The small video window popped up on the right bottom corner of my screen as I finished setting the new password for a Marketing guy upstairs, who got kicked out of the systems at least once a week. Maybe he was among our top graphic designers, but he just couldn't type ten characters in the right order.

"Hey, Dean," Tom said from his fishbowl when I clicked on the video window. "I need a hand."

"Forgot your email address?" I replied.

He shook his head, chuckling. "I wish. Listen, Jane T. just called. Her child woke up with a little fever."

I didn't know who Tom was talking about, but I guessed it was one of the junior ITs in the noon or the afternoon shift.

"Need me to cover for her?" I volunteered. Whoever she was, this Jane T. couldn't come to work until her kid and she herself were cleared, after a one-week quarantine and three negative tests.

Tom's smile widened. "Thank you. Only half her shift, though. You'll be free at six, and somebody from the evening shift will take it from there."

"Great. My girl doesn't like dining late."

"I owe you. I'm sending your number upstairs right away, so they process the extra hours."

"That's nice of you."

"You know me. I stink of nice."

We disconnected still laughing and I turned to my next world-saving quest: retrieving some Word files a secretary had deleted by mistake.

At noon, back from my lunch break, I saw Tom handing the baton to Aisha, the afternoon supervisor, a big lady in her mid-forties I liked a lot. They were talking by the fishbowl while a janitor disinfected everything before letting Aisha take over.

With shipments moving all over the country all the time, the company had operators working around the clock, and they always needed ITs at hand. While the big shots upstairs and their minions did weekdays nine to five, the ground floor of the Square was a sleepless hive twenty-four/seven. To stick to sanitary regulations, Operators and ITs worked in rolling six-hour shifts that started every three hours, so the open offices never surpassed two thirds of capacity.

For some reason, the afternoon was easier than the morning, and I wasn't tired when I logged out at six. My phone buzzed before I could grab my stuff. A smile pursed my lips as I opened the message, like every time Steph texted me.

"Coming? Dinner at seven."

"You cooked for me?"

"Me? Cook? Share whatever you're having, please. I ordered pasta with meat balls."

"I'm all but done here. See you in a while."

I was heading for the exit when Aisha called me out loud. I turned around and found her waving me over from the fishbowl.

"Hey, Dean, they have some trouble processing your hours. Why don't you go upstairs and fix it yourself on your way out?" she said.

"Sure." I looked around. "You not leaving yet? Where's Sam?"

Aisha rolled her eyes. "Stuck in traffic."

"Late again. You should make him cover your whole shift some day."

"Yeah, I totally should. Thanks, D. See you tomorrow."

"Have a good one."

Instead of heading to the lobby, I turned to the stairs in the corner. The stairwells were located on the inner side of the Square, and on my way to the second floor, I had a chance to admire the one-acre inner garden in the center of the Square, enclosed by huge windows on each floor to provide better fresh air circulation and daylight to the whole building. I frigging loved that job. Not only because I liked what I did, and my colleagues, but because no matter in what side of what floor of the Square you worked, you had those window walls to a relaxing green view. Something I'd sorely missed of late.

The receptionist at the second floor was surprised to see me. Looked like nobody had reported that they needed an IT in person. When I repeated what Aisha had just told me, she turned to her computer.

"Let me check," she murmured.

She went over a couple of lists and typed something. Her mild frown made me frown too, but I waited in silence. It wouldn't be a first if they'd forgotten to let her know.

"They're waiting for you upstairs," she said, puzzled.

My eyebrows jumped up in surprise. "You sure?"

She shrugged. "That's what my sup says." She looked up at me and winked. "Must've done something good to be requested from up there."

"Don't say," I murmured, feeling a prink in my belly. "Thanks."

So I went on to the next flight of stairs, that would take me to the third floor for the first time ever. It was odd. Only the heads of department had their offices at the top of the Square, with their personal aids that included a small IT team, apart from the rest of the company. Regular mortals had nothing to do up there, let alone a junior tech like me.

The receptionist was far from nice and young as the one at the second floor, a stiff woman in her fifties that watched me walk out from the stairwell from over her readers behind a face shield, a masked security guard standing two steps away like a statue.

"Dean Walsh?" she asked before I could say anything. "Conference room twelve."

She glanced at the guard with a quick nod and the man waved for me to follow him.

"Thanks," I got to say to her before hurrying after the man.

My brow furrowed again when the guard preceded me around the first bend and all the way down a fancy hallway toward the second bend. I hesitated. That second bend led to the place everybody called the West Wing. Because the west side of the third floor was no less than Big Ellie's quarters, the sanctum sanctorum only a lucky few were allowed to visit. Rumor had it our CEO pretty much lived there, and the West Wing was more like a penthouse than an office, that included a luxurious private apartment, a gym, a sauna and even a swimming pool on the roof.

I couldn't help admiring the sober décor and the abstract paintings in black frames on the walls, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. In between the paintings, I saw big pots with exotic plants, and even a couple of sculptures on stone pillars, placed to stand out whether in daylight or under the beam from the LEDs in the ceiling.

