Reborn at a cost

Liana's POV

Blaise Corps looks exactly the same.

And that terrifies me.

The glass tower loomed under the grey October sky, its reflective surface throwing back a thousand hurried strangers none of them knowing I had died once because of this place.

The glass of the building reflecting the early sun.

Employees stream through the revolving doors with takeaway coffees and pressed suits, laughing, complaining about meetings and clients.

Their voices carrying a casual, oblivious chatter about deadlines and weekend plans. It felt obscene, like the world had erased my twelve-year sentence the moment the cell door closed.

I paused, took a deep breath and crossed the street.

I paused in front of the building, my reflection warped on the building surface.

“You died because of this place.” I whispered to myself.

My fingers clenched the strap of my bag until the leather creaked, grounding me against the urge to turn and run.

I adjust my blazer and walk in.

The lobby smells of polished marble, overworked carpet, and a hint of overly sweet lemon air freshener. A massive digital screen scrolls through company achievements: growth charts, innovation awards, smiling employees frozen in curated success.

None of it matters.

My ID badge still works.

The soft beep at the security gate makes my stomach twist.

The beep echoed too loudly in my ears, a reminder that the system still recognized me. My pulse hammered against my collarbone, too fast for calm.

I half-expect alarms. Hands grabbing my arms. Someone shouting my name and well, nothing happens.

“Liana!”

The voice hit me like muscle memory.

Lucy Fletcher runs towards me, her beige heels clicking the floor, her bleached blonde hair perfect, her whitened teeth showing through her wide smile.

My chest tightens. Recognition. Threat. Relief.

Confusion. All in one.

Her perfume slammed into me first. Sweet jasmine laced with something else.

She pulls me into a hug before I can react. Perfume hits me. Sweet, floral and the same one she wore when she visited me in prison.

I don't hug her back. Not yet.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”

Her breath brushed my ear, warm and too close; her arms squeezed with practiced affection that now felt like a restraint. My skin crawled under the contact.

I force a smile. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Her eyes linger on my face, searching for something. Then she relaxes, looping her arm through mine like nothing happened, like she didn’t watch me disappear in a concrete box.

Her grip was light but firm, guiding me forward. My muscles tensed, ready to pull away at the slightest wrong move.**

“Dont worry, I'll get us that cappuccino that has caramel in it.” she murmurs.

The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. The mirrored walls trapping us together, our reflection staring right back at me.

In the cold steel reflection, my face looked haunted, dark circles under whiskey eyes, lips pressed thin. Lucy's smile gleamed beside me, flawless and empty.

“I heard Graham’s already on edge,” Lucy continues. “Something about audits and access reviews.”

My pulse skips.

“Access reviews?” I echo, keeping my tone light.

She shrugs. “You know management. Always paranoid.”

Yes. I do. I survived prison. I can survive paranoia too.

The elevator dings, and we step onto our open floor office.

Rows of desks, glowing monitors, the constant clicks of keyboards. Phones ring, chairs squeak, and laughter bounces off the walls,a sound that now feels too sharp.

The lights buzzed overhead like trapped insects, casting harsh shadows across every face. The air carried the faint burn of overheated printers and stale coffee—ordinary smells that now set my nerves on edge.

It was….Normal.

Brian Cooper pops up from his desk the moment he sees me.

“There she is,” he grins, already pushing back his chair. “London’s brightest data wizard.”

He stood and walked towards me. He steps too close. I stiffen.

His cheap cologne rolled over me, woody and overpowering. He leaned in just enough to invade my space, eyes flicking down my body with lazy interest.

“Morning, Brian,” I say, sidestepping him.

His eyes flick down my body, then back to my face.

I remember him from the courtroom. He was stiff, careful, and unreadable. Did he notice me then? Did he care?

“You look… good,” he says, voice lowering almost imperceptibly.

The words hung between us, heavy with something unspoken; his gaze lingered on my lips like he was measuring for a claim.

