Nora Grayson lunged through the dark, the lab's alarms screaming in her ears as sparks sprayed from the X-17 turbine. Smoke stung her nose, thick and acrid, curling from the prototype's base where her makeshift bypass had buckled. "No, no, no!" she yelled, slamming the emergency shutdown. The console flickered, then died, plunging the room into a red-tinged haze from the backup lights. Her heart jackhammered, six hours of work, a midnight deadline, and now this. Damien Voss's voice echoed in her skull: "Fail again, and you're out of Vortex."
She grabbed a flashlight from her bag, its beam slicing through the gloom. The turbine loomed, a hulking shadow, its coolant valve hissing like a pissed-off snake. Her bypass—cobbled together with a wrench and desperation—had held for the test, but a power surge must've fried it. She cursed, kicking the base. "You couldn't wait till morning?"
Footsteps pounded behind her, Team 3, back from their coffee run, piling in with wide eyes. "What the hell?" Tim shouted, coughing as smoke hit him. "You broke it?"
"It wasn't me!" Nora snapped, spinning on him. "The surge, check the grid logs!" She shoved her notebook at him, Whirlybird sketches spilling out—and dove back in, prying the panel open. Wires dangled, scorched and useless. Her stomach sank. Midnight had passed; Damien's report was useless now.
The alarms cut off, silence ringing louder than the chaos. A new sound—sharp, deliberate steps, froze her. She turned, flashlight beam catching Damien Voss in the doorway, his silhouette a storm cloud. His blue eyes glinted, cold and furious, as he surveyed the wreckage.
"Grayson," he said, voice a low growl that sliced through the haze. "Explain."
Nora stood, wiping soot off her hands, defiance masking her panic. "Power surge. The bypass couldn't handle it. I…"
"Couldn't handle it?" He stepped closer, boots crunching glass, his tailored shirt somehow pristine despite the mess. "You call that a fix? I gave you one job, don't screw it up, and you've got my $50 million prototype smoking like a cheap grill."
The team shrank back, Tim clutching her notebook like a shield. Nora's fists clenched. "It held for the test! The surge wasn't my fault, check the logs!"
"I don't care about logs," he barked, looming over her. "I care about results. You're lead—your mess." His gaze flicked to the turbine, then back, cutting. "Pathetic."
That word pathetic hit like a slap, echoing the tea spill in the elevator. Her blood boiled. "Pathetic's rushing a fix in six hours with no specs! Give me a real shot, and I'll…"
"Excuses?" He cut her off, smirking, cruel and sharp. "You're done, Grayson. Pack your…"
The lab doors banged open, cutting him short. A wiry tech in a Vortex vest rushed in, tablet glowing. "Sir! Grid report, surge came from maintenance. Not her fault."
Damien's jaw tightened, eyes still locked on Nora. A beat passed, heavy as lead. "Fine," he spat, snatching the tablet. "You're off the hook, for now." He scrolled, then tossed it back to the tech. "Team meeting, 7 AM. Everyone. Grayson—my office, 8. Don't be late."
He stormed out, leaving Nora breathless, the team muttering behind her. She grabbed her notebook from Tim, Whirlybird pages crumpled. "What's at 8?" she asked, voice shaky.
Tim shrugged. "Dunno. He's pissed. Good luck."
She slumped against the turbine, its hum gone cold. Four hours till 7 AM, she'd get no sleep. Her mind raced to Damien's last jab: "Bring something original, or don't bother showing up." The Whirlybird, her collapsible micro-turbine, a nutty idea from college, flashed in her head. Was that what he wanted? Or was he baiting her to fail?
She hauled herself to her desk, the lab emptying out. Her laptop glowed, X-17 data a mess of red flags. She sketched instead—Whirlybird tweaks, a wild pivot: modular blades, self-cooling. Crazy, but maybe brilliant. By 6 AM, her eyes burned, but she had a pitch. She bolted home, ten minutes to shower, swap her soot-streaked shirt for a fresh one, and race back.
The 7 AM meeting was a blur—Team 3 in Damien's conference room, him at the head, dissecting the X-17 fiasco. He didn't look at Nora, just tore into their "sloppy teamwork" with surgical precision. "Fix it by Friday, or you're all out," he snapped, dismissing them. She lingered, clock ticking to 8, nerves fraying.
His office door loomed. She knocked—once, twice, no answer. Pushing it open, she found him at his desk, staring at a screen, tea-stained shirt from yesterday draped over a chair like a taunt. He didn't look up. "Grayson. Sit."
She did, clutching her notebook. "The surge wasn't…"
"Shut up," he said, voice flat. "I read the report. You're still here because of luck, not skill." He leaned back, eyes piercing. "You said you're a damn good engineer. Prove it, right now."
Nora swallowed, sliding her Whirlybird sketch across the desk. "This. Collapsible micro-turbine. Self-cooling, portable—could cut X-17's heat issues by half. It's rough, but…"
He snatched it, scanning the jagged lines. "Rough? It's a doodle." His lip curled, but he didn't toss it. "You think this saves you?"
"It's original," she shot back, echoing his demand. "Give me a week, I'll build it."
He stared, silent, then smirked—dark, unreadable. "A week? You've got three days. Fail, and you're gone." He shoved the sketch back. "Go."
She grabbed it, pulse racing, and bolted, three days to turn a college pipe dream into reality. The elevator dinged, empty, her reflection a wild-eyed mess. She hit the lab floor running, but a text buzzed her phone, unknown number: "Check X-17's core. Now." Frowning, she swiped her keycard, sprinting to the prototype.
The lab was quiet, too quiet. She popped the X-17's core panel, and her breath caught: a tiny, blinking device nestled in the wiring, ticking down from 60 seconds. A sabotage bomb, and it wasn't her doing.