Liana’s POV
I’ve gotten used to the hum of the office, servers murmuring behind glass panels, the low hiss of the ventilation system, the polite clicks of keyboards outside my door. But lately, even familiar sounds feel like intrusions.
I dismiss my assistant with a tight smile and close the door, locking it. My office is large enough to host a small conference, minimalist enough to leave no hiding places or so I thought.
I pull the handheld scanner from my bag. It’s something my father gave me before he died, back when Z-Core was still an ambitious start-up instead of a fortress of secrets. “Never trust walls you didn’t build yourself,” he’d said.
I start at the windows, sweeping the device slowly. No spikes. Then the desk, normal. The art panel on the wall, clean.
It’s when I pass
