[Chapter 6 - Taking the fall]

The call came right after lunch. I had barely finished my coffee when my team lead told me to report to the upper floor. No explanation. Just a look. I didn't ask.

The hallway to the executive meeting room felt longer than usual. I kept my steps steady. Slow. I already had a good idea what this was about.

It was quiet inside. Six people sat at the long table. I didn't know any of them. One had a folder full of documents. Another was clearly used to giving bad news. Two others had that distant, careful look I'd only seen on the top floors. People like them only show up when something serious is going on.

They didn't ask me to sit.

A man with graying hair and a neutral face looked at me. "You know why you're here."

I stayed silent. Let them talk.

He placed a printed report on the table. It was the same one I had submitted, under direct orders.

"We're facing some heat," he said. "A report with misleading data was published. That data caused a lot of noise in the market. One of our partners is under review. Our firm's name is being dragged in."

I nodded slowly. Just once.

He kept going. "We need to understand your role in this. You were the one who submitted the final version."

There it was. They hadn't said it directly, but I could see it in their eyes.

They were preparing to let me take the fall.

I looked around the room, calm on the outside. But my mind was racing. I had two options. Deny it and bring up the team that gave the order, knowing full well they'd deny everything and leave me hanging. Or…

"I understand," I said. My voice was quiet but clear. "If someone has to take the blame, I'll do it."

The room went silent.

I held their gaze. "But I assume the company takes care of its loyal people when the dust settles."

They didn't answer. Just stared.

I had flipped it.

If they accepted, it meant they owed me. If they didn't, they'd still have to admit I was useful enough to try buying my silence.

[Later - Executive Meeting Room]

"That kid didn't even flinch," the legal advisor said.

The head of compliance looked annoyed. "Too calm. Either he's stupid, or he knows exactly what he's doing."

Someone else spoke. "He offered to take the hit. Voluntarily. That's not normal. He's planning something."

They all sat in silence for a moment.

"Do we still move forward with him as the scapegoat?" one asked.

The director who had stayed quiet until now finally spoke. "No. He's not clean, but he's smart. We can't throw him under the bus and hope he stays quiet. That would be stupid."

"So what do we do?"

"We keep him close."

___

They didn't fire me.

Two days later, I was quietly moved out of my old floor. No announcement. Just a new badge. A new desk. And access to parts of the building most interns never see.

They didn't tell me what the job was. They just gave me tasks. Reports. Private files. Quiet meetings with a few people I hadn't seen before. I was still technically a nobody, but now I had access. And access was power.

They didn't trust me. I could see it in how they looked at me. But they didn't ignore me either.

That was enough.

For now.

They gave me a new badge. That was it. No welcome. No explanation. Just a white envelope with my name on it and a plastic card inside.

It didn't look special. Same company logo. Same format. But when I tapped it at the elevator that led to the restricted floors, the light turned green. And the doors opened.

I was alone when I stepped in. The numbers on the panel didn't show anything above floor 11. But when I scanned the card again, a new number lit up: -2.

Basement level.

I was used to this by now.

The doors closed.

The air was colder down there. The walls were darker, too. No firm branding. No glass. No posters about values or "teamwork." Just matte black paint and dim lights.

At the end of the hallway was a single door. No handle. Just a scanner.

I tapped the card.

A short beep. The door slid open.

Inside, a woman I'd never seen before glanced up from her screen. She didn't smile.

"Neville?"

I nodded.

She pointed to the left. "Room three."

That was it.

Room three wasn't an office. It was more like a command post. Low ceiling. Several desks. Four people, all older than me. All quiet. One of them glanced up, gave me a look, then turned back to his screen.

No one said anything.

I sat at the only empty desk. The monitor was already on. Files were open. Numbers. Charts. News feeds. A private messaging app.

A new message popped up.

[TASK 1 - URGENT] Draft a confidence statement for Zylor Tech. Emphasize growth narrative. Use selective data. Keep tone stable.

That was it.

No instructions. No signature. No context.

I opened a new file and started typing.

