דדליין

The scream nearly escaped her lips. She choked it back at the last second. She could already hear what everyone would say if she lost control now—there she'd be, trembling beside the corpse, and after their vicious argument that afternoon, no less. Midnight was approaching. Her team had four days to submit a campaign proposal for a major client. A monster of an account, wearable tech, the hottest thing going worldwide—and in their own little pond.

An account like this came along once in a lifetime, and it would decide whether they'd be working from a gleaming high-rise with its own gym and massage rooms, or from the lower floor of a peeling building in South Tel Aviv. Or worse: one of Tel Aviv's satellite towns. Most agencies had already been eliminated in the early rounds. Only two remained for the final stage: her agency, Prototype, and their major rival, Kolga.

Everyone on the campaign was still at the office, each polishing the proposal from their own angle. Lian coordinated it all as senior account manager—the bridge between agency and client.

She carried what she called her "operations binder"—a thick folder stuffed with research, focus-group summaries, roundups of what the industry was doing worldwide, the planning department's advertising-strategy proposals, and the scientists' read on the product's potential and risks. It also held sketches from various stages of the work. The younger staff mostly used the printouts to doodle on in meetings; the real work lived on their laptops.

But Lian still stuck with printed copies—"much more convenient, you can hand them out in meetings," as she kept telling her account assistant.

Passing Alex's room, she noticed the door slightly ajar, though no one was inside. Surprising—Alex always made sure to lock his door when he left. Trust wasn't his strong suit, and there was even less of it now that he was about to become creative director. He was convinced everyone was after his ideas, out to steal the credit.

Lian peered through the doorway, then gathered her courage and stepped inside, curiosity winning out. The air was stale—the particular funk of a room shut up for days, laced with the reek of an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the low coffee table. An artist's easel stood beside it, bearing campaign sketches defaced with thick red X's. All rejected.

A haphazard pile of objects beyond the low coffee table caught her eye. She'd taken just one step toward it when she saw him. Alex lay on his back between the sofa and the desk, motionless. Dread surged through her. She froze mid-step, mouth hanging open, breathing in short, sharp snatches, as if something had jammed in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs. For one split second she stood paralyzed, staring.

Even through the shock, Lian registered Alex's face twisted in pain, his right hand frozen mid-gesture, fingers splayed across his stomach. A half-empty sushi box lay beside him. She bent over him to see how bad it was and touched his face. Cold. She recoiled. Panic hardened into something solid, suffocating. Almost against her will, she reached out again, this time for the side of his neck. The certainty hit her all at once: no pulse.

"Lian?" Yaron's voice, somewhere out in the office, hunting for her. She wrenched herself out of it and forced the words out, low and quiet: "In here, Yaron. Alex's office." Yaron came in, eyes red from too many nights without sleep, holding yet another sketch—this one fresh from David, the graphic designer.