The Heart System Nov Chapter 244

Chapter 244: Chapter 244

We both laughed, and I left her office, closing the door behind . On the way back to my desk, I grabbed my jacket out of habit, and my hand automatically slid into my pocket. All I felt were a few coins. Right. They had my phone downstairs. As always.

I sighed and started walking. The first possible mole on the list worked on this floor, thankfully.

The far end of the corridor opened into the Localization and Language Processing wing—one of those departnts that always felt slightly different from the rest of TechForge. Instead of the see-through glass everywhere else, this place used frosted panels that glowed softly when the lights hit them. The air was warm, quieter. You could hear the faint hum of people speaking into headsets, repeating the sa sentences over and over for audio models. A whole wall on the left held a huge digital world map, pulsing with tiny red dots marking active language streams.

Desks were lined in rows, each one packed with dual monitors, translation pads, transcription pedals, and noise-cancelling mics. It slled faintly like strong coffee and the plastic of heated electronics. The lighting here was warr, more yellow than white, which made the place feel almost cozy despite all the tech.

I checked the first na on my list and stopped at the small office near the back.

The naplate read:

MICHAEL TARN - Senior Linguistic Analyst

He was one of the ten suspects.

I took a breath, straightened my jacket, and reached for the door handle.

Ti to play detective.

After knocking once, I pushed the door open and stepped inside Michael’s office. It was small but packed—every inch of it looked busy. Three ultra-wide monitors wrapped around the front of his desk in a tight arc, each one filled with scrolling text, spectrographs, and audio tilines. Behind him, a laptop on a raised stand stread a live feed of multilingual subtitles. Two tall shelves flanked the walls, full of language manuals, QA notes, mugs, and a stupidly large collection of novelty pens. A soft orange desk lamp cut through the room’s dimness, giving everything a warm, studio-like glow.

Michael sat behind the monitors, one eyebrow arched.

"Um, hey?" he said, blinking behind thick rectangular glasses. "Who are you and why are you here?"

"I’m Evan Marlowe," I said. "Ms. Nolin’s new secretary."

"Oh, right. The coffee guy." He nodded once. "What can I do for you, Mr. Marlowe?"

"I’m here because—"

"Let

cut in," he said, raising a hand. "You think I’m the culprit, don’t you?"

"Well—"

"Just give it to

straight."

"Alright," I said. "I’m working through a list of people who talked to Adam the day the mole was discovered. And I won’t sugarcoat it—you’re one of them."

"Wow." His eyes widened. "?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he said calmly. "Then how do I prove I’m not your guy?"

"When I chased the suspect," I said, "were you in the building? Can anyone confirm it?"

"I was here all day," he replied. "My whole departnt can vouch for it."

"Are you sure?"

Instead of answering verbally, he pressed sothing under his seat. A loud tallic clank rang out, and then he tapped a button on his armrest. His "chair" moved—rolling out from behind the desk on two reinforced wheels disguised inside the base.

Only then did I realize what I was actually looking at: an electric wheelchair built to look exactly like a normal office chair.

He rolled right up next to . "Should we go ask them together?"

"Damn," I muttered. "I didn’t know you were... man, you should’ve said sothing. I feel like a jackass now."

Michael laughed. "No worries. I’m mostly confused why I’m on your list at all."

"Because you talked to Adam that day," I explained. "You asked about Jenkins. Jenkins was supposed to be in the security room watching the caras, but he was sick that day. So I’m guessing the culprit asked around to learn if the room was empty."

"And you told Adam to send you a list of everyone who talked to him that day," he finished for .

"Exactly."

"Well, sorry, Mr. Marlowe," he said as he reversed back behind his desk. "But I’m not the guy you’re looking for."

I grabbed a pen off his desk, rested the folder on my leg, and crossed out his na. Then I stood and offered him my hand. He shook it firmly.

"Good luck, Mr. Marlowe," he said. "Keeping this internal is risky but needed. I hope we resolve it without needing outside help."

"Fingers crossed." I waved as I stepped out the door. "And, uh... sorry for the false suspicion."

"No problem," Michael said.

I closed the door gently and sighed. Great. That was a whole lot of nothing. Michael couldn’t run if he tried—the wheelchair explained that clearly. Why Adam even put his na on the list was beyond . Maybe Marcus was right and we should’ve fired him years ago.

