Nora Grayson sprinted across Vortex Innovations' engineering floor, her flats skidding on the polished concrete. The clock glared 4:58 PM, two minutes to reach Damien Voss's office for the Team 3 meeting. Her stomach churned, his parting shot from orientation, "I'll be watching you, Grayson. Closely" looping in her head. She clutched a battered notebook, its pages stuffed with sketches of her pet project: a collapsible micro-turbine she'd nicknamed "The Whirlybird." It was her secret weapon, a wild idea that had landed her this gig. Now, it felt like her only shield against the CEO who seemed hell-bent on crushing her.
The elevator was a no-go, too slow. She hit the stairwell, taking steps two at a time, her breath ragged. Floor 50 loomed, and she burst through the door, slamming into a glass wall. A receptionist blinked at her, unimpressed. "Team 3?" Nora panted, smoothing her curls.
"End of the hall," the woman said, eyeing Nora's rumpled blazer. "He's already started."
Nora cursed under her breath and bolted, the corridor a blur of sleek art and humming tech. She skidded to a stop outside Damien's office, voices leaking through the cracked door. Deep, sharp—his. She shoved it open, and six heads swiveled. Team 3: five engineers in crisp polos, and Damien, leaning against his desk, a tablet in hand. His blue eyes locked on her, cold as a winter storm.
"Nice of you to join us, Grayson," he drawled, voice dripping acid. "Two minutes late. That's a record for incompetence."
The team snickered—two guys, three women, all smirking like they'd already sized her up. Nora's face burned, but she squared her shoulders. "Stairs were faster," she said, dropping into the last chair. "What'd I miss?"
Damien's smirk vanished. "Your job, if you keep interrupting." He tapped the tablet, projecting a 3D turbine model onto the wall. "Team 3's tasked with the X-17 prototype. It's glitching, overheating at peak load. Fix it by Friday, or we lose a $50 million contract. Questions?"
A wiry guy—Tim, his badge read,raised a hand. "Specs?"
"On the server," Damien snapped. "Read them." His gaze swung to Nora. "Grayson, you're lead on diagnostics. Don't screw it up."
Her jaw dropped. Lead? Day one? The team's smirks faded, replaced by glares. She nodded, pulse racing. "Got it."
"Good." He tossed a keycard onto the table, access to the prototype lab. "Start now. I want a report by midnight." He straightened, dismissing them with a flick of his hand. "Go."
The team scrambled, but Nora lingered, snagging the keycard. "Midnight?" she blurted. "That's six hours!"
Damien rounded on her, towering. "Problem? Maybe you're not cut out for this."
"I'm cut out for it," she shot back, clutching her notebook. "Just checking you're serious."
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—amusement? crossing them. "Deadly. Prove it, or pack your bags." He turned away, already typing on his tablet.
Nora stormed out, the team trailing her like reluctant shadows. The lab was two floors down, a cavern of whirring machines, blinking consoles, and the X-17, a sleek beast of steel and carbon fiber. She swiped the keycard, and the doors hissed open. "Tim, pull the specs," she barked. "Rest of you, split up, check sensors, wiring, cooling system. Move!"
They hesitated, then obeyed, grumbling. Nora dove in, popping a panel to expose the turbine's guts. Heat wafted out, sharp and metallic. She scribbled notes, her Whirlybird sketches forgotten as she traced circuits. Hours blurred, coffee runs, curses, Tim yelling about a fried relay. By 11 PM, her eyes stung, but she'd pinpointed it: a coolant valve jamming under pressure.
"Gotcha," she muttered, rigging a bypass with a wrench and a prayer. The team watched, skeptical, as she fired up the X-17. It hummed, then roared, steady, no spikes. A grin split her face. "We're good!"
"Midnight's in ten," Tim said, glancing at his phone. "Voss wants that report."
Nora nodded, yanking her laptop from her bag. She typed fast—data, fix, next steps—fingers flying as the clock ticked. 11:58. She hit send, slumping back, adrenaline crashing. The team shuffled out, muttering "not bad" like it pained them. She stayed, alone with the humming turbine, exhaustion tugging her under.
A shadow fell across her screen. She jolted, Damien, silent as a ghost, tablet glowing in his hand. "Report's in," he said, voice flat. "Barely."
"It's fixed," Nora said, standing, defiant. "Check the logs."
He scrolled, brow furrowing. "Bypass? Sloppy."
"Effective," she countered. "It held."
He stepped closer, too close, his cologne sharp against the lab's oil-and-metal tang. "Held for now. I don't pay for Band-Aids, I pay for solutions. You're on thin ice, Grayson."
"Then give me a real deadline," she snapped. "Not some impossible…."
"Impossible?" He cut her off, voice a growl. "You think this is a game? That turbine's my company's future. Fail again, and you're not just off the team, you're out of Vortex."
Her breath caught, but she held his stare. "I won't fail."
"You'd better not." He turned to leave, then paused, tossing a curveball. "Tomorrow, 8 AM. My office. Bring something original, or don't bother showing up."
"Original?" she echoed, confused.
"You heard me." He strode out, the doors slamming shut behind him.
Nora sank back, heart pounding. Original? Her mind raced to her notebook, the Whirlybird, her crazy collapsible turbine. Was that what he meant? Or was he baiting her, setting her up to crash? She grabbed it, flipping to the sketches, but a sharp crack split the air. The X-17 shuddered, smoke curling from its base—her bypass buckling under a sudden surge.
"No, no, no!" She lunged for the controls, but sparks flew, and the lab plunged into darkness, alarms screaming as the prototype teetered on the edge of explosion.