Chapter 2

Shoreline City. Hightide Grand Hotel. Laundry room, three floors underground.

The sun never reached this place. The air was always thick with the sharp reek of bleach and the damp smell of mold. The dim explosion-proof light overhead buzzed with a steady electrical hum, like a countdown to death.

This was the dream job my mom, Claire, had pulled every string she had to get me.

She said, "Sally, the basement walls are thick. No cell signal. It's perfect for your condition. You should be grateful. If it weren't for your illness, your brother would already have the newest VR gaming system. Work hard and pay the family back."

I believed her.

For twenty years, I wore heavy anti-static cotton clothes and thick rubber gloves, day in and day out, washing mountains of reeking sheets and tablecloths.

My monthly salary of three thousand—I handed every cent over to my mom.

I didn't even dare glance at the neon signs on my way home, terrified that the deadly radiation would kill me.

Then today, the heavy iron door of the laundry room swung open.

A group of sharp-suited executives swept in, flanking a man who walked like he owned the room — because he did.

The man was tall—well over six-foot-two—with cold, sharp features and a jawline carved like granite. His perfectly tailored black suit stretched across a body coiled with explosive power. He stood there with casual indifference, yet the air around him seemed to drop to freezing.

Hank Graves. Absolute ruler of Hightide Incorporated. The youngest and most ruthless titan in Shoreline City's business world.

I shrank into the corner by the washing machines, trembling so hard I couldn't lift my head.

Because the executives with him were holding tablets glowing with blue light. Some were even recording with their smartphones.

"Stay away... please... stay away..." My voice shook violently as I pressed myself into the corner, both hands clutching my throat.

The radiation would kill me.

My mom said that if I got too close to any glowing screen, my skin would erupt in red welts, my throat would swell like I'd been scalded, and I'd die gasping, in agony.

Hank stopped. His gaze—cold and sharp as a hawk's—swept over me, this strange creature cowering in the shadows.

"What's going on?" His voice was low and smooth, but carried an authority that didn't tolerate questions.

The hotel manager broke into a sweat, mopping his forehead and stammering, "M-Mr. Graves, this is the laundress, Sally Reed. She... she has some issues. Severe electromagnetic radiation phobia. Can't be near electronics..."

Hank narrowed his eyes, a flicker of scrutiny passing through them.

Just then, one of the assistants, too nervous to hold steady, let the latest model tablet slip from his hand.

It hit the tile floor and slid straight toward me, slamming into my rubber shoe. The screen blazed at full brightness, playing a high-definition promotional video of the hotel in flashing, vivid color.

"AHHH—!"

I let out a scream so sharp and desperate it sounded like a feral cat with a broken spine. I lurched backward, my back slamming against the cold tile wall with a dull thud. My fingers clawed at my collar as I gasped for air, cold sweat soaking through my coarse uniform.

"Take it! Take it away! I'll die! I'll actually die!"

I shook like a leaf in a storm, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the end.

One second. Two seconds. Three... Half a minute passed.

The choking stranglehold on my throat never came.

No searing pain, no melting skin.

My ragged breathing began to slow.

Hank stepped forward, his expensive custom leather shoes splashing through the puddles on the laundry room floor. He bent down, picked up the tablet, and walked straight over to me.

"Look at me." His voice bore down on me like a physical weight, pressing into my soul.

I couldn't move. I was frozen solid.

He let out a cold laugh, then reached out and gripped my chin with his long, powerful fingers, forcing my head up. His knuckles were cool, calloused from years of writing and training—solid and real.

"Sally Reed," he said, looking down at me, "what are you shaking for?"

I bit my bloodless lip so hard I tasted copper. "Afraid... afraid of dying..."

Hank let out a short, cutting laugh. Something shifted in his eyes — open, undisguised mockery.

Then he flipped his wrist and shoved the blazing screen right up to my face.

Less than four inches away.

"Then open your eyes and watch closely. See if you die."

The cold blue light stung my eyes, long accustomed to darkness.

I wanted to scream, but the sound died in my throat.

Because what I saw, what I felt, was beyond the sheer terror in my head, my body felt nothing.

No rash crawling across my skin.

No shock.

No cardiac arrest.

My breathing stayed steady. My heart pounded, sure—fast enough to break my ribs—but that was fear. Not a medical reaction.

Hank let go and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his fingers with slow, deliberate care, like he was cleaning himself of something filthy.

"Find somewhere else to play your little games. Hightide Incorporated doesn't keep dead weight."

He dropped the handkerchief on the floor and walked out, his entourage of silent executives trailing behind.

The basement fell back into silence, broken only by the roar of the washing machines.

I collapsed onto the wet floor like a ragdoll, staring blankly at my reflection in a puddle of gray water.

Gaunt face. Brittle hair. Eyes wide with terror.

I looked like some medieval creature that had crawled out of a tomb.

A complete joke.

I hadn't died.

I'd been inches from a high-intensity screen and I hadn't died.

A thought—cold, slithering, poisonous—began to coil around my brain, squeezing my heart tight.