Work Location: Literally My Grave

I didn't head to Northpoint.

Pulled up outside a busted little phone shop instead.

Mason's place.

Old classmate. Total tech genius.

I rushed in and slammed my hacked phone on the counter.

"Mason. I need a favor. Check the location software. I want the install logs and usage records."

He looked me over—mud, mess, borderline unhinged. "Damn. You crawl out of a war zone or what?"

"Skip it. Move. This is life or death."

No more questions. He plugged it in and started typing.

Two minutes. Code flooded the screen.

"Got it." He pointed. "Developer mode's on. Hidden app—'GeoShade.' Spoofs location, messes with your screen, drains your battery whenever it wants. Installed at..."

He paused.

"Last night. 11:30."

Right then.

I was blackout drunk at the table. The phone was just sitting there. And right next to it—

Jay.

"Can you export it?"

"Yeah. I'll print the backend logs. Everything's here."

Printer kicked on, spat out a page packed with data.

I grabbed it, shoved it in my jacket. "I owe you a drink."

Then I was already out the door.

9:55 a.m.

Five minutes left.

Northpoint was two blocks out.

I fired up the engine and punched it.

Red light? Blew through it.

Wrong way? Took it anyway.

A cop's whistle shrieked behind me.

I didn't even look back.

License, no license—didn't matter.

I was getting there.

Northpoint came into view.

I slammed to a stop, left the wreck parked sideways by the fountain.

Security moved in—then saw my face and backed off.

Good call.

I walked into the lobby.

The receptionist covered her mouth. "M-Mr. Zander?"

"Mr. Lloyd still in the conference room?"

"Yes... he's about to sign—"

I didn't wait. Hit the stairwell.

Eight floors in one go.

Lungs on fire. Didn't care.

Just rage.

The conference room doors were shut.

Jay's voice slipped through.

"Mr. Lloyd, yeah, my brother messed up... but maybe let him leave with some dignity. We can say he resigned for health reasons..."

Wow.

What a saint.

So thoughtful. So generous.

I lifted my leg and kicked the door with everything I had.

Bang.

The heavy doors blew open.

Every head snapped my way. Mr. Lloyd's pen froze midair.

Jay's fake smile locked up.

I stood there—covered in mud, suit wrecked, hair a mess.

Red clay from Westside still stuck to my shoes. Like I'd crawled out of a grave.

"Who said I'm resigning?" My voice came out rough, steady. "Jay... you really think you can take my seat?"