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LOCATION: MALLORY’S APARTMENT
CITY: NOB HILL, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
DATE: JUNE 16, 2025 | TIME: 6:00 AM
Mallory McInnis awoke at 6:00 a.m. sharp.
No alarm needed.
Her body ran on habit. Her mind on precision and intention.
Working for Elliot Voss—yes, that Elliot Voss, the impossibly wealthy, maddeningly charismatic visionary entrepreneur—meant mornings often arrived with texts that could derail the best-laid plans. She didn’t mind.
If anything, she loved it.
There was a certain electricity in being needed. In knowing she was indispensable.
Voss didn’t just demand excellence. He inspired it.
To stay grounded, Mallory held fast to her morning ritual: thirty minutes of yoga, a calming cup of green tea, and a few precious moments of solitude before the storm of the day kicked dust up in its inevitable wake.
She brushed out her auburn hair, tied it into a high ponytail, and slipped into soft light-blue yoga pants and a form-hugging white sports bra—functional, sleek, and subtly flattering. Padding barefoot across warm oak floors, she moved into her personal studio, the space filled with soft morning light and the gentle scent of eucalyptus from a nearby diffuser that was set to turn on at this time every day.
She closed her eyes.
Exhaled.
Let the world fall away.
Her body flowed through the poses effortlessly—muscle memory meeting meditative grace. Years of disciplined practice had made her movements fluid, purposeful. Strength in stillness. Balance in motion.
Afterward, she stepped into her minimalist kitchen. White cabinets. Matte black hardware. Concrete-style quartz countertops gleaming beneath pendant lighting.
She boiled water and chose her favorite tea Japanese sencha. The soft, grassy aroma instantly transported her back to the narrow streets of Tokyo, where she’d lived for a year during grad school. That year had changed her—broadened her palate, sharpened her worldview, deepened her cultural grace.
Sipping slowly, she opened her tablet and scrolled the morning headlines.
Another flurry of chaos from the new U.S. president. More bluster. More division. The markets trembled under his latest tantrum.
Mallory shook her head.
For someone like Mr. Voss—who preferred true impact to hollow theater—this must feel like scraping metal across stone.
She took another slow sip of her tea, her brow furrowing as she scanned more of the headlines.
Why does everything feel so hostile now? So personal? So divisive?
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Voss had always chosen peace and conflict resolution rather than escalation. He never stooped so low as to get involved in politics. Never played their games.
But even he had to feel it—the way the world was shifting.
How long can he stay above the fray?
And how will this chaos ripple through the empire he’s built?
Right on cue, her phone buzzed.
7:00 a.m., on the nose.
He’s respecting my time, she thought. Always does.
The message, as usual, was short. Direct.
Mallory, good morning. I need you in my office at 8 a.m. sharp. We have much to discuss.
She rinsed her teacup and set it gently on the drying rack.
So much for easing into the morning.
Time to move.
After a quick shower—ending, as always, with fifteen seconds of ice-cold water to blast away the last wisps of sleep—Mallory toweled off, dressed in a slim-fitting charcoal skirt and soft white blouse, and headed out the door.
Her car, a sleek midnight-blue Ford Mustang Mach-E, waited for her in the garage. A gift from Voss.
He’d insisted she go electric. Even bought the car for her after she closed one of his more… unusual acquisitions: a small, uninhabited island in the Pacific, a few hours west of Honolulu.
To this day, she didn’t know why he’d wanted it. An old chemical depot. A crumbling airstrip. Virtually no infrastructure.
But Voss wanted it.
And Mallory got it.
That was the job.
She still remembered the day her life changed forever.
Fresh out of law school, newly licensed in Michigan, she’d been combing job listings when one in particular caught her eye:
Seeking executive-level legal mind with high discretion, unshakable ethics, and a willingness to travel. Must be comfortable with ambiguity, high pressure, and global impact. Prior experience not required. Absolute confidentiality is mandatory. NDA must be signed before the interview.
No company name. No salary. No contact information.
Just a QR code.
It read more like the setup to a spy thriller than a real job.
But something in her gut whispered: This is it.
Two weeks later, she was being driven through a secure gate at Willow Run Airport. After a few minutes, she stepped aboard a sleek private jet where a man was waiting—tall, calm, cold and calculating eyes like frostbite.
He introduced himself simply as Graham.
Advisor to a man named Elliot Voss.
Graham had an edge to him. Moved like someone who could break bones in one moment and pour tea in the next. Special forces, maybe. He didn’t say. But he treated her like she mattered.
And she remembered that.
The respect.
Turned out Voss’s people had been watching her—quietly impressed with how she’d handled a high-stakes legal scandal involving a Michigan senator’s office. She hadn’t buckled. Hadn’t compromised.
She was smart, yes. But more importantly—she was incorruptible.
And for a man building something secret, powerful, and world-changing... incorruptibility was more important than genius.
That was what Elliot Voss needed most.
Ten years later, Mallory pulled into her usual spot at Voss Tower.
Same smooth routine. Same guarded calm.
She took the elevator to the twentieth floor.
The doors slid open with a muted chime.
She stepped out into the posh hallway of the executive wing—
And felt that quiet sense of anticipation settle over her again.
Elliot Voss stood at the far end of the room, silhouetted against a wall of glass that framed the San Francisco Bay in golden morning light.
A latte sat untouched on his desk. Still steaming.
Even after a decade of working for him, his presence still held weight.
Not fear—gravity.
The kind that shifted tides.
Bent rules.
Rewrote futures.
“Mallory,” he said, without turning. “Good morning. Come in and have a seat. Take notes—we have a lot to cover.”
He paused.
Then, quietly:
“Today, everything you know changes. It’s time to begin what I’ve spent the last sixty years preparing for. By the end of this week... the world will never be the same.”
Mallory blinked—just once—then crossed the room, heels soft on polished stone.
She took her seat. Opened her notepad.
Uncapped her favorite rollerball pen.
And began taking the most important notes of her life.