Chapter 2 - The Elevator Chime Sounds in the Penthouse Foyer
The soft, musical chime of the private elevator echoed through the expansive living room like a judge's gavel.
Every single head in the penthouse turned simultaneously toward the gleaming brushed-steel doors.
Piper gripped the rubber handles of her wheelchair so tightly her knuckles turned chalk-white.
Celeste Larkin did not flinch, her posture remaining as rigid as a marble column in a federal building.
Boone Halloway wiped his grease-stained hands casually on a blue shop rag tucked into his belt loop.
Dr. Mara Voss stepped backward, her tablet clattering against the glass top of a designer coffee table.
The digital floor indicator above the elevator door slowly blinked from the ground floor to the penthouse lobby.
Forty-two floors of luxury separation vanished in a matter of seconds as the mechanical motor hummed quietly.
No one spoke.
The air in the room felt thick enough to slice with a pocketknife.
The steel doors parted with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing the sleek interior of the private compartment.
Standing inside was a man wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that cost more than Boone's entire truck.
He held a slim leather briefcase in his right hand and wore a practiced, disarming corporate smile.
His eyes scanned the room instantly, taking in Celeste, the mechanic, the doctor, and finally, Piper.
The name badge pinned to his lapel caught the Manhattan sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
It matched the name printed at the bottom of the four fraudulent inspection reports sitting on the tablet.
Arthur Vance.
Director of Quality Assurance for Veyron Adaptive Mobility.
Arthur stepped across the threshold, his Italian leather shoes clicking softly against the imported hardwood flooring.
“Good morning, Ms. Larkin,” Arthur said, his voice smooth and artificially warm like melted plastic.
“I was in the neighborhood and heard there might be some minor diagnostic questions regarding the unit.”
Celeste did not blink.
She did not invite him in.
She simply stared at him with the cold, dead-eyed expression of a corporate predator cornering its prey.
“You weren't called,” Celeste said, her voice dropping into a register that made the temperature plummet.
Arthur’s smile faltered for a microsecond before he quickly reassembled his professional mask.
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“We monitor telemetry data remotely on all premium units, Ms. Larkin; we noticed an anomaly.”
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