Chapter 1 — Time Ticks Away

Olivia

The office was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the rhythmic click of Olivia Hart’s heels as she paced the length of her glass-walled office. Her shoes sat neatly under her desk, abandoned hours ago, but her steps remained measured, deliberate. Behind her, the city glowed like a vast constellation, its lights a relentless mirror of the energy thrumming beneath its surface. Inside, however, the world felt still—a vacuum of muted sound and sterile air.

Olivia paused by the window, her sharp, angular features softened by the amber glow of her desk lamp reflected in the glass. Her dark brown eyes flicked to the small silver watch on her left wrist.

10:43 PM.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound cutting through the silence like the snap of a taut string. Too late to be here, too early to leave.

Her laptop screen glowed defiantly on the polished desk, the cursor blinking over a meticulously crafted slide deck. The presentation was flawless—or close enough—but perfection wasn’t a finish line Olivia could see, let alone cross. Tugging her chestnut hair behind one ear, a brisk, habitual motion, she brushed the tiny diamond stud earring she always wore. The movement felt like smoothing her thoughts as much as her appearance.

“Just one more pass,” she murmured to herself, though even she didn’t believe it.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, shattering her focus. She grabbed it, her lips tightening when Claire’s name lit up the screen.

Claire: *Still at work? Go home. Seriously. This is an intervention.*

Claire: *Also, burn that scarf you were planning to wear tomorrow. I’ll bring you something better.*

Olivia’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile before fading. Claire meant well. She always did. But Claire didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like to walk into a room where the air was charged with expectation, where every gaze felt like a silent demand. Olivia’s father’s voice echoed in her mind: *The world doesn’t applaud effort, Olivia. Only results.*

The ache at the base of her skull had been creeping in for hours, but it settled deeper now, like an unwelcome guest. She glanced at her watch again.

10:51 PM.

Time was slipping through her fingers, and she hated that she could feel it. The ticking seemed louder now, each second a reminder that her to-do list remained unfinished, that she should have left hours ago but couldn’t. She hated leaving anything undone.

With a sharp inhale, Olivia closed her laptop and gathered her things. The presentation was fine. More than fine. She had to trust that. She slipped the laptop into her leather tote, smoothed the front of her gray pencil skirt, and shrugged into her tailored blazer. The faintest flicker of satisfaction crossed her face as she caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. Polished. Controlled. Ready.

The building’s emptiness was palpable as she stepped out of her office. The usual hum of activity—the murmur of voices, the clatter of keyboards—was absent, replaced by the faint echo of her footsteps against the marble floor. The air felt heavier, colder, as if the building itself were exhaling after a long day. Olivia adjusted the strap of her tote on her shoulder and quickened her pace toward the elevator.

The elevator was empty when she stepped in, the brushed steel walls gleaming under the faintly cold fluorescent light. She pressed the button for the lobby and leaned back against the wall, finally allowing herself a moment of stillness. The air was cool, clinical, and the faint sound of the elevator cables humming above was a steady monotony.

The doors began to slide shut just as a hand darted through the narrowing gap, halting them in their tracks. Olivia straightened reflexively, her professional mask snapping back into place. The man who stepped inside was nothing like the colleagues she was used to. He was disheveled, for one—paint-stained flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans smudged with what could have been charcoal or grease, and boots scuffed from what looked like years of wear. His wavy black hair fell into his face as he muttered a quick, “Sorry,” not quite meeting her eyes.

Olivia’s gaze flicked over him, her mind already cataloging: artist, probably; late night in the arts district; possibly wandering into the wrong building. Her fingers brushed her watch—a reflexive gesture now, as if grounding herself in its ticking certainty—before she tucked her hair behind her ear and turned her gaze back to the door.

The elevator jolted slightly as it began its descent, the sensation pulling her momentarily out of her thoughts. She glanced at the man again. He was leaning casually against the opposite wall, his wiry frame relaxed in a way that felt almost defiant. A leather-bound sketchbook was tucked under his arm, its edges frayed and smudged with fingerprints. His hazel eyes—sharp and quietly observant—lifted briefly to meet hers before darting away.

The hum of the elevator filled the silence between them, a tension Olivia couldn’t quite define but couldn’t entirely ignore. There was something about him—his ease, the faint smudges of paint on his hands, the tattoos that peeked from beneath his rolled-up sleeves—that felt utterly foreign to her world. He didn’t look hurried, or stressed, or even concerned with time. And that bothered her, though she couldn’t say why.

And then it stopped.

The lights flickered once, twice, and died. The elevator jolted to a halt, swaying slightly before settling into an unnerving stillness. Olivia’s hand shot out to the wall for balance, her heart leaping into her throat.

“What the—?” The man’s voice was low, rough around the edges. He shifted forward and pressed the emergency button. Nothing happened.

The darkness pressed in around them, interrupted only by the faint glow of the emergency light. Olivia’s pulse quickened, her breaths coming faster as the confined space seemed to shrink. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her tote, the leather digging into her palm.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath, her tone clipped as she reached for her phone. A quick check confirmed her worst suspicion: no service. She tapped at the screen furiously, as if sheer determination might summon a signal.

“Don’t bother,” the man said, his voice infused with dry humor. “You’re not getting a signal in here. Thick walls, no reception. Welcome to the 21st century.”

Olivia shot him a sharp look, her polished demeanor fraying ever so slightly. “This building is supposed to have a backup generator. It’ll kick in any second.”

The man leaned back against the wall again, folding his arms across his chest. “Sure. Any second.”

His nonchalance grated against her nerves. She turned her attention to the elevator panel, pressing the emergency button again, harder this time. Still nothing.

“You know,” he continued, his tone maddeningly casual, “this is probably the universe telling us to slow down. Take a breath. Meditate in the dark or something.”

Olivia exhaled sharply, the sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “The universe can keep its advice. I have a pitch tomorrow that decides whether my team meets its quarterly projections.”

He raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds thrilling.”

“It is,” Olivia shot back, her voice biting. “Some of us have things to do.”

“Clearly.” He gestured vaguely toward her tote bag. “You look like you’ve got a whole war room in there.”

She bristled, clutching the strap tighter. “And you? What’s your excuse for being here at this hour? The arts district is on the other side of the river.”

His smirk widened, though his hazel eyes remained guarded. “Guess I got lost. Happens when you’re not tied to quarterly projections.”

Olivia opened her mouth to retort, but the words caught in her throat. The elevator’s stillness pressed in around them, the silence amplifying the faint ticking of her watch. For a moment, she studied him, her gaze lingering on the smudges of paint on his hands and the way he seemed unbothered by their predicament.

He didn’t look lost. He looked like he belonged exactly where he wanted to be—wherever that was.

But here? Here, they were both trapped.

Her watch ticked again.

11:07 PM.

And for the first time in years, Olivia Hart had no idea what to do next.