Page 111 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“Accessing files outside her scope could be curiosity,” I say. “Researchers cross-reference.”

“Not these files. These are pre-launch formulations for products that haven’t been announced yet.” She meets my eyes steadily. “A phone in the bathroom is innocuous. A minimized browser is ambiguous. But unauthorized access to proprietary formulations? That’s not a pattern, Max. That’s a trail.”

“Or she’s doing legitimate cross-departmental research and you’re reading too much into it.”

“That’s what I thought initially too,” she says, but then her eyes sharpen. “But I checked. No other researcher on Yoon’s team has accessed those files. If this were normal behavior, everyone would be doing it. Or at least one other person. But no, it’s just her.”

I stare at the page for a long moment. She has a point and we both know it.

“Victor Hartman,” I say, moving on. “What about him? Any updates?”

“Declan’s team still can’t crack his encrypted communications. Whatever he’s using, it’s sophisticated.”

“Which is itself a flag.”

“Which is a flag,” she repeats, and our eyes meet, and for a fraction of a second neither of us speaks because we’ve just said the same thing at the same time, independently.

“The question is,” she says, tapping her finger against the edge of her coffee cup, “why does a mid-level security personnel need military-grade encryption?”

“Three possibilities.” I hold up a finger. “He’s the mole.” A second finger. “He’s concealing something unrelated.” A third. “The encryption is a red herring—he’s security-conscious to an unusual but legitimate degree.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve been thinking the same,” she says, biting her lip, lost deep in thought.

“So what do you think it is?” I ask.

“One or two. The encryption is too good for a hobby. Victor has zero background in IT, I checked. Someone must’ve taught him, or someone provided the tools.”

“Who has access to sophisticated encryption tools outside of government and defense?”

“Private security firms. Sentinel-tier operations. Or⁠—”

“Biotech competitors with intelligence divisions,” I finish.

“Nexagen,” she says.

“Nexagen,” I say. At the same time.

We look at each other and Sophie’s eyes drop to her files. I look down at mine.

The office is quiet, the clock ticking in the background. And suddenly, with a clarity that cuts through everything else, I realize I’ve never spoken to anyone whose mind works so much like mine. I don’t have to explain my logic because she’s already run it.

Sophie is mid-sentence about something to do with Victor’s login times when she catches me looking at her.

At the way her eyes narrow when she’s working through a problem, the way her fingers tap against the page when she’s found a thread.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.” I look away and back to the files. “Continue.”

“I’m having dinner with Victor tomorrow night.”

That snaps me right out of my thoughts.

“Dinner,” I repeat.

“I’ve been talking to him in the cafeteria, and he asked me out,” she says matter-of-factly, like it’s no big deal.

She seduced him. She flirted with him. The thought makes something dark twist in my gut.