Terminal Velocity

The elevator stops between floors.

Sebastian's Patek Philippe reads 7:43. The second hand shudders. Ticks. Stops. He taps the crystal. 7:43. Still 7:43.

"We're between thirty-seven and thirty-eight."

Sarah stands in the corner, studying the floor indicator. Three years. Every morning at 6:47 AM. Ethiopian single-origin, two sugars, always exactly 176 degrees Fahrenheit. The same woman who memorized his thumb pattern on contracts, who knew which vein in his temple jumped when he lied. And he's never noticed how she stands. Weight split between both feet. Knees soft. Center of gravity low. The stance of someone who expects the ground to betray them.

"The sensor's confused," she says.

His mouth tastes copper. When did he bite his tongue?

The lights flicker, that stuttering fluorescent death rattle before—

CRACK.

Darkness.

Then: emergency lighting. Everything bathes in red.

Sebastian thumbs the call button. Nothing. His phone: NO SERVICE. The shaft has swallowed them. Concrete throat, steel esophagus.

"Ten minutes," he says. "Security will—"

"Security's at dinner. Maintenance left at seven. The building's brain-dead after hours." Sarah opens her purse. "We're alone."

She pulls out her phone. Shows him the screen. A banking app. Numbers scrolling. His numbers. His Zurich account. Bleeding dollars in real-time.

"What did you—"

"Nothing. Yet." She puts the phone away. Pulls out something else. A pill bottle. Prescription label: DAVID PARK. ADDERALL. "Recognize these?"

David. Her brother. IT department. Three months ago. The accusation, the evidence, the—

"He's dead."

"Yes." No emotion. Like stating weather. "Overdose. Fentanyl contamination. Bought them from a dealer because his prescription ran out. Because his insurance was canceled. Because you fired him."

The elevator groans. Metal adjusting.

"That's not—"

"My fault? No. It's yours." She opens the bottle. Empty except for one pill. White. Wrong white. "This is from his last batch. The one that killed him."

She holds it between thumb and finger. Studies it like a pearl.

"Sarah—"

"Did you know fentanyl can be absorbed through skin?" She's wearing latex gloves. When did she put on latex gloves? "Especially if you're sweating. Especially if you're scared."

She drops the pill. It hits the floor. Bounces once. Lands by his shoe.

"Don't—"

"Touch it? Breathe near it? Exist in the same space?" She laughs. Not backward. Not forward. Just empty. "Those are your options. For the next—" checks her Timex—"however long we're here."

Sebastian presses himself against the far wall. The pill sits there. White as bone. White as Timothy Chen's hospital sheets. White as—

"Timothy Chen."

He says it out loud. Doesn't mean to.

"Ah." Sarah nods. "It's starting."

"What's starting?"

"The review. Your brain, under stress, running through the evidence. Thirty-seven pieces of evidence."

"Thirty-seven?"

"Children. The ones who didn't get treatment. The ones whose funding disappeared into—where was it? Zurich? Geneva? The Caymans?"

The pill seems closer. Did it roll? Did he move?

"I don't know what you're—"

"$486,486.49." She recites it perfectly. "Per child. Seventeen million total. Such a specific number. Almost like someone calculated exactly how much they could steal before triggering an audit."

His shirt is soaked. When did he start sweating? The pill. The proximity. Fentanyl through skin through fear through—

"You're trying to—"

"I'm not trying anything. I'm succeeding." She shows him her phone again. The number has dropped. Sixteen million. Fifteen. "Every minute we're in here, money transfers. From your account. To the families."

"That's impossible."

"David was exceptional at his job. Before you destroyed him." She crouches. Picks up the pill with her gloved fingers. "His last project was elegant. A virus that activates on a specific trigger."

"What trigger?"

"Your confession."

Fourteen million.

The elevator shudders. Drops an inch. His stomach drops a foot.

"If you think I'm going to—"

"I think you're going to do exactly what guilty men do when they realize they're caught." She stands. Walks toward him. The pill extended like an offering. "They bargain. They blame. They break."

He sidesteps. She mirrors. They're dancing now. Circling. The pill between them.

"Stay back."

"Or what? You'll call security?" She smiles. "Oh wait."

Thirteen million.

"This is kidnapping. Extortion."

