The vault changed her. She didn’t say it out loud, but I saw it.
In the way she moved slower through the corridors. In how her eyes lingered longer on closed doors. In how she stopped biting back every time Sia spoke. She’d stopped trying to win.
She was finally starting to understand the rules. And so, I gave her what she thought she wanted. Normalcy.
“Network security audit for the London office,” Sia said, dropping a stack of files on Floris’s desk.
I watched from my office, one floor above, eyes on the corner surveillance screen. She looked at the folders like they were bait on a hook.
“That’s it?” she asked. “No mind games? No cryptic instructions about earning my keep?”
Sia didn’t look up. “Just analyze their firewall protocols and identify vulnerabilities.” Then, pausing at the door: “Oh, and Eric wants a comprehensive report on our Rotterdam competitors’ digital infrastructure.”
“So… actual cybersecurity work.”
“Revolutionary concept, I know.”
I didn’t need to be in the room to feel her suspicion curdling. That’s how you softened a subject—withdraw the punishment, offer purpose, let confusion do the rest.
I gave her space. But I still watched.
She worked harder than I expected. Longer than necessary. The London audit was standard—two firewalls, outdated firmware, weak encryption protocols—but she handled it like she was trying to prove something.
Not to me. To herself.
The Rotterdam assignment was different. Illegal.
I’d phrased it politely in the file notes, but the subtext was clear: penetrate TimeCorp’s internal architecture. Employee devices, admin nodes, personal terminals.
She muttered something—“This is corporate espionage”—and Sia, always on cue, appeared behind her.
“This is competitive analysis,” Sia corrected.
“Yeah, about ten years in federal prison.”
“Only if you get caught.”
Sia never broke rhythm. That’s why she was still useful. She’d learned how to compartmentalize.
Floris hadn’t.
She was still wrestling with morality. That amused me more than I cared to admit.
They worked side by side. I watched them through the office security cams—two women at a polished black table, committing high-level digital theft while sipping espresso like it was lunch hour at Google.
And then they did go to lunch. Sia suggested it. Floris followed. I switched feeds.
The executive dining floor. A glass temple of curated power.
They sat in a corner booth where I knew the audio was muted. I couldn’t hear them, but I could see everything. How Floris studied her. How she kept staring, not blinking, not eating.
She was thinking about the tape. About the girl on her knees. About what it meant.
I didn’t need to hear her to know the question was coming. She leaned in. Said something. Sia froze for a beat. Her fork halfway to her mouth.
I didn’t regret what I’d done to Sia. Not the collar. Not the blindfold. Not the silence.
She’d known the rules better than anyone.
But watching Floris stare at her like a walking obituary made something fracture behind my ribs. I didn’t want her pitying Sia. I didn’t want her comparing.
Sia broke by choice. Floris was breaking in spite of herself.
There’s a difference.