SWIPE RIGHT FOR DEATH

6. The CEO's Secret

"First of all, your brother is probably the least of our worries right now," Zafira said, tossing a pair of heavy rubber suction cups into Arlo’s chest.

Arlo fumbled, barely catching them before they could dent his shin. "What are these? Am I supposed to plunge a toilet while we run for our lives?"

"They’re heavy-duty industrial glass lifters, Arlo," Zafira said, already strapping a harness around her thighs. "We’re climbing the south face of the Aether-Core building. It’s the only blind spot in their camera grid."

"Climbing?" Arlo stared up at the sheer, vertical wall of glass and dark steel looming over them like a corporate monolith of doom. "Zafira, I get dizzy when I stand up too fast from a low couch. I have zero core strength. My fitness app literally asked me if I was dead yesterday."

"Then you’d better start living," she said, slapping her suction cups against the glass with a loud, wet thwack. "Put them on, lock the levers, and pull yourself up. If you drop, try to aim for a bush. It might preserve your teeth."

"If I drop, my ghost is going to haunt your phone and send you endless spam emails about car insurance," Arlo muttered, copying her movement. He locked the suction cup. Thwack. "Hey, look at me! I’m Spider-Man. If Spider-Man wore off-brand sneakers and was actively sobbing."

"Stop talking and climb, Arlo. We have exactly fifty-eight minutes before the app triggers a complete wipe of your identity. Or, you know, just kills you physically."

"Right, dying. Excellent motivation. I’ve always said adrenaline is the best substitute for a morning espresso."

They scaled the wall in a agonizing rhythm of thwack, drag, wheeze, lock. Arlo’s shoulders felt like they were being gently roasted over an open flame, and his palms were slick with panic sweat.

"How are we even going to get inside?" Arlo panted, his face pressed so close to the glass he could see his own terrified reflection. "Do I have to kick a window in? Because my shins are incredibly fragile."

"The executive balcony on the twentieth floor has a sliding door with a faulty latch," Zafira said, effortlessly climbing past him. "I did some recon last month. The CEO likes to smoke cigars out there and always forgets to lock it properly."

"Of course he does. Corporate executives and failing to follow basic security protocols, name a more iconic duo."

With one final, desperate heave, Zafira pulled herself over the concrete ledge of the balcony. She reached down, grabbed Arlo by the collar of his jacket, and hoisted him over like a sack of wet laundry.

Arlo collapsed onto the tiled floor, gasping for air. "I think my left lung has officially resigned. It’s seeking better working conditions in another chest."

"Get up," Zafira whispered, sliding the glass door open with a quiet hiss. "We’re in."

They stepped into a massive, minimalist office. The floor was covered in a rug that looked like it cost more than Arlo’s entire college education, and the mahogany desk was so polished it practically glowed in the dark.

"Wow," Arlo said, looking around. "The air conditioning in here is amazing. Corporate greed really smells like lavender and high-end floor wax."

"Check the filing cabinets," Zafira commanded, her fingers already flying across the keyboard of the sleek desktop computer on the desk. "I’m looking for the server access logs. If your brother Marcus is the one running this, his credentials will be all over the network."

Arlo walked over to a heavy metal cabinet in the corner. "You know, I always wanted to do a cool heist. I thought there’d be laser grids, or at least cool black outfits. Instead, I’m wearing a damp t-shirt and my socks have holes in them."

"Just pull the drawers, Arlo."

He tugged on the top drawer. It slid open with a soft metallic click. Inside were neat rows of color-coded folders. Arlo began flipping through them, his eyes scanning the labels. "Budget reports... tax evasions... more tax evasions... wow, these guys really hate paying for roads... wait. Look at this one."

He pulled out a thick, blood-red folder labeled ‘PROJECT CULLING: PHASE 3.’

"What did you find?" Zafira asked, not looking up from the screen.

"It’s a presentation outline," Arlo said, flipping open the folder. His eyes widened as he read the first page. "Oh my god. Zafira, look at this. It’s a mass-market version of FatalMatch. They’re planning to roll it out globally next month."

"Let me see," Zafira said, abandoning the keyboard and snatching the document from his hands. She scanned the pages, her face turning pale. "They aren't just targeting individuals anymore. They’re planning to use the algorithm to automate 'demographic adjustments' for insurance companies and housing markets."

"Demographic adjustments?" Arlo squeaked. "Is that a fancy corporate word for 'murdering people who don't pay their bills on time'?"

"Pretty much," Zafira muttered. "If you’re a high-risk tenant or a medical liability, the app matches you with a 'fatal hazard' to clean up the ledger. It’s a perfect, liability-free system."

"That is the most evil thing I’ve ever heard," Arlo said, shaking his head. "And I work in customer service, so my bar for evil is incredibly high. But wait, who authorized this? Who’s the lead investor?"

He flipped to the back page of the document, looking for a signature. When he saw the name, his brain temporarily stalled.

"No," Arlo whispered. "No, no, no. This is a mistake."

"What is it?"

"The lead investor," Arlo said, pointing a trembling finger at the elegant, cursive signature at the bottom. "It’s Hugo Merren."

Zafira frowned. "Who the hell is Hugo Merren?"

"My boss!" Arlo yelled, then quickly clamped his hands over his mouth, looking around the dark office. "He’s the regional manager of my office! The guy who spent three weeks investigating who stole a single cup of artisanal yogurt from the breakroom fridge! He’s funding a global algorithmic murder market!"

