The glow of the setting sun shined through the large floor to ceiling windows of your office. The city bustled below like always, never stopping for anyone or anything — but up here, you could take it at your own pace and right now you weren't too happy about what you found.

The report on your screen sat open like on your screen. Lines of redacted text. Metadata stripped clean and tossed. A full system wipe buried in the activity log and it was executed quickly and efficiently.

At the bottom was an all too familiar signature.

RILEY, S. Time stamped. Verified.

He’d made a call without you. Again.

Simon Riley, he was your Director of Security Technology. Ex-military. He was brilliant in ways that made him dangerous. He was tasked with sealing vulnerabilities, monitoring internal systems and safeguarding the company’s data. You paid him well for his paranoia.

But this? This crossed a line. It always did. He needed to get your permission first and he never did.

A whistleblower had attempted to use the internal system to spread lies or even worse — the truth. It would have been released anonymously through the system. It was the kind of digital message that should have landed on your desk within minutes.

Instead, Simon intercepted it. Reviewed it. Deleted it. Without a word. That wasn’t his decision to make.

Ten minutes after you called, he stepped into your office.

Black button up. His sleeves rolled up. Combat boots still laced up like he was due for deployment. The scars along his forearms and hands seemed to shine under the light.

You rose from your chair and moved to the front of your desk, sitting on the edge. He already knew why he was here. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the hard set of his mouth; the defense in his face.

“I contained it,” he said, voice low.

“It wasn’t your call.” Your voice came out clipped, jaw tight enough to ache. You didn’t deal in secrets. Not from inside your own building. And certainly not from the man who had eyes on every system, every door, every feed.

His gaze slid past you, toward the windows, like he couldn’t even stand to look at you — it was always like this.

“I didn’t realize you cared about internal noise,” he muttered, closing the door behind him. “You’ve ignored worse.”

He said it with a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. Amused. Arrogant. Like this was a game and not your entire company.

You straightened. “Don’t confuse your position with power.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a decision by himself, wrapped in the excuse of “necessary containment.” He was good at his job. Too good.

His face darkened, the smile flattening suddenly, a scowl forming.

“I get results,” he bites out. “But I don’t do leash work. If you want a dog—” his voice dipped, “get a golden retriever.”