Lucy paced in Cole's living room like a caffeinated lioness in startup-branded socks, the worn rug her cage. Her fingers compulsively fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie, her mind spinning like a CPU on fire, every core pushed to its limit. Somewhere between the cliffhanger text from the anonymous number – the one that hinted at a deep, personal cost – and the echo of Cole's voice asking, "How much are you willing to pay?", she'd entered a new kind of crisis. This wasn't just about code or venture capital anymore; it was an emotional system overload, complete with flashing red alerts.
Cole leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, a silent observer. He watched her pace, his gaze steady, like she was a particularly fragile server about to crash, and he was the only one who could keep her from overheating.