"Well," Zafira said dryly, "at least you know he’s passionate about cost-cutting measures."

"This is insane! Hugo can’t even figure out how to use the double-sided printing function on the office copier! How is he running a high-tech death cult?"

"He’s not running the tech, Arlo. He’s just the wallet," Zafira said, turning back to the computer. "The money is being funneled through his shell corporations. But the code... the code is definitely coming from inside Aether-Core."

Suddenly, the overhead lights flashed on, blinding them both in a harsh, fluorescent glare.

"I must say, Kensington, your performance reviews did not prepare me for this level of initiative," a smooth, cheerful voice said from the doorway.

Arlo spun around, his heart jumping into his throat.

Standing in the entrance of the office was Hugo Merren. But he wasn't wearing his usual, slightly wrinkled corduroy suit. Instead, he was dressed in a sleek, tight-fitting charcoal athletic suit, complete with high-end running shoes and a tactical headset. He looked less like a middle manager and more like a guy who participated in competitive parkour on the weekends.

"Hugo?" Arlo stammered, backing up against the desk. "Why are you dressed like a ninja who specializes in corporate tax loopholes?"

"It’s called activewear, Arlo. It’s highly breathable," Hugo said, stepping into the room with a strangely fluid, bouncing gait. "And honestly, I’m hurt. You think I can't use the double-sided printing? I invented the double-sided printing protocol for this entire facility."

"You... you stole my yogurt, Hugo," Arlo said, his voice cracking. "That was Greek honey-vanilla. It had my name on it."

"It was a test of your compliance, Arlo. And you failed miserably," Hugo sighed, flexing his shoulders. "You complained to HR. Highly inefficient. But I suppose it doesn't matter now. You’ve stumbled into the executive pipeline, and unfortunately, we’re downsizing."

Zafira immediately reached for her holster, but Hugo moved with a speed that defied physical logic. He lunged forward, doing a partial cartwheel over a leather armchair, and kicked the stun gun clean out of her hand. It clattered across the polished floor, sparking uselessly against the baseboard.

"What the hell?" Zafira hissed, nursing her wrist. "Is he... is he doing gymnastics?"

"I do hot yoga and competitive capoeira three times a week, Kensington!" Hugo shouted, landing in a low, martial arts stance that looked ridiculous but was clearly effective. "You think a sedentary lifestyle can compete with a highly optimized wellness routine? I am corporate synergy personified!"

"He’s too agile!" Arlo yelled, dodging behind Zafira as Hugo spun into a sweeping kick that shattered a wooden floor lamp. "He’s like a deadly, moisturized grasshopper!"

"Get the files, Arlo!" Zafira yelled, lunging forward to tackle Hugo’s midsection.

Hugo easily sidestepped her, executing a flawless backflip off the edge of the mahogany desk. "Please. I have a personal trainer who used to be in the French Foreign Legion. Your physical tactics are completely unoptimized!"

Arlo looked around the room in absolute panic. Hugo was bouncing off the walls, literally, using the bookshelves as launchpads. He was going to corner Zafira in a matter of seconds, and Arlo’s only weapon was a heavy metal stapler.

"Optimize this!" Arlo screamed.

He didn't throw the stapler. Instead, he turned, sprinted toward the wall near the door, and slammed his entire body weight into the bright red, glass-covered fire alarm pull station.

The glass shattered. The lever clicked down.

Instantly, a deafening, rhythmic siren began to wail through the building. The overhead emergency lights started flashing a blinding, chaotic white, and the ceiling sprinklers hissed to life, drenching the entire office in a torrential downpour of cold, metallic-tasting water.

"No!" Hugo shrieked, his perfect hair immediately flattening against his forehead. "The servers! The moisture levels are completely outside of acceptable parameters!"

"Let’s go!" Zafira yelled, grabbing Arlo by the arm as Hugo slipped on the newly slicked hardwood floor, crashing into his own desk with a loud, painful-sounding grunt.

They bolted out of the office, sprinting down the hallway as the fire doors began to automatically slide shut. They squeezed through the gap of the final door just before it sealed, tumbling into the concrete stairwell.

"My shoes are wet," Arlo gasped, sliding down the stairs on his rear end to save time. "This is the worst night of my life, Zafira. My shoes are squeaking."

"Keep moving!" she yelled, her boots slapping against the concrete as they flew down the stairs, heading for the ground level exit.

They burst through the emergency exit into the cool alleyway, the rain from the sky merging with the water dripping from their clothes. Arlo collapsed against a dumpster, his chest heaving as he tried to wring out his shirt.

"Did we... did we lose him?" Arlo wheezed.

"For now," Zafira said, pulling the soggy red folder from her jacket. She had managed to shield it from the worst of the sprinkler spray. "But we need to see what else is in here. If Hugo is the investor, there has to be a master target list."

She flipped to the very last page of the document, which was sealed in a plastic sleeve.

Arlo leaned in, his wet hair dripping onto the plastic. His eyes scanned the list of names, looking for something, anything, that could give them a lead.

Then, his heart stopped.

At the very bottom of the page, highlighted in a glowing, digital-print font, was his own name: ARLO KENSINGTON.

Directly next to his name, a small, digital timer icon was pulsing. Below it, the text read:

‘Status: Active. Override Initiated. Time to Termination: 01:00:00.’

Arlo stared at the screen of his phone, which chose that exact moment to buzz in his hand, displaying the same identical, ticking countdown.

"Zafira," Arlo whispered, his voice completely devoid of humor. "I have exactly one hour left to live."