Grayson woke to the sensation of drowning. He had a skull-splitting headache, a mouth drier than the desert, and the familiar feeling that evoked a foreboding feeling. He lay there for a moment to adapt to the pain. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling of his penthouse bedroom, checking his body.

Limbs? Functional.

Vision? Blurry but recovering.

Memory? Nothing amiss for now.

Judging from the time and date in his light brain, it seemed that he went into a rut.

Morning of the eighth day, and he didn’t recall anything from the past few days.

It was completely empty, a blank slate.

This was really concerning.

Grayson dragged himself upright with his muscles protesting in each movement. His bare chest gleamed with dried sweat. He grimaced at the state of himself, but at least he was still wearing pants.

He opened a new display on his holographic screen. The first order of business was always the same after these episodes: damage control.

"Call Bryan." His voice came out as a rasp, barely recognizable as his own.

The call connected after two rings.

[Mr. Maxwell.] Bryan Stewart’s voice was calm as always.

"How long?" Grayson didn’t have energy for nonsense and went directly to the point.

[About four days, twelve hours, and—] There was a pause, while Bryan Stewart checked his chronometer. [—approximately forty-three minutes. Give or take.]

Roughly five days? Grayson pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if he could ease the pain by doing that. So, for around three days in the rut, he had been in contact with Bryan at least once.

"Status report," he demanded.

[The company hasn’t collapsed in your absence, if that’s what you’re worried about. The Snow merger negotiations are proceeding on schedule, and nobody has attempted a hostile takeover within the small branches.]

Bryan Stewart’s tone sounded like he was a little disappointed.

[I took the liberty of rescheduling your appointments and informing relevant parties that you were suffering from an acute but temporary illness. Most believed me. CEO Zhang’s omega son even sent flowers.]

"Flowers." Grayson’s lip curled in disgust, recalling the face of that disgusting snake-like omega.

[It’s quite good, actually. Shall I have them sent to your office or the incinerator?]

"The latter." He paused, forcing his sluggish brain to focus. "What about the penthouse? Did anyone—"

[Ah.] Bryan Stewart’s voice changed, making Grayson infer that he wouldn’t like what he would hear. [About that. There was... something I forgot to tell you.]

Grayson’s body unconsciously tensed up. "What is it?"

[When we last had contact, I received an alert from your penthouse. A security breach, specifically, an unauthorized modification to the surveillance network.]

Bryan Stewart explained calmly.

[I contacted you immediately.]

Grayson’s blood ran cold. "And?"

[And you answered. Sounded quite normal, actually, that it made me wonder if you’re really in a rut.]

Bryan Stewart shrugged lightly.

[You personally informed me that the breach was of your own doing, that you had the situation completely under your control. You upgraded your surveillance and did some routine maintenance.]

Bryan Stewart seemed to have recalled something and reiterated.

[In your own words, ’I’m doing fine. In fact, no one should enter the penthouse until I say otherwise. Anyone who attempts to enter will be considered a security threat. Am I understood?’ Something like that.]

Grayson had absolutely no memory of this conversation.

"I didn’t elaborate more on what I was doing?" he asked carefully.

[Nope. I chose not to press the matter, too. I also monitored your vitals remotely, which showed no signs of distress. In fact, they seemed... better than normal.]

Another pause.

[I also noted that you appeared to be working. The backlog of urgent matters I had flagged decreased by approximately thirty percent over the following day and a half.]

Working during a rut? Just the idea of it was so absurd that Grayson almost laughed.

Alphas in rut were barely capable of stringing together coherent sentences, let alone reviewing corporate documents and responding to priority communications. This particular period should strip him of his rational thought, self-preservation, and basic dignity.

And yet, he had somehow managed to maintain enough functionality to not only answer calls but also to complete actual work.

[You can check it yourself,] Bryan Stewart suggested, as if reading his thoughts. [The evidence is in your worklog. I must say, the email you sent to Director William regarding the Strategic Planning restructure was particularly good.]

Grayson didn’t respond; his mind was trying to piece together a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.

"I’ll be in tomorrow," he said finally. "At the latest."

[I’ll inform the department heads. Do try to eat something before then. Don’t despair too much.]

Then, the call disconnected with a soft click.

Grayson sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment.

None of what Bryan Stewart said added up.

He needed more information.

Rising on barely steady legs, he crossed to the wall panel that concealed one of his private security systems. It was hidden behind a section of what appeared to be seamless marble. He pressed his palm to the scanner, waited for the soft chirp before pulling the panel back.

The display screen flickered to life.

Static.

Nothing but static.

It was gray and buzzing, where there should have been feeds from a dozen concealed cameras covering every inch of the penthouse.

Grayson stared at it and felt something cold settle in his chest.

He checked the hardware next, fingers moving expertly.

The main unit was intact, connections secure, and the power supply was functioning normally.

But when he examined the primary recorder...

Destroyed.

Not malfunctioned.

Not corrupted.

But destroyed.

Someone deliberately triggered its emergency self-destruct protocol. The internal components were fused slag, utterly unrecoverable.

All the footage was gone.

Whatever had happened in this penthouse before and during his rut up to now had no recording.

But why?

Grayson raked his fingers through his disheveled hair, frustration building in his chest.

This must be the one that triggered the breach that Bryan Stewart had mentioned—it had to be.

His own security system was probably personally destroyed by him, for reasons he couldn’t remember.

What the hell had happened here?