek raised his bottle of water like a toast.
"To the ones who made it through."
"To the ones who didn't," Ainsworth added, his voice quieter.
Aldrin's voice was the last. "And to the ones who walk into fire… and don't look back."
They clinked bottles together, the softest kind of salute, and watched as the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon.