Book 02 - Chapter One:

The station hummed the way it always did.

Not audibly—not unless you were paying attention—but Olivia felt it in the floor beneath her feet, in the low vibration that traveled up through the desk and settled behind her ribs like a second, steadier heartbeat. Phones blinked patiently. The kettle at the side table clicked off and on, eternally ready. Somewhere in the walls, the Station breathed.

“Mm-hmm. Yes, that’s correct,” Olivia said pleasantly into the handset.

She lifted her free hand and tossed the tennis ball straight up.

Caught it.

Tossed it again.

“I understand your concern,” she continued, voice smooth, professional, unbothered. “But no, the aspect ratio discrepancy you’re describing wouldn’t affect broadcast quality on our end. Especially not for a thirty-second bumper.”

The caller inhaled sharply.

“Well, I just want to be absolutely certain,” he said. He had the tone of a man who had never once been certain in his life and intended to outsource that problem to her. “Because if the lower-third text is even slightly misaligned—”

Up went the ball.

Down it came.

Caught.

Olivia nodded to herself, even though he couldn’t see it. “Of course. That makes sense.”

It didn’t.

She’d been on this call for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of questions about margins. Safe zones. Caption kerning. Whether a one-frame stutter might hypothetically occur if the source file had been exported on a machine running an older GPU driver. He had asked for confirmation. She had provided it. He had then asked again, phrased differently, as if hoping the universe might contradict her on the third attempt.

The ball arced again, slower this time.

Catch.

The lobby doors remained closed—early July sunlight slanting through the dusty glass, catching motes that drifted lazily in the air. The vending machines faced one another in their eternal cold war. Somewhere deeper in the building, laughter echoed briefly, then faded.

Olivia was doing fine.

She knew that.

She was good at this.

“Right,” the caller was saying now. “And just to circle back—this won’t interfere with archival ingestion?”

“No,” Olivia replied immediately. “Bernard’s already flagged the file as compatible. It won’t even burp.”

There was a pause.

“…Burp?”

She smiled sweetly. “Technical term.”

The ball went up again.

She didn’t need it, really. The Station had given her everything she could reasonably ask for—access to the gym downstairs, the pool whenever she wanted it, the library with its impossible shelves and its comforting quiet. Enrichment breaks at the press of a button when her focus started to fray. Lenny stopping by every couple of weeks, all sharp smiles and capable hands, leaving Olivia pleasantly wrecked and loose-limbed and quiet for a day or two afterward.

She was rested.

Fed.

Safe.

Happy.

The tennis ball landed in her palm with a soft thud.

And still—

Something skidded, just slightly, inside her chest.

A sense of anticipation with nowhere to go. Like a held breath she couldn’t quite remember taking. Like the Station itself had leaned forward a fraction, waiting.

“…Miss Harrison?” the caller prompted.

“Yes,” Olivia said promptly, setting the ball down on the desk at last. “I’m still here.”

And she was.

Absolutely, unquestionably here.

But as she glanced up at the quiet lobby, at the doors and the kettle steaming like it always had, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Station wasn’t just listening anymore.

It was counting.

And somewhere—not here, not yet—someone had just run out of strength.

The Signal, patient as ever, shifted its attention.

The call finally wound down the way these calls always did.

“Well,” the man said, sounding no more reassured than when he’d started, “I suppose if you’re confident—”

“I am,” Olivia replied gently. Not clipped. Not sharp. Just warm enough to let him land. “Everything will be just fine. If anything at all changes, we’ll let you know immediately.”

There was a pause. A faint exhale.

“…Alright,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Anytime,” Olivia said, and meant it in the abstract sense only.

The line clicked dead.

The smile stayed on her face for exactly half a second longer—professional muscle memory—then vanished.

Without hesitation, she slapped the Hold All button.

The phones obediently dimmed, their blinking lights settling into patient silence.

Then she hit Enrichment.

Somewhere above the ceiling tiles, there was a familiar thunk.

Olivia was already standing.

The tennis ball shot out of the ceiling and bounced once. Twice—

She snatched it out of the air before the third bounce, fingers closing around it with a sharp, satisfying smack.

“Twenty minutes,” she muttered. “Twenty minutes about fucking kerning.”

She spun—

—and skidded to a stop.

Charles stood a few feet in front of the desk, cane tucked under one arm, coat already half in motion like it had been waiting for him to arrive. He regarded her with open curiosity and the faintest glimmer of amusement, as if he’d walked in on a familiar domestic scene rather than a minor emotional eruption.

“Good morning to you too,” he said mildly.

Olivia huffed and lobbed the ball up once more, catching it again just as sharply. “He wanted to know if a theoretical one-frame stutter could emotionally undermine the brand identity of a thirty-second bumper.”

Charles nodded gravely. “A harrowing prospect.”

“I reassured him,” she went on, pacing now. “I reassured him so hard. I explained safe zones. I explained compression tolerances. I invoked Bernard. I used the phrase ‘it won’t even burp.’”

“Bold,” Charles said approvingly.

“And he still circled back,” Olivia finished, planting herself behind the desk and finally stilling the ball in her palm. “Again. Like if he asked the question in the right order, reality would give him a different answer.”

Charles hummed softly, resting his weight against the edge of the desk. “Some people believe certainty is a vending machine. Insert enough quarters, receive a guarantee.”

She snorted despite herself.

The moment stretched—comfortable, familiar.

Then Charles tilted his head just slightly.

“And what,” he asked gently, “is actually wrong?”

Olivia blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The tennis ball rolled from her fingers and thumped softly against the desktop.

“I—” She stopped. Tried again. “I don’t know.”

Charles didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just waited.

She frowned, ears twitching as she searched for words that stubbornly refused to line up.

“I’m fine,” she said, and immediately shook her head. “No—everything’s fine. The job’s good. The station’s good. I sleep. I eat. I work out. I take enrichment breaks.” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling. “I even have… benefits.”

“Mm,” Charles agreed neutrally.

“But I feel…” She trailed off, brow furrowing. “…unsettled.”

The word hung there, thin but persistent.

“Not scared,” she added quickly. “Not unhappy. Just—” She pressed a hand flat against her chest. “Like something’s humming out of tune.”

Charles studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable in that way of his—kind without being dismissive, attentive without prying.

“Does it feel like anticipation,” he asked at last, “or like warning?”

Olivia considered.

“…Anticipation,” she said slowly. “I think. Like I’m waiting for something I didn’t schedule.”

A small smile tugged at Charles’s mouth.

“Ah,” he said. “Those are often the most important things.”

She looked up at him, ears angling back. “You know what it is, don’t you.”

“I have suspicions,” Charles replied honestly. “But no certainty worth vending just yet.”

He straightened, tapping the head of his cane lightly against the floor once. Somewhere deep in the building, the hum shifted—so subtle Olivia might have missed it if she hadn’t already been listening.

“For now,” he continued, “you’ve done precisely the right thing. You noticed. You didn’t ignore it. And you took an enrichment break before biting a caller.”

She smirked. “I considered it.”

“Growth,” Charles said warmly.

The phones on hold chimed softly, reminding them both that the world still existed.

Charles stepped back, already turning toward the hallway. “Keep the line on hold for another minute. I suspect the Station will have opinions shortly.”

“About what?” Olivia asked.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “I imagine we’re about to receive a guest who very much needs you to feel unsettled today.”

And with that, he vanished into the corridors, coat swallowing him whole.

Olivia looked down at the tennis ball in her hand.

Then up at the open lobby doors, sunlight spilling in like an invitation.

The hum in the walls deepened.

She set the ball down carefully.

“…Okay,” she murmured.

And waited.

Lunch should have helped.

It usually did.

The breakroom smelled faintly of rice vinegar and seaweed, the long tables already half-full with staff and Hosts drifting in and out on their own strange schedules. Someone had put on a low, crackly record—something instrumental and comforting—and the general noise level hovered at that pleasant hum where no one expected anything of anyone else.

Today’s offering sat neatly arranged on the sideboard: fresh sushi, still cool, rice glossy and perfect. Olivia glanced at it once—

—and turned away.

Instead, she opened the second fridge.

Cold air washed over her face as she reached in and withdrew a Walker Bird drumstick, easily as long as her forearm, skin dark and glossy, meat dense and fragrant even chilled. She didn’t bother with a plate. Didn’t bother heating it.

She sat, braced one elbow on the table, and tore into it with her teeth.

Not messily—but decisively.

The bone cracked slightly under pressure. Conversation paused, then resumed. This wasn’t the strangest lunch the station had seen.

Miss LaDonna noticed anyway.

She always did.

From across the table, she glanced at Charles—just a look, nothing dramatic. An inquiry, not an accusation.

Charles, for his part, barely looked up from his paper. He shrugged one shoulder, small and untroubled, and turned a page.

So Miss LaDonna sipped her tea, waited until Olivia had swallowed, and said lightly, “You didn’t care for the sushi today, dear?”

Olivia paused mid-bite, then shook her head. “Just not feeling it.”