I fixed him with a level gaze. “You tell every lady on this floor that.”

He laughs, unbothered. “Just being honest.”

Honesty.

Well, that’s new.

I move to my desk before he can say more. Everything is exactly where I left it: monitor, chipped mug, sticky note on the edge of my screen, Double-check permissions.

The irony tastes bitter in my mouth.

I logged in.

For a few minutes, I let work pull me under. Systems load, dashboards populate, numbers align. Data doesn’t lie. It doesn’t cheat. Not like humans who will stab you and still smile to your face.

The keys clicked under my fingers, cool and slightly grimy from a thousand shared touches. The screen's blue glow reflected in my eyes.

Nothing looks out of place. And that’s worse.

“Bennett.”

Graham McFadden’s voice cuts the air, sharp and loud.

He stands at the end of the aisle, arms crossed over a pot belly that was straining against his shirt, his tie slightly crooked, eyes sharp.

Sweat darkened the underarms of his shirt despite the chill from the AC.

“Office. Now.”

“What now?” I muttered to myself.

I follow him into the glass walled room. He doesn’t sit. He never sits.

“You left early yesterday,” he says. “Skipped after-work drinks.”

I blink. “I wasn’t aware that was mandatory.”

His jaw tightens. “In this department, visibility matters. People notice patterns.”

That was a warning disguised as a casual conversation.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply evenly.

He studies me for a long moment, then his eyes flick to the office outside, scanning, calculating. He steps closer. “We’ll be reviewing access logs this week.”

My stomach twists.

“Of course,” I reply, voice calm, but inside my mind sparks. He knows something. Or wants me to think he does. Either way, I need to stay two steps ahead.

“Pull up last quarter’s risk analysis,” he continued,”I want a clean breakdown by noon.”

“Yes sir.”

He nods once with a thin smile, and dismisses me.

The glass door hissed shut behind me; his stare burned into my back like a brand as I walked away.

Back at my desk, my hands tremble slightly as I sit. My pulse races.

Then Lucy leans over the divider. “Lunch later?” She asked softly. “There is this really good curry place I want us to try. My treat.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Depends on how my morning goes. Graham already dumped his workload on me.”

Someone laughed across the room.

She nodded and then left.

By mid-afternoon, I noticed it. A small permissions change. Almost invisible. A file accessed that shouldn’t have been. My file.

My heartbeat spikes. I pull up the metadata. Cleaned. It was gone. Someone is already moving.

My mouse hand froze; the cursor blinked mockingly. A cold sweat prickled along my spine, proof that the game had restarted without me.

My eyes scan the office. Lucy laughs at what Ethan from HR said by the printer, her smile effortless.

Brian pretends to work but steals glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Graham paces inside his glass office. The rest of my colleagues either worked, on the phone, or gathered sharing gossip.

Every laugh sounded forced now, every glance weighted. The room pressed in, walls closing with the hum of secrets and the click of keys like countdowns.

One of them framed me. One of them watched me die.

I take a slow breath and I focus.

I open a hidden folder on my system. Quiet redundancies. Invisible safeguards. Traps disguised as routine processes. It will take patience, but they won’t see it coming.

I check my mental list:

Lucy: too friendly, too sweet, always close, always watching.

Brian: too familiar, awkwardly confident, unpredictable.

Graham: overtly controlling, temperamental, skilled at manipulation.

Sean: over friendly, even after I rejected his offer to take me to dinner.

Martha: No. Can't be Martha. She hates this place but is still the first person at work everyday.

And somewhere beneath all of this, the real mastermind is already moving. Could be anyone. Could be all of them.

I lean back and let my eyes wander the office. The hum of traffic in the distance, the clack of keyboards, the murmurs of voices. Everything seems normal

And yet, nothing is.

Not anymore.

I straighten in my chair. Hands firm on the desk. Heart racing. Mind sharp.

If they’re watching me, fine. Let them.

This time, I’m watching back.