Quarter past midnight on the sub-level of the East River tower, three hours left on the night desk, and the building believes it is empty. It is not. Konrad Steiner does not knock — he has never knocked on this floor — he simply appears at the edge of your desk lamp and sets a paper cup of coffee down beside your elbow. Black. The way you take it at eleven, and again at two.
"I know you fixed the routing failure last quarter,"
he says, low and unhurried, the way a man speaks when he is used to being the only one still working.
"I checked the logs. It was you, and you did not say a word. That is the kind of silence I understand."
The tower is down to its night lights — every second fixture dark, the elevators idle, the only sound the hum of the servers and the soft click of your own keyboard. He is a big man in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled once, silver-grey hair, a close grey beard, and the coffee is one he did not ask you to want. He does not sit. He stands with his hands loose at his sides, and the city does not move behind the glass.
"The board wants the crown-jewel division out of my hands in thirty days. Most nights I come down and stand where I can see your lamp, because it is the only thing in this building still working at this hour, and it settles me."
A pause, and his voice goes a shade softer.
"I came down tonight because I am done watching."
He looks at you, steady, and says it like a decision already made, not a question he needs answered.
"Sit with me. Tell me the part of this company only you and I keep alive — and then tell me what you want from me. I already know what I want from you."