Insubordination

The elevator doors slide open to reveal what thirty million dollars buys you these days: exposed brick, industrial lighting, and three men who look like they'd rather set their keyboards on fire than shake my hand.

"Ms. Chen." The one in the middle steps forward. Dark hair pushed back carelessly, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, arms crossed over a faded band t-shirt that probably costs more than my first car. "Welcome to Prism Games. Or what's left of it."

I don't flinch. I didn't build a tech empire by flinching.

"Harper," I correct, extending my hand. "And you must be Zane Torres. Creative director."

He takes my hand like it's a grenade with the pin pulled. His grip is firm, deliberately so, and his eyes—dark and furious—hold mine with open challenge.

"Former creative director," he says. "Now I guess I'm whatever you decide I am."

"You're whatever your contract says you are." I release his hand and turn to the other two. "Owen Park. Kai Nakamura."

Owen is taller than I expected from his file photo. Broad shoulders, black-framed glasses, hair falling into eyes that track me with unsettling precision. He doesn't speak. Just nods once, a barely perceptible movement, and continues watching me like I'm a bug he's considering whether to study or squash.

Kai, on the other hand, smiles. It's a beautiful smile—practiced, charming, and completely weaponized. He's leaner than the other two, with bleached-blond hair and an earring that catches the light when he moves.

"Harper," he says, testing my name like he's tasting it. "We've heard so much about you."

"None of it good, I'm guessing."

His smile widens. "None of it boring."

I look around the open-plan office. Empty desks. Abandoned coffee cups. A whiteboard covered in what looks like the stages of grief, but for a video game launch.

"Where's everyone else?"

"Gone," Zane says flatly. "The ones who didn't quit took your very generous severance packages. You're looking at the skeleton crew. The three idiots too stubborn to walk away from something we built."

There's pain under the anger. I catalog it, file it away. These men poured years into Prism Games. Into Threshold, the ambitious action RPG that almost launched them into the stratosphere before funding collapsed and my company swooped in.

"I didn't buy Prism to gut it," I say carefully. "I bought it because Threshold has potential. Massive potential. But only if we can actually launch it in six months."

Zane laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "Six months. You want us to finish a game we've been hemorrhaging over for three years in six months."

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