Level Zero Love

The elevator ascended without a sound. The polished steel walls reflected Lucía's image with almost insulting precision: her carelessly tied hair, the gray suit she'd been told was "neutral," and that expression that attempted to be firm, but was actually charged with something closer to vertigo.

When the doors opened on the 47th floor, she was greeted by a completely silent hallway. There were no signs, no windows, no distractions. Just beige carpet, opaque walls, and an air conditioner that made it impossible to distinguish the passage of time. In that artificially clean environment, even her heartbeat seemed like a system error.

NCA, the company that had recruited Lucía three weeks earlier, didn't appear on search engines. It had no social media or logos. It was a corporation that operated from the shadows, offering "reputation management" at the highest levels. Translated: they cleaned up messes, erased traces, protected those who could pay for the most convenient truth. Lucía walked with measured steps until she reached an unmarked door. She knocked once. A dry, male voice authorized her entry.

The office was half-hidden by frosted glass. There, a man with a pale face and dark circles under his eyes handed her a tablet without looking at it.

"Confidentiality agreement. Level zero. From now on, you remember nothing of what you were before."

She signed.

There was no turning back.

Lucía Vega was a brilliant and cold-blooded organizational psychologist, trained to be the best in her field. Her life revolved exclusively around work; she had no ties outside the corporation or a defined personal life. Her past was marked by sacrifice and discipline, with no room for error or affection. Although she seemed impenetrable, she carried a deep loneliness that manifested itself in moments of vulnerability.

The induction lasted less than ten minutes. They gave her a biometric pass, a code, and a command: "Never talk about yourself. No one here is a person, we are all a function."

Her office was at the end of the east wing, a windowless cubicle facing a wall of screens. Around her, the other employees tapped away at the type of work. There were no murmurs or coffee breaks. Only efficiency. Lucía observed those around her: men and women with neutral expressions, dressed in dull colors. None of them looked up from the screen, as if life were contained exclusively within the monitor.

On the main monitor, her first task appeared:

Content review: case G41-R. Client: confidential. Objective: remove emotional traces from the records.

Remove emotions? she thought. But she didn't ask.

Hours passed. Documents, videos, audio recordings. Distorted stories. The job was to polish the official version of reality, make it digestible, justifiable, "normal." The traces of harm had to be erased, the guilt diluted. The process was methodical: analyzing the recordings, detecting words or gestures that were too human, cutting them, editing them, replacing them with controlled expressions. Precise. Cold. No anesthesia.

At noon, no one moved. Lucía went out into the hallway in search of a bathroom and noticed all the doors were closed. She found a discreet sign at the end. As she returned, she saw for the first time the man from the internal compliance floor: tall, in a dark suit, walking with a folder under his arm and a heavy gaze. His eyes met hers for less than a second, but it was enough for her to feel like she'd been scanned. It was a look laden with judgment, but also with something Lucía couldn't immediately identify.

Bruno Ortega. In-house lawyer. Enforcer within NCA. His job was to handle the most sensitive crises and secrets. He had no "outside," no family or friends that mattered; his life was reduced to work and survival within a system he knew all too well. Cynical, controlled. His gestures were precise, measured. Everything about him seemed trained not to fail.

That he was there that day was no coincidence. Bruno was leading surprise internal audits. His mere presence was enough to keep the employees standing tall, barely blinking. Behind his neutral expression lay a deep fatigue. He was trapped in the machinery he powered.

When he returned to his post, a new notification appeared:

"Do not leave your station without express authorization. First warning."

The afternoon passed uneventfully. No one spoke. No one breathed more than necessary. Lucía felt time inside the building slipping away like a thick liquid, shapeless, rhythmless. The lack of reference points disoriented her. Even the passing of the hours became blurred. Sometimes she thought she had just arrived; other times, that she had been there for weeks.

At the end of the shift, the screen turned off by itself. Lucía stood up and followed two other employees walking silently toward the elevators. The same elevator that had brought her that morning took her back to the ground floor. The silence was as thick as the one she'd felt when she'd first arrived, but now it weighed differently, as if she were wearing an invisible cloak she couldn't remove.

That night, in the apartment she'd rented weeks ago, she went through her things. There were no photos. No memories. She'd left everything behind with the promise of starting over. But this... this wasn't a new beginning. It was a systematic erasure. There was a cruel neatness to everything around her. Every object had been placed with intention, but without soul. Like a stage set for someone pretending to live.

She turned on the shower and stood there for a long time, waiting for the water to wash away something she couldn't yet name. A suspicion, a feeling. As if by signing that contract, she'd given away something much more than privacy. The image of Bruno suddenly returned to her: that intense, almost inquisitive gaze. There was something about him that didn't fit in with the rest.