The city skyline was visible through the large windows looking out on my right, an awesome sight at that hour, when the sun was coming down and shimmered on the windows of the skyscrapers in the distance.

What the hell was going on? Some big shot had lost their password after their ITs left?

The guard stopped at the last door before the second bend and knocked, waiting for answer from inside to stick his head in and said something. He stepped back, pulling the door open, and waved for me to walk in.

I did. The guard closed the door behind me as I found myself in a wealthy conference room. A lot of windows as usual in the Square, opening to the inner garden on my left. Three large flat screens on the wall opposite the door, a counter along the side wall opposite the windows, with white catering flatware and two coffeemakers. In the middle of the room sat an oval table of thick glass for six tall spinning chairs with black leather upholstery. No extra seats. If you were there, you were to sit at the big table. Else, you had nothing to do in that room.

Two masked men waited for me. One was sitting at the table, face to the windows, a computer open before him, while the other stood by the furthest window, looking out with his hands in his pockets. I noticed a tablet and a phone across the table from the sitting man, that surely belonged to the guy by the window.

The company's dress code was relaxed downstairs. All of us at the ground floor were authorized to wear jeans and tees if we wanted, but it got fancier as you climbed upstairs. I'd never seen anything but slacks and neat shirts for the guys at the second floor, and dresses for the women. It was urban lore that only Armani and Prada moved around the third floor. These guys seemed to prove the lore right with their flawless suits. Good thing that day I was wearing my khakis and a short-sleeve shirt, because it was too hot for hard denims and a tee sticking to my body.

The man at the table signaled me to step closer as I still tried to figure out what on earth I was doing there. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was upset, like waiting for bad news.

"Dean Walsh?" the man asked, glancing at his computer.

"Yessir," I muttered.

The man raised only one eyebrow to face me again. "Or should I say Dylan Wallace?"

I could only stare blankly at him while my heart sank, my belly felt about to turn and the air felt too thin in my lungs.

My lack of answer brought the man from the window to the table.

"Remove your mask," he said, calm and imposing, a deep voice meant to boss the whole world around.

I did, so full of a sudden, choking fear I couldn't think straight.

The man took a hand out of his pocket and grabbed the tablet. He seemed to compare something on it with me before showing it to me. My knees threatened to buckle when I saw my own mugshot on screen.

"This is you," he said, far from asking.

There was no way to deny it. Even with my hair dyed dark, it was plain to see that was my own bloody face, only four years younger.

He stared at me as to drill a hole through my skull. I tried to hold his dark eyes while the other man read from his computer.

"You were arrested in Buffalo, New York, back in 2019, charged with possession of narcotics with intent to sell. Sentenced to ten years, you were paroled for good behavior in two. But you never reported to your parole officer and your ankle monitor was found smashed in an alley. You've been in the wind for the last eight months."

I swallowed hard, hearing those words straight from my police record, unable to look away from the man that still stared at me.

"Well, not exactly in the wind," he said, circling the table toward me. "You came to town, got yourself a fake ID and applied for a job here." He took three quick steps to come stand only a foot away from me, his dark eyes burning in rage. "You. A fugitive felon. The whole company could have gone down the drain because of you."

I shook my head, finding a thread of voice that sounded like a crow's cawing. "What? No! Nobody knew! Only me! Nothing would happen to the company if they found me!"

He pulled his mask down slowly, revealing his hard cheekbones, pointy chin covered by a stubble, sharp straight nose. My eyes widened in disbelief as I recognized no other than Salomon Ellis. Big Ellie. In the flesh before me. And by his looks, fighting hard to keep from killing me with his own hands.

I stiffened when he shortened the distance between us. He was a little shorter than me, but his glare from only inches away made me feel a midget facing a mountain.

"But now we know, don't we," he said, grinding his teeth to keep his voice down. "So we have to do something, or risk being charged with helping a wanted fugitive."

I just lost it. My eyes welled and the whole room spun around me.

"No, please!" I mumbled. "Please, don't call the cops! I can't go back! It'd be for life! I can't! Please! I'll leave and never come back! I'll do anything! Just don't call the cops on me!"

Big Ellie raised his eyebrows, listening to my pathetic gibberish as I turned to the other man and back to him, babbling like a drooling idiot.

"You'd do anything?" he asked, his voice cold and sharp like a knife.

I nodded eagerly, wiping my nose on the back of my hand, my eyes still full of tears, sweating and panting as if I'd just run the thousand yards sprint. His other hand came out of his pocket and I froze when he grabbed my crotch.

"Anything?" he repeated.

I could only watch him in utter shock, feeling his fingers like a claw grasping my jewels through the slacks.

"Leave us."

I think the man at the table dematerialized, because I never saw him leave the room. But a heartbeat later, the door closed behind me again and I was all alone with Salomon Ellis, who didn't hold only my nuts in his fist, but my whole life.