Next na: Tyler Feynard. Worked just one floor below.

Ti to pay him a visit.

I headed to the elevator, descended a floor, and stepped out into the Software Debugging and Maintenance wing. This place was the polar opposite of Michael’s departnt. Bright white lights. Cold air. Cubicle rows stretching forever. The sll of energy drinks was practically part of the atmosphere. People hunched over code windows that flickered with error logs and red text like tiny digital fires.

No glass walls here—just endless fabric cubicles, each one cluttered with sticky notes, headphones, stress balls, and stacks of printed bug reports. The clicking of keyboards filled the air in a constant staccato rhythm.

About halfway down the row, I found him.

Tyler’s cubicle was ssy as hell. Half-finished snacks, two empty cans of RedBull, a jacket thrown over his chair, and three monitors stacked vertically like so insane digital totem pole.

He was hunched forward, headphones on, tapping away like he was trying to kill his keyboard.

Ti to see if he was mole material.

I cleared my throat, but Tyler didn’t budge. His headphones were blasting sothing so loud I could hear the bass from a ter away. Honestly, if the fire alarm went off right now, he’d probably just keep typing until he lted.

I tapped his shoulder.

Without turning around, he grabbed a paper off his desk and handed it back to

blindly. I looked down—so debugging report full of code and acronyms I didn’t understand—then set it back on his desk and tapped him again.

This ti he finally swiveled around, pulled his headphones down, and blinked at .

"Uuh... are you new?" he asked.

"I’m Ms. Nolin’s secretary," I said. "Evan Marlowe. I’m here to ask you so questions, Tyler. That’s all."

He leaned back, resting his arms on the chair’s sides. "Alright? What for?"

"Harmless questions," I said. "Nothing to be afraid of... unless you have sothing to be afraid of. Right?"

"Uh-huh." He crossed his arms. "Go ahead."

"When the mole was discovered in the security room," I said, "where were you?"

"In the toilet," he said flatly. "I rember hearing people shouting while I was pissing."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

He stared at . "Confirm what—that I was taking a piss? Do you tell people every ti you go take a piss, Evan?"

"It’s just a simple question, Tyler."

"Yeah. And the answer’s no." He exhaled. "No witnesses to my majestic bathroom break."

"Is there a cara that might’ve recorded you walking toward the restroom?"

"Yeah, that one." He pointed up at a do cara mounted on the ceiling at the center of the floor.

"Cara 102," I read on the casing. "Alright. Thanks, Tyler. If anything cos up, I’ll talk to you again."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

He spun his chair around and slipped his headphones back on like I never existed.

I stepped into the nearest empty cubicle, grabbed the office phone, and dialed Adam, #1 on the internal line. A few beeps, then his voice.

"Hello?"

"Adam, it’s Evan," I said. "I need the footage from Cara 102. The hour the mole was caught."

"Okay, hold on..." I heard him typing. "Yeah, 102—that’s the Debugging floor cara. Where do I send it? You don’t have your phone."

"Send it to this cubicle’s computer," I said. "I’ll watch it here."

"Alright. What’s the device na?"

I clicked through the settings until I found the ridiculous sixteen-digit userna, read it to him, and seconds later a file transfer request popped up. I accepted it.

"That’s all, Mr. Marlowe?" Adam asked.

"That’s all. Thanks."

When the video finished downloading, I scrubbed through the footage. People walking around. Coffee breaks. Soone dropping a stack of papers. Soone slipping on a cable. Pretty standard chaos.

Then, just before the tistamp where the mole entered the security room upstairs, I spotted Tyler. He was heading toward the restroom hallway... but the cara didn’t cover the last stretch. It cut off just before the corridor turned.

Which ant two possibilities:

Either he really did go take a piss. Or he ducked into the ergency stairwell and booked it all the way up to the top floor, then to the rooftop... and entered through that vent that led to the security room.

"Fuck," I muttered.

I closed the video, erased it, and stood up.

From across the room, Tyler sat in his cubicle squeezing a stress ball lazily, half-lidded eyes glued to his monitor like nothing in the world existed except that line of code.

"You’re not scratched off yet, Tyler," I said quietly.

Ti for the next suspect.

Marketing Departnt, two floors down.