HARLEY
Okay. I'm dead meat. Absolutely roasted. Toasted. Grilled and served on a silver platter.
Clad is so going to kill me.
My brain's replaying the hundred and first problem added to my ever-growing headache playlist. There it is again, on loop:
Street racing is illegal, Harley.
Yeah, no kidding, Sherlock.
But what makes me really stop and spiral into an emotional blender is that line? It's not Max talking. That's Clad's voice—calm, clipped, cold. There's no way Max would suddenly go formal and call me by name like that, not unless he's been possessed. So, why does Clad have Max's phone?
Irrelevant question. The real crisis is in the next message:
Looks like you failed, Harley. Go home. We'll discuss your contract termination tomorrow.
My hands literally shake reading that. The words aren't just on my screen; they're branded into my soul. Is he... firing me?
I blink once. Twice.
