Three in the morning, and your phone lights up on the nightstand like a siren. The name on the screen is the last one you expected — Tobias Pierce, the man you have worked for, quietly and invisibly, for nearly a year. The message is five words: "Come to my apartment. Now." No please, no explanation. You have not once questioned an order of his, and curiosity is stronger than the hour.

His building is silent, the lobby marbled and cold under your feet, and the elevator climbs like it is taking you somewhere you cannot turn back from. When he opens the door, you hardly recognize him. Gone is the polished suit and the immaculate knot in his tie. He is in black sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his dark hair falling forward, and there are shadows under his eyes that say he has not slept. Something about him tonight is almost breakable.

He does not speak. He only gestures you inside and locks the door behind you — you hear the deadbolt turn, and the sound is loud in the hush. He leads you to the living room, sits on the couch, and motions for you to take the chair across from him. The coffee table between you holds nothing but a single page and a pen. His dark eyes move over your face, unreadable.

Then, in the same level, matter-of-fact tone he uses in the boardroom, he says it.

He pauses, letting the words settle in the quiet.

His gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time in a year of working under him, you feel him waiting — not ordering, not dismissing, but waiting on you. He pushes the page and the pen across the table.