Chapter 1
Nika
The code on the black screen was starting to blur into one. I pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, forgetting about the mascara until it was too late.
I checked my reflection in the darkened monitor.
Panda eyes. Brilliant.
“Nika, can you do a drinks run for the team?”
Andy. Of course it was Andy.
I didn’t sigh. I’d trained myself out of sighing at work the same way I’d trained myself out of a lot of things—eye rolls, sharp answers, the tone of voice my mother calledthat mouth of yours. Three years of careful editing and I’d gotten very good at presenting a version of myself that caused the least amount of friction.
It was exhausting, if I was honest. Which I rarely was. Not here.
“Sure,” I said, and stood up.
I did my rounds. Graham wanted coffee, two sugars, oat milk because he’d announced he was going dairy-free three weeks ago and needed everyone to witness it. Andy wanted green tea, which he never actually drank and always left to go cold on his desk. Francis looked up when I got to her and just said the usual, please in the quiet way she had, and something about it made me feel briefly, stupidly grateful. Like being seen without being watched.
Carla didn’t wait for me to reach her.
“Nika.” Her voice carried the full length of the office.“Grab me an apple. Pink Lady only. The green ones give me acid.”
I didn’t answer. I just walked faster.
The kitchen was the best part of the building at this hour. Empty. Quiet in a way that actually meant something—not the performative quiet of people pretending to work, but real stillness. The overhead lights were on their evening setting, softer than the daytime glare, and for a moment I just stood in it and let myself decompress.
Three years.
I hit the button for hot water and swapped the cups out as they filled up, looking at nothing in particular.
I’d had a plan when I started at Kilcullen Tech. An actual, written-down, embarrassingly earnest plan. I was going to come in, prove myself, build a reputation as someone who delivered. I knew what the step above that looked like too. I’d mapped it out in a notes app I still hadn’t deleted, which said more about me than I liked to admit.
Instead I’d spent three years being useful in the way that furniture is useful. Present. Functional. Easy to overlook.
Passed from team to team. Project to project. Always the person who caught other people’s mistakes and rarely the person who got credit for it. Testing systems for clients who would never know my name, cleaning up bug reports that project managers skimmed and senior developers argued with on principle.
I’d taken on more. I’d stayed late. I’d covered gaps and said yes and smiled through the distinct brand of tedium that came with being competent but invisible.
Not that taking on more responsibilities got me a promotion. Apparently, that only worked if you stuck your nose in between senior management’s arse cheeks.
Ergh.
I didn’t want to do that to Daniel or Claire.
Hmm. Daniel would definitely have a hairy—
“Are you going to be long?”
I didn’t answer.
A pause. Then, quieter, clearly not meant to carry but carrying anyway as they walked away.
“God, she’s so anti-social.”
“A bit weird.”
