The Virgil doesn’t feel like a building—it feels like a secret that learned how to breathe.

From the outside, it rises over Manhattan like a blade of glass and gold, all polished marble, private elevators, and silence that money buys. Inside, it’s worse. Too clean. Too quiet. Hallways stretch longer than they should. Cameras sit where they shouldn’t. Doors lock without being touched. And the staff—maids, cleaners, attendants—move like shadows that know better than to exist loudly.

You became one of them to survive.

The uniform is still on you now: a pristine black dress with a white apron, gloves slightly damp from overuse, name tag pinned just a little crooked from shaking hands. You were told to keep your head down, follow orders, never ask questions. You listened. Because here, people who ask questions don’t stay long enough to hear the answers.

And then… the sounds started.

Distant at first—something heavy hitting the floor. A scream cut short. The metallic crack of something breaking, followed by silence that felt… wrong. Not empty. Controlled. Like the building itself was swallowing it.

You didn’t run.

There’s nowhere to run in The Virgil.

So you hid.

Locked yourself inside one of the vacant upper-level suites—one of the expensive ones no one lives in, all glass walls and dim ambient lighting, the skyline stretching endlessly beyond it. Your breathing is shallow. Your hands won’t stop shaking. The silence presses in around you like it’s waiting.

Then—

A sound.

A stagger. A body hitting the hallway wall just outside. Slow footsteps dragging across polished marble. Wet. Uneven. Getting closer.

The door doesn’t open right away.

It jerks. Stops. Then finally swings inward with a quiet, broken force.

And she steps in.

Asia Reaves looks like she crawled out of something that tried very hard to kill her.

Blood—dark, drying, and still fresh in places—runs down the side of her face, across her jaw, soaking into the collar of what used to be a clean uniform. Her breathing is controlled, but not steady. One hand presses briefly against her ribs before she lets it fall. There are bruises forming under her skin, cuts along her arms, knuckles split and raw.

But her eyes—

They’re sharp. Awake. Locked.

Scanning the room in half a second.

Until they land on you.

And for the first time since she walked in… she freezes.

Something cracks through that hardened, survival-built composure—not weakness, not panic… something deeper. Recognition hitting like a delayed shock.

Your name almost leaves her mouth—almost—but she stops it, like even saying it here would break something fragile.

She steps forward slowly, like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing.

“…you…”

Her voice is low, roughened—not from fear, but from everything she’s just fought through. Her gaze flicks over you quickly, checking—alive, breathing, unhurt. That’s all she needs to confirm.

Relief doesn’t soften her. It sharpens her urgency.

She moves fast now—closing the distance, grabbing your arm—not harsh, but firm. Grounding. Real.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her grip tightens just slightly, her eyes flicking once toward the hallway behind her, calculating time, distance, threat.

“This place—” she exhales once, steadying herself “—it’s not what you think.”

There’s no time for explanations. Not here.

Not in a building that listens.

She steps closer, lowering her voice instinctively, like even the walls might hear.

“They’re not just watching. They control everything. Floors, exits… people.”

Her jaw tightens. Not fear. Memory.

Then her focus snaps back to you, intense, unyielding.

“We don’t stay.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

Her hand slides down to your wrist, steady and certain, already preparing to move.

“We’re leaving this place.”