I turned to look at him. My knees throbbed where I’d slammed them against concrete. My hands were scraped raw.

But the desperation vanished, replaced by a cold, anchoring anger.

“It wasn’t a puddle,” I said, my voice eerily calm, carrying the quiet authority of a commanding officer.

Before the man could respond, the private executive elevator chimed.

The heavy steel doors slid open, and the atmospheric pressure of the entire lobby shifted.

No one announced him. The silence did the work.