The auditorium was packed.

  Yuko stood near the back, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold. Giant screens flanked the stage, displaying S-Corp's logo in pulsing blue. The crowd—journalists, investors, industry analysts—filled every seat. Cameras lined the perimeter like sentries.

  Three days. Day two of the window Ellen had given her. Two dawns left before the 6 AM shift change—her only shot at the off-books facility.

  But first, she had to survive this.

  Leno Kums walked onto the stage to thunderous applause. He wore his signature black turtleneck, sleeves pushed up, projecting effortless confidence. The CEO of the future. The man who would automate humanity's problems away.

  The richest man in the world. Over a trillion dollars in assets—more than most countries' GDP. He could buy nations. He could buy governments. He could buy the silence of a thousand grieving families and never notice the expense.

  The man who had killed her father.

  "Thank you all for coming," Leno began, his voice filling the room. "I know there's been a lot of noise lately. Safety concerns. Regulatory questions. People asking whether robots are 'ready' for the real world."

  He paused, letting the tension build.

  "Let me be clear: the people asking those questions are not engineers. They're not scientists. They're politicians looking for headlines. They're activists who've never built anything in their lives." He smiled, sharp and cold. "And they're losing."

  The audience laughed. Some applauded.

  Yuko's jaw tightened.

  "S-Corp robots have logged over two billion operational hours with a safety record that beats human workers by a factor of fifty." Leno spread his arms wide. "Fifty. That's not a margin of error—that's a revolution. And yet we have people out there demanding we slow down. Demanding we 'reconsider'. Demanding we put human inefficiency back in charge."

  He shook his head, mock-sorrowful.

  "I have a message for those people: history doesn't move backward. Progress doesn't apologize. And S-Corp doesn't stop."

  More applause. Louder now.

  Yuko scanned the room. Journalists scribbling notes. Investors nodding along. Everyone buying the performance.

  Nobody asking about the shadow logs. Nobody asking about the drivers who died on routes that were changed at the last minute. Nobody asking about Joel Smith.

  She pulled out her phone, angled it toward the stage, and hit record. At a public presser, nobody blinked at a phone camera. Insurance. If everything else failed—if the off-books site was a trap, if Ellen disappeared, if the shadow logs got wiped—she'd have this. Leno's smug face. His exact words. Timestamped.

  A side door opened.

  Yuko's breath caught.

  President Cole Golden stepped into the auditorium, flanked by Secret Service agents. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who owned every room he entered. Golden-blonde hair swept back, sharp suit, the steady gaze of a man who had built his career on projecting calm authority.

  The president who smiled for cameras while drivers like her father bled out on highways.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The man who knew exactly what Leno was doing—and approved of it.

  "And speaking of progress," Leno said, his tone shifting to something warmer, "I'm honored to introduce a leader who understands what's at stake. A president who has the courage to make hard choices. Ladies and gentlemen—President Cole Golden."

  The room erupted. Standing ovation. Camera flashes strobing like lightning.

  Golden climbed the stage and shook Leno's hand. The grip lingered a beat too long. Two men sealing a deal the audience couldn't see.

  "Thank you, Leno." Golden's voice was deeper, more measured. "And thank you all for being here. I know S-Corp has faced criticism. I know there are people who want to slow things down. But let me tell you something about this country."

  He paused, letting silence do the work.

  "Fifty percent unemployment. Fifty percent. Half of Atlantis can't find work. Families struggling. Communities dying. And what do the critics offer? More regulations. More delays. More excuses." He shook his head slowly. "That's not leadership. That's surrender."

  Yuko watched the crowd nod along. They believed him. They wanted to believe him.

  "I ran on a promise," Golden continued. "Put humans back to work. And I meant it. But here's the truth nobody wants to say out loud: the path forward isn't fewer robots. It's smarter robots. It's robots that free humans to do what humans do best—create, innovate, lead."

  He gestured toward Leno.

  "S-Corp isn't the problem. S-Corp is the solution. And this administration will support them. With contracts. With investment. With whatever it takes to keep Atlantis ahead of Zendan and every other nation trying to steal our future."

  Defense contracts. That was the real message. Forget civilian jobs—the money was in war.

  The applause was deafening.

  Two investors behind her whispered over the noise. "Civilian rollbacks spook retail," one muttered, "but defense? Margin heaven." The other snorted. "Who cares about warehouses if the Pentagon is writing checks."

  Yuko slipped toward the side door. She'd seen enough. She needed air. She needed to think.

  A hand caught her elbow.

  Markus Limeburge stood beside her, his face flushed with excitement. "Yuko! Isn't this incredible? The President himself—"

  "I need to go."

  "Wait." His grip tightened slightly. "I wanted to talk to you about last night. The access I gave you—"

  "It was just a telemetry check," she said, keeping her voice flat. "Routine."

  "Right. Of course." He released her arm, but his eyes stayed locked on her face. "It's just... someone in Security mentioned unusual download activity. I covered for you, but—"

  "Thank you, Markus." She stepped closer than necessary, lowered her voice. "You're the only person here I can trust."

  A lie. But his eyes lit up like she'd handed him a diamond.

  "I mean it," she added, holding his gaze a beat too long. "I won't forget this."

  "Yuko..." His voice went soft. Hopeful. "If you ever need anything else—"

  "I know who to call."

  She walked away, her skin crawling. This was who she was becoming. Someone who weaponized lonely men's fantasies.

  Three steps. Four. She didn't look back.

  Outside, the evening air was cold and sharp. Yuko leaned against the building, trying to steady her breathing.

  The burner phone was heavy in her pocket. Ellen's number. Forty-four hours.

  A news ticker crawled across the massive screen mounted on the building's facade:

  PRESIDENT GOLDEN ANNOUNCES DEFENSE PARTNERSHIP WITH S-CORP... UNEMPLOYMENT BENEFITS EXTENDED... ZENDAN TARIFFS REMAIN IN EFFECT...

  Then, between the headlines:

  BREAKING: ORCHID CASE INQUIRY WIDENS—NEW WITNESSES COME FORWARD

  Yuko frowned. Orchid Case. She'd heard the name before—late-night internet rabbit holes, conspiracy forums, whispered rumors that never quite died. Twenty years ago, a young woman found dead in a hotel room. Official cause: accidental overdose. Unofficial cause: powerful men who made problems disappear.

  The investigation had gone nowhere. Witnesses recanted. Evidence vanished. And now, suddenly, it was back.

  Why was it resurfacing now?

  The doors behind her opened. Voices. Laughter. The press conference was ending.

  She glanced back—and froze.

  Through the glass, she could see them: Leno and President Golden, standing together in the backstage shadows. Their hands clasped. Leno leaning close, whispering something. Golden nodding slowly.

  A trade-press photographer raised his camera.

  Flash.

  The image captured: the billionaire and the president, united behind the curtain.

  And along the bottom of the screen, the ticker crawled on:

  ORCHID CASE REOPENED: SOURCES CONFIRM EVIDENCE POINTS TO HIGH-PROFILE FIGURE

  Yuko's heart pounded.

  Whatever the Orchid Case was, it was connected to them. She could feel it.

  One more secret. One more thread to pull.

  Three days. And now, maybe, another weapon entirely.