"This is justice." She sets the pill on the handrail. Right where his hand needs to go if the elevator drops. "Delayed. Diluted. But still justice."

His legs shake. Adrenaline. Fear. Or—

"Did you already dose me?"

"Did I need to?" She pulls off one glove. Then the other. "The coffee this morning. Every morning for three years. Did you ever wonder why it was always exactly 176 degrees?"

"You're insane."

"No. I'm a nurse. Was. Pediatric ward. General Hospital." She pulls out a photograph. Shows him. Her in scrubs, surrounded by children. One of them—Timothy Chen. "I held him while he died. Held Madison. Matthew. All thirty-seven."

The photo disappears. When? Where?

"Then why work for me?"

"Someone had to get close. Document everything. Become indispensable." She laughs. Real this time. Horrible this time. "Do you know how hard it was? Smiling every morning? Bringing you coffee while knowing what you were?"

Twelve million.

The elevator drops. Six inches. A foot. Settles wrong.

"The cables—"

"Are fine. It's the emergency brake. I had it modified." She shows him a small remote. "Each button press releases a little more. Eventually—"

She presses it.

THUNK.

They drop three feet. Sebastian's knees buckle. He reaches for the rail. Stops. The pill.

"You'll die too."

"I died three months ago. In that hospital room. With David." She shrugs. "This is just momentum."

Ten million.

"What do you want?"

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"The truth." She pulls out a digital recorder. Red light already blinking. "Confess, and the doors open. Stay silent, and we drop."

"You're bluffing."

She presses the button.

CRACK.

The elevator plummets. One floor. Two. Three—

SLAM.

Emergency brakes engage. The impact throws Sebastian to the floor. His hand lands inches from the pill.

Sarah hasn't moved. Hasn't fallen. She's secured somehow. A harness under her dress. Planning. Everything planned.

"Seven million left," she says. "Seven million reasons to confess."

He pushes himself up. Careful. So careful. The pill hasn't moved.

"If I confess, you'll kill me anyway."

"No. I'll let gravity do that." She checks the floor indicator. "We're at thirty now. Still a long way to fall."

Six million.

"The money, even if it transfers, they'll reverse it."

"With what evidence? The virus deletes itself. The trail leads nowhere. Just a guilty man's account hemorrhaging money to victims' families." She smiles. "Almost like conscience. If you had one."

Five million.

The recorder blinks. Patient. Eternal.

"Start with Timothy."

His mouth opens. The words are there. Have been for three years.

"I—"

She raises the remote.

"I redirected the funds."

"Stole."

"I stole the funds."

Four million.

"From?"

"The pediatric oncology endowment."

"And?"

Three million.

He looks at the pill. At Sarah. At his hands. Buffed nails. Swiss moisturizer. Four hundred dollars of maintenance on twenty-seven bones and some skin. The same hands that signed thirty-seven death sentences in triplicate.

"And I knew. I knew what would happen. No treatment. No chance. No hope."

Two million.

"So you—"

"I killed them." The words fall out. Heavy. Final. "I killed thirty-seven children for seventeen million dollars."

One million.

"That's $486,486.49 per child." Sarah's voice is mechanical. Calculating. "Was it worth it?"

The question hangs. The elevator hangs. Everything hangs except the money, which keeps falling. Transferring. Disappearing.

Zero.

The recorder stops.

Sarah pockets it. Reaches for the remote one last time.

"Wait. You said—"

"I said the doors would open. I never said when."

She presses the button.

CRACK.

They fall.

In those six seconds of terminal velocity, Sebastian understands everything. Sarah is David's sister. Sarah is David. Sarah is in his head. Sarah is holding a detonator. Sarah is thirty-seven ghosts. Sarah is justice. Sarah is gravity.

Sarah is—

Impact.

The recorder survives.

They find it in the wreckage, still recording. His confession. Her questions. The sound of securities fraud meeting concrete at ninety miles per hour.

The seventeen million has already transferred. Untraceable. Irreversible. Each transaction signed with Sebastian's private key. The one only he knew. The one David's code extracted from his brain in those last six seconds. The one that existed only in his hippocampus until impact squeezed it out.

Later, they'll find the elevator's black box. It recorded everything. The confession. The transfers. The way Sebastian fell to his knees when they cuffed him. The way he kept saying "thirty-seven" over and over.