Chapter 4 - Poisoning the Well
It didn't take long to realize that Tyler was entirely incompetent. He had talent, sure, but he lacked discipline. He was used to having things handed to him, used to my father fixing his mistakes behind the scenes.
At Apex, the competition among interns for a permanent junior architect position was brutal. The other interns were working eighteen-hour days, bleeding for a chance. Tyler arrived at 9:00 AM sharp and left at 5:00 PM, spending half his time flirting with the receptionists and bragging about his family’s "survival story" to anyone who would listen.
"It changed my perspective on life, you know?" I overheard him telling a group of interns in the breakroom one afternoon. "Losing my sister... it made me realize that life is too short to stress over the little things. I owe it to her memory to succeed."
I stood outside the door, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands until they nearly drew blood. To her memory. He was using my horrific "death" as a networking tool.
That night, I stayed late. The office was empty, bathed in the eerie blue light of the janitor's cart down the hall.
I used my master key card to access Tyler’s workspace. He was currently working on a digital blueprint for a massive multi-million-dollar condominium project in downtown Chicago. It was the centerpiece of the interns' mid-term evaluation. If his blueprint impressed Marcus Thorne, he was guaranteed the permanent job.
I sat down at his computer. I knew his password—it was his childhood dog’s name, Buster123. He hadn't changed it in ten years.
I opened his CAD files. I didn't destroy them; that would be too obvious. Instead, I subtly altered the load-bearing calculations in the structural core columns of his design. To an amateur eye, the blueprint looked flawless. But to a seasoned architect like Marcus Thorne, it was a catastrophic failure waiting to happen—a design that, if built, would cause the entire building to collapse.
I saved the file, wiped the log history, and left the office.
The next morning, the interns presented their designs to the senior partners in the main boardroom. I stood at the back of the room, holding Marcus Thorne's tablet.
When Tyler’s turn came, he walked up to the projector with a smug grin. "This is my vision for the Lakeview Condos," he announced proudly, flashing the corrupted blueprint onto the massive screen.
I watched Marcus Thorne’s face. Within five seconds, the older man's expression hardened from mild boredom to absolute fury.
"Stop," Thorne barked, slamming his pen onto the glass table. The room went dead silent. Tyler froze, his smile faltering. "Miller, what the hell is the load-bearing capacity on column four?"
Tyler blinked, stammering. "Uh, it’s... it’s calculated to support thirty stories, sir."
"Are you blind, or just profoundly stupid?" Thorne roared, standing up. "Look at the stress vector math! If we built this according to your file, the entire eastern wing would pancake before the drywall even went up! This isn't a design, Miller. This is a mass casualty event!"
Tyler’s face drained of color. He looked like he was about to vomit. "I... I don't understand. I checked the numbers..."
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"You're done," Thorne snapped. "Pack your bags. You're cut from the program. I don't care who your father knows in Ohio. Apex doesn't employ killers."
From the back of the room, I caught Tyler's desperate, pleading eyes. I gave him a slow, cold wink.