Before going to sleep, she opened her notebook. The only thing she kept from her previous life. She wrote a single line:

"Today I entered a place where everything feels real and dead at the same time."

She turned off the light. She didn't dream.

And the next day, the system started again.

Lucía stopped in front of the executive bathroom mirror. The bright, white, and immaculate light from the ceiling mirror reflected back an image that didn't seem entirely her own. Her dark hair, tied back in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place, framed a stern, pale face. Under her eyes, dark circles were beginning to form like small shadows, almost imperceptible, but constant. She was wearing a white silk blouse with a high neck, paired with straight-cut pearl gray pants and mid-heeled shoes: everything carefully chosen to convey professionalism, authority, and distance.

She inhaled deeply. The stainless steel-covered walls reflected her figure like an endless repetition of herself. She was used to that reflection. To the image of the imperturbable executive, the woman who never wavered. But from her first exchange of words with Bruno Ortega, something seemed off.

"Don't lose focus," she repeated to herself silently. "You're not just another one. You didn't come here to fit in. You came to organize what no one wants to see."

Back in her office, the large windows offered a panoramic view of the overcast city. It was a gray and noisy midday outside, but inside the NCA, a clinical silence reigned. Lucía sat, clasped her hands on the glass desk, and reviewed the notes in the work environment report. It was all a facade: manipulated surveys, empty testimonies, discarded suggestions. The organizational culture was a shiny shell hiding a rotten core.

A sharp knock on the door brought her out of her thoughts. It opened precisely. Bruno Ortega crossed the threshold without waiting for permission, albeit with carefully measured elegance.

"Were you expecting me?" he asked without smiling, adjusting his navy blue jacket while his black leather shoes gleamed in the white light.

Lucía didn't get up. She observed him with the same coldness with which she assesses all employees: from his hairdo-neat, not a strand out of place-to the extremely expensive wristwatch he wore with an almost studied indifference.

"I had a feeling you'd show up," she replied, gesturing to a chair in front of the desk.

Bruno sat down slowly. He arranged his leather briefcase on his lap and interlaced his fingers. He seemed relaxed, but Lucía detected the tension in his shoulders.

"Then you know why I'm here," he said.

She nodded, sliding toward him a folder embossed with the NCA logo in silver. Inside, the detailed report of a critical intervention.

"Your department covered up irregularities in the procurement department. My task is to review every step and implement corrective measures." Lucía's voice was gentle, but her tone left no room for objection.

Bruno opened the folder leisurely. He flipped through the pages without really looking at them, as if he already knew the contents. "Your reports are sharp. They cut with elegance," he commented with a slight smile.

"I didn't come here to make friends."

"That's clear." The smile faded. His gaze turned dull, almost sad for a moment. "But you know this isn't just a game of rules. There are things that... just don't show up in audits."

"Like what?"

"Like the strings that bind certain people. Loyalties that aren't stated in contracts. Orders that aren't delivered in writing. You know what I mean, Lucía."

She looked at him, trying to understand whether his tone implied a warning or a confession. There was something in the way he said her name, without harshness, almost with respect.

"I don't have strings," he replied coldly.

Bruno inclined his head slightly, as if accepting a fair blow.

"And have you never felt that someone could see beyond the role you play in here? That there's something beyond your control that isn't necessarily a threat?"

Lucía tensed. Her breath shortened. Was she suggesting...?

"Anything that escapes control is a threat," she replied firmly.

Bruno nodded, but still held her gaze. There was something in her gaze that wasn't confrontational, but gentle insistence. A kind of silent plea.

Bruno:

"She's relentless. Cold as the steel that covers these walls. But there's something in her gaze when she feels alone. A tiny tremor that's barely noticeable. It reminds me of myself when I came here, hoping that work would protect me from the world. What if there's still something human left amidst so much structure? What if I'm not completely alone?"

"Lucia," he said softly. "Maybe what's happening here isn't just work. Sometimes you survive by clinging to something else. Even if it's forbidden."

Lucía:

"What are you implying? You can't be talking about... us? There isn't a us." "There can't be. This closeness makes me uncomfortable, but at the same time... it's the first time in years someone has spoken to me as if they saw me. Not as a tool, not as a threat, but as a person. What does he want from me? Why are you making me feel vulnerable with just one sentence?"

She broke the silence with a softer tone.

"You shouldn't insinuate that. You know the policies. Relationships are forbidden within the corporation."

Bruno stood up slowly. The folder was forgotten on the table.

"I didn't insinuate anything. I just said that some cling to the only thing they have left," and he looked at her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

Lucía didn't respond. Her body remained perfectly still, but something inside her trembled. She wasn't afraid. It was something else. A tiny crack. Barely visible.

He walked toward the door, but before leaving, he paused.

"Sometimes, even executioners need redemption."

And he left.

Lucía looked down at the folder. Then she