The heart of Freenly City hummed with the sound of high-voltage servers and the silent transit of data. At the center of this digital empire stood the Rolldown Tower, a jagged spike of glass and reinforced carbon that seemed to tear through the clouds.
On the 102nd floor, the air was pressurized and chilled to exactly 19°C.
Inside the Grand Boardroom, the atmosphere was so thick with Alpha authority that the junior executives at the end of the table found it difficult to draw a full breath. At the head of the long, obsidian-slab table sat Malcolm Ford.
He sat with a deceptive stillness, his large, soft hands folded atop a stack of holographic tablets. He wore a midnight-blue suit,tailored to accommodate the sheer breadth of his shoulders. His presence was a physical weight—a dark, gravitational pull that made everyone in the room sit a little straighter, their hearts drumming against their ribs.
"The recruitment cycle for the Summer Internship Program begins in forty-eight hours," Malcolm said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble, like the sound of distant thunder over a mountain range. It was rich, masculine, and entirely devoid of patience. "I have reviewed the preliminary HR screenings. They are mediocre."
A tremor of anxiety passed through the Head of Human Resources, a seasoned Beta who had handled thousands of hires but still sweated under Malcolm's gaze.
"Sir, we've narrowed it down to the top 0.5% of applicants from the Ivy leagues and the Technical Institutes," the HR lead stammered.
"I don't care about their pedigrees," Malcolm interrupted, his sharp, amber-flecked eyes cutting across the room. "I care about their hunger. I care about their ability to see the architectural flaws in a system before the system even knows it's failing. Deviloy doesn't hire 'students.' We hire disruptors."
He leaned forward, the movement slow and predatory. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the slight, rugged scar near his temple—a remnant of a past he never spoke of. He was devastatingly handsome, but it was a beauty that felt like a warning sign.
"The interviewers will follow the Level 4 Protocol," Malcolm commanded. "No soft questions. No 'where do you see yourself in five years.' I want them stressed. I want their logic pushed until it breaks. If they can't handle a verbal interrogation in a climate-controlled room, they sure as hell won't handle a cybersecurity breach at three in the morning."
He tapped a button, and a list of names flickered onto the wall-sized screen.
"I will personally oversee the final round for the Artificial Intelligence Ethics and Genetic Architecture departments," he added. "The rest of you will filter the chaff. If a single candidate reaches my desk who doesn't have the stomach for this industry, the interviewer who passed them will be looking for a new job by sunset. Am I clear?"
"Crystal clear, Mr. Ford," the board echoed in a ragged, nervous unison.
"Then this meeting is adjourned."
The room cleared in record time. The sound of shuffling papers and retreating footsteps was the only thing that filled the space until only Malcolm and his personal assistant, Marcus, remained.
Marcus was a sharp-featured man who had survived working for Malcolm for five years primarily because he knew when to speak and when to remain silent. He stepped forward, holding a sleek digital ledger.
"Sir," Marcus said quietly. "A productive session."
Malcolm was already scrolling through a schematic of a new neural-link server. "Don't flatter me, Marcus. It's a waste of both our time. What's next on the log?"
"The Chancellor of Vetify University reached out this morning," Marcus reported, checking his notes. "He was quite insistent. It concerns the 'Ford Engineering Wing' currently under construction on their West Campus. It seems there has been a significant discrepancy in the structural financing. The Chancellor is requesting a private consult. He sounds... concerned about the budget's depletion."
Malcolm's eyes darkened. Financial mismanagement was the one thing he loathed more than incompetence.
"The building project?" Malcolm mused, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "We poured fifty million into that foundation. If they've misplaced the funds or overshot the margins without my authorization, I'll pull the contract and leave them with a half-finished skeleton of a building."
"The Chancellor mentioned something about 'unforeseen environmental costs,' but he seemed hesitant to put the details in an encrypted mail," Marcus added. "He's asking for an hour of your time this evening."
Malcolm stood up, stretching his limbs. Even the simple act of standing felt like a display of power. He walked to the window, looking out over the sprawling grey-and-neon expanse of Freenly City. Somewhere out there, the world was moving, plotting, and trying to survive.
"Tell the Chancellor I'll be there at three," Malcolm said, his reflection in the glass looking back at him with cold, unshakable resolve. "I'll go check on the building personally. I want to see exactly where my money is being buried."
"I'll coordinate the security detail, sir," Marcus said, turning to leave.
"No," Malcolm barked. "Just one car. I don't want a parade. I'm going to a university, not a war zone. I'll handle the Chancellor myself."
"As you wish, sir."
Marcus exited, leaving Malcolm Ford alone in his glass fortress. The Alpha took a deep breath, the scent of expensive leather and ozone filling his lungs. He felt a strange, restless energy in his blood—a prickle at the back of his neck that he usually only felt before a massive market crash or a corporate takeover.
He rubbed his chest, right over his heart—the place people said was made of stone.
"Something is coming," he muttered to the empty room.
He didn't know that 'something' was an "Omega" named Luca with a face he might almost remember and a smile that had been practiced for seven hours straight just to destroy him.
Three hours later. Vetify University Campus.
The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the quad. The construction site for the new engineering wing was a maze of steel beams and orange mesh.
Malcolm Ford climbed out of his black car, his presence immediately silencing the distant chatter of students walking to the library. He looked up at the skeletal structure of the building.
At the same time, a taxi pulled up to the curb a hundred yards away.
A young man stepped out. He wore an oversized cream sweater that made him look small, dark slacks, and a pair of glasses that sat slightly crooked on his nose. He carried a leather bag, looking every bit the overworked, brilliant student.
Dahmer—now Luca—took a deep breath.
Through his contact lenses, he saw the thermal signature of a man standing by the construction fence. The heart rate monitor in his ear, linked to Kaelen in the van nearby, spiked.
"Target sighted," Kaelen's voice whispered in his earpiece. "He's at the twelve o'clock position. Remember, Luca... you're lost. You're looking for the Chancellor's office to drop off your internship application early. Soften your shoulders. Now... smile."
Luca adjusted his bag, let a look of confused innocence wash over his face, and began to walk toward the target.