By the end of the day, I had written three reports. All similar. All crafted to present struggling companies in the best light possible, without crossing the line into direct lies. Technically.

The language was always careful. "Promising trends." "Short-term fluctuations." "Strategic readjustments." They didn't want truth. They wanted control.

This wasn't analysis.

It was theater.

The next morning, they gave me a folder.

Not digital. Paper. Old-school.

Inside were internal emails between a government office and a private consulting firm. And a short note, handwritten:

"Damage control. You're not the fall guy, but you need to help make the fire disappear. Figure out how."

So that was it.

They weren't throwing me under the bus. But I was still part of the clean-up crew.

The report I had submitted, on orders from the special team, had gone public too fast. It caused a spike. Traders jumped in. The stock soared. Then dipped. Regulators took notice. Some people lost money. Others made a lot.

The firm wasn't directly blamed. But people were asking questions.

Someone had to fix the narrative.

I didn't sleep much that week.

Every day, more folders came in. Some digital. Some printed. Internal chats. Meeting transcripts. Market movements. Media drafts.

I didn't have power. But I had access. And access was enough.

I started to see how things really worked.

Some journalists didn't write what they believed. They wrote what they were told. Some "independent analysts" were just puppets with clean suits. I saw their names pop up in emails, agreeing to certain angles in exchange for early access to "exclusive info."

The market was a play.

And these people wrote the script.

On the fourth day, I got called in.

Same basement level. Same hallway. Different room.

This one had a conference table. And a man in his late fifties sitting at the end. Gray sweater. No tie. Reading glasses.

He looked up as I entered.

"Sit."

I sat.

"So," he said, "you didn't panic. That's good."

I didn't say anything.

He flipped a folder open. "The clean-up's working. Our name's not on the regulator's list anymore. They're chasing the apps where regular people buy stocks now. You helped steer the fire away."

I nodded.

He looked at me carefully. "Do you know what this place is? This team?"

"Not exactly."

"Good. Don't guess. Just do your work."

He pushed the folder toward me.

"Inside is a list of companies we have exposure to. Some are weak. Some are propped up. Your job is to help make sure they don't collapse."

I opened it. There were twenty names. Some I recognized. Others I didn't.

"You'll be writing statements. Talking points. Sometimes you'll coordinate with media. Other times, you'll just make the noise look normal."

He stood up.

"Keep it quiet. Keep it clean. And never write anything that links back to us. If you make a mistake, it's your face on the paper."

He left.

That was my real task.

Not numbers.

Not analysis.

Narrative control.

I stayed in that room another hour. Just reading.

Each company had a story. Some had debts hidden under shell accounts. Others were burning cash but still getting praised online. I saw how carefully the lies were structured, never full lies. Just truths, rearranged.

It wasn't illegal. Not really.

Just... engineered.

At the end of the week, I got a message.

You've been cleared to join weekly sync.

I didn't know what that meant. But when I showed up the next day, I saw them.

The team.

Four men. One woman. All in their forties or fifties. Cold faces. Controlled voices.

One of them looked at me. "You're not here to make friends. You're here to not mess things up."

Fair enough.

They walked me through the current list of "unstable assets", a polite way of saying companies that could implode if left alone.

"Your job," the woman said, "is to write stories that buy time. That's it. Not solutions. Just time."

One of the men added, "If something collapses, we don't panic. We've already moved. But we prefer stability. That's where you come in."

It was clear.

I wasn't here to analyze. Or save. Or fix.

I was here to distract. Delay. And control the way things looked.

They called it strategy.

But it was just narrative warfare.

And I was good at it.

Two weeks in, I started getting subtle nods. A few longer glances. Less suspicion.

I didn't speak much. I watched. I listened. I delivered work before they asked.

One night, I stayed late. Just me and one of the older guys. Mathis.

He looked over at me. "Still here?"

I nodded. "Hard to focus during the day."

He didn't say anything at first. Just watched me for a second.

I kept working.

He leaned back in his chair. "Nobody here is innocent. We all made our choice. Keep your head down and you might last."

I didn't answer.

He stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out.

The room felt quieter after that.