“Hm.” Miss LaDonna watched her a moment longer. “You’ve been… a bit sharp today.”

That earned a short, humorless huff. “Callers have been creative.”

Charles murmured, without looking up, “Astrology?”

“And entitlement,” Olivia said immediately. “One wanted us to realign the schedule to better suit his rising sign. Another wanted fewer repeats, but also more repeats, just… timed around him.”

She ripped another chunk free, chewing with more force than strictly necessary.

Miss LaDonna folded her hands, expression calm but intent. “And how are you, Olivia?”

There it was.

Olivia slowed. Considered. Finally sighed through her nose. “Fine,” she said—then grimaced. “No. Same as earlier. I don’t feel sick. Or tired. Just… off.”

Charles finally lowered the paper, peering over the top of it. “Still unsettled?”

“Yes,” Olivia snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. Yes. That.”

Miss LaDonna nodded. “I see.”

“And before you say it,” Olivia added, ears twitching, “yes, I’ve taken enrichment breaks. I’m sleeping. I’m eating. I’m not overworking.”

Charles smiled faintly. “All admirable things.”

“And yet,” Miss LaDonna said gently.

“And yet,” Olivia echoed, frustrated, gnawing at the bone again.

Charles refolded his paper with deliberate calm. “As I mentioned earlier,” he said mildly, “we do have a guest arriving soon.”

That did it.

Olivia dropped the drumstick to the table with a soft thud. “You keep saying that.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s not helpful,” she said flatly. “I don’t like being paced.”

Miss LaDonna opened her mouth—

—but then paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Speaking of schedules,” she said, tone shifting just slightly, “isn’t Dr. Myles due to pass through this week?”

Olivia froze.

Her ears perked.

Her tail—traitorous, unmistakable—started thumping against the chair leg.

“I—” She blinked. “…Maybe.”

Charles’s eyebrow arched.

Miss LaDonna’s lips twitched.

And before Olivia’s brain could catch up with her mouth, the words tumbled out:

“Maybe that’s it,” she said. “Maybe I just need to get laid.”

There was a beat.

Then Charles laughed—warm, delighted, entirely unoffended. “Direct. I appreciate that.”

Miss LaDonna chuckled softly into her teacup. “Language, dear.”

Olivia’s face heated instantly. “I—sorry—I just meant—” She waved a hand helplessly. “Lenny tires me out. In a good way. Maybe I’m just pent-up.”

Charles leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “An entirely reasonable hypothesis.”

Miss LaDonna smiled at Olivia with fond amusement. “You could have said ‘affection-starved.’”

Olivia groaned, burying her face briefly in her hands as her tail continued its energetic betrayal. “I hate you both.”

“No you don’t,” Charles said cheerfully.

She peeked through her fingers. “…No. I don’t.”

The tension eased, laughter smoothing the edges of whatever had been needling her all day. The Walker Bird drumstick lay forgotten for the moment, the sushi still untouched.

And yet—

As the mirth faded, that quiet sense of anticipation returned. Not loud enough to spoil the moment. Just present.

Charles folded his paper at last and stood. “Enjoy your lunch,” he said lightly. “All of it.”

He paused, looking at Olivia with something like reassurance.

“And if I’m wrong,” he added, “and this has nothing to do with Lenny at all—well. You’ll know soon enough.”

He tipped an imaginary hat and wandered off, leaving Olivia staring after him.

Her tail slowed.

She picked up the drumstick again, less savagely this time.

“…I really hope he’s wrong,” she muttered.

The Station, listening as always, did not answer.

By one-ish, the lobby had settled into its familiar early-afternoon rhythm.

Emails answered. Two voicemails flagged for later. A mild argument resolved via a carefully worded sentence that began with Per our previous correspondence… Olivia leaned back in her chair, fingers flying comfortably over the keyboard, tail swaying in an easy, idle rhythm behind her.

Then—

ROOOAARRR.

The sound ripped through the quiet like a chainsaw through velvet.

A flash of red and white streaked past the lobby windows, followed by the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine pushed just a little harder than strictly necessary.

Olivia didn’t think.

She moved.

The chair hit the floor behind her as she vaulted the desk in a single fluid motion, landing in a sprint that carried her through the open doors and out into the parking lot, sunlight exploding around her.

The bike skidded into place near the edge of the lot, dust swirling. Lenny swung a leg down, already reaching for her helmet—

—and had just enough time to look up before Olivia hit her.

“LENNY!”

The impact lifted her clean off the ground.

Lenny yelped in startled laughter as Olivia wrapped her arms around her, tail whipping wildly, muzzle buried against her cheek. Sloppy, enthusiastic kisses rained down in rapid succession—jaw, cheekbone, nose, wherever Olivia could reach—accompanied by an unmistakable, joyful ruff-ruff sound that Olivia absolutely did not bother suppressing.

“Oh—wow—hi—!” Lenny laughed, hands scrambling automatically to keep her helmet from clattering to the pavement. “Okay! Okay! I missed you too!”

Olivia spun once with her, sheer momentum carrying them in a half-circle before she finally stopped, still holding Lenny several inches off the ground.

“Where have you been?” Olivia demanded happily, punctuating the question with another kiss. “You said ‘later this week,’ not ‘dramatic entrance at one in the afternoon!’”

Lenny grinned, breathless but clearly unbothered. “I was nearby. And I had a new exhaust. I wanted to see if the Station noticed.”

“It noticed,” Olivia said fervently, nuzzling her cheek. “I noticed.”

She kissed her again.

And again.

“Okay—okay,” Lenny said, laughing harder now, tapping Olivia lightly on the shoulder. “Down. Please. Before someone sees this and decides to make it a thing.”

Reluctantly—very reluctantly—Olivia set her back on the pavement, though she stayed close, arms still hooked possessively around Lenny’s waist, tail still thumping like it had a personal vendetta against the asphalt.

Lenny finally managed to get her helmet off, hair mussed, eyes bright. She glanced pointedly at the lobby doors. “You wanna let a girl get inside before she’s thoroughly mauled?”

Olivia blinked.

Considered.

“…Yes,” she said, straightening just enough to look properly contrite. “Yes. I do. Sorry. Hi.”

Lenny laughed, warm and fond, leaning in to steal a much calmer kiss. “Hi.”

Olivia beamed, took her hand without even pretending not to, and tugged her toward the doors. “C’mon. You can park the bike after. I have questions. And also—” her ears flicked back, tail resuming its happy rhythm “—I may have been having a day.”

Lenny squeezed her hand. “That explains the pounce.”

Inside the lobby, the Station hummed—pleased, if anyone had bothered to ask.

And for the first time since morning, Olivia’s unsettled feeling eased just a little.

Not gone.

But quieter.

Like it was waiting its turn.

Olivia barely slowed long enough at the front desk to be polite.

A few brisk keystrokes logged her Away, routed all incoming calls to the standby team, and dropped a neat, automated message into the system. The phones dimmed obediently, surrendering their attention elsewhere.

Then Olivia turned, crouched, and hoisted Lenny clean over her shoulder, backpack and all.

“HEY—!” Lenny squealed, laughter bubbling out instantly as Olivia took the stairs two at a time. “You can’t just pick up a doctor like this!”

“I absolutely can,” Olivia said cheerfully, tail lashing behind her. “You signed no such waiver.”

Lenny thumped her fist lightly against Olivia’s back, still laughing. “At least let me—oh gods—warn a girl next time!”

The stairwell echoed with the sound of boots, delighted protest, and Olivia’s low, satisfied rumble as she pushed open the apartment door and finally—finally—set Lenny down.

“Okay,” Lenny said breathlessly, adjusting herself and slipping her backpack off. “Okay. Hi.”

Olivia shut the door behind them with her heel, suddenly more still.

Lenny shrugged out of her lab coat, cocked her head, and smiled with open amusement. “So what’s with the absolutely delicious cave-woman routine all of a sudden?” she asked lightly. “Your toy run out of batteries?”

Olivia opened her mouth—

—and stopped.

Her ears tilted back, just a fraction.

“…Maybe,” she admitted. “But not like that.”

That got Lenny’s attention.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. She just leaned back against the counter and waited.

So Olivia talked.

About the callers. The hum. The waiting. About feeling wound tight with no obvious reason. About how everything was right and yet something in her wouldn’t settle. Her hands moved automatically as she spoke, helping Lenny out of her motorcycle leathers with uncharacteristic care, fingers precise, reverent even.

“No ripping?” Lenny murmured, surprised.

“Not this time,” Olivia said quietly.

Lenny watched her closely now. Really watched.

“Hm,” she said after a moment. “Alright. Hypothesis forming.”

Olivia glanced up. “Oh?”

“Well,” Lenny said thoughtfully, stepping closer once she was free of the last stubborn buckle, “let’s try the tried-and-true method first. Rule out the obvious.”

She tilted her head, smiling slow and familiar.

“Here on the floor,” she asked gently, “or do you want me in the bed proper?”

Olivia answered with a low, unmistakable growl—all the decision Lenny needed.

The rest of the apartment heard nothing but the steady hum of the Station, patient as ever.