Chapter 1

The final line of code clicked into place, and the data model on my screen glowed with a satisfying green checkmark. It was almost 11 PM. The office was a ghost town, just the low hum of servers and the distant sound of the cleaning crew on another floor. I, Sarah, a data analyst who preferred numbers to people, was finally done for the day.

Before packing up, I did a quick scroll through my social media, a habit I needed to break. A video was trending on a local city channel. The thumbnail was a shot of me walking out of my office building yesterday, my face clearly visible. The headline read: "Dedicated Employee or Work-Life Imbalance? The Grind Never Stops for This City's Analysts."

My stomach tightened. I didn't ask for this. I clicked on it, and a wave of scrolling comments, like a digital waterfall, flooded the side of the screen.

"Wow, she looks so plain. Just an average girl."

"Probably single. That's why she works so late."

"I bet she's desperate. A guy could just walk up to her and she'd probably be grateful."

"Look at that boring outfit. She needs a man to spice up her life."

"10/10 would not. Too much of a workaholic."

The comments were a mix of pity and objectification, a disgusting cocktail that made my skin crawl. They saw a two-second clip and wrote my entire life story, a sad, lonely one where I was just waiting for a man to rescue me from my spreadsheets.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a hot retort on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to type, "I'm a senior analyst who just led a multi-million dollar project, you morons. I like my job, and I like my life."

But I stopped myself. Arguing with anonymous trolls was like trying to mop up the ocean. It was pointless. A cold knot of unease formed in my gut. It wasn't just the insults, it was the feeling of being watched, of being assessed and cataloged by strangers. It felt unsafe.

I pulled out my phone, my hands moving with a sudden urgency. I scrolled to my family group chat, a picture of my three older brothers and me grinning at a barbecue as the icon.

My message was simple: "Working late. Leaving now. A little freaked out by some online stuff. Can one of you come get me?"

Almost instantly, three dots appeared. John, the oldest. "On my way. Send your location. Don't leave the lobby."

I breathed a small sigh of relief. My brothers were overprotective, but tonight, I was grateful for it. I packed my bag, shut down my computer, and headed for the elevator, sending my live location to the group chat.

The lobby was bright and empty, the marble floors reflecting the stark overhead lights. I sat on one of the leather couches, my bag clutched in my lap. I just had to wait.

The glass doors slid open, but it wasn't John.

A man I'd never seen before walked in. He was tall, dressed in trendy, expensive-looking streetwear, and had a smile that was too wide, too perfect. He held a phone on a selfie stick, the camera lens pointed right at me.

"And here she is!" he announced to his phone, his voice booming in the quiet lobby. "The hardest working woman in the city! We found her!"

He strode towards me, his smile unwavering.

"Hello there," he said, lowering the phone slightly but still keeping me in the frame. "You don't know me, but I'm Chad. And you, my dear, are the subject of my latest 'Good Samaritan' challenge!"

I stared at him, my mind blank for a second. This had to be a joke.

He seemed to take my silence as awe. He puffed out his chest and gave his phone a little wink.

"See, folks? She's speechless. You are a very lucky lady," he said, turning his blindingly white smile back to me. "Tonight, I'm going to make sure a lovely, hardworking woman like you gets home safe and sound. It's all for a good cause-raising awareness about late-night safety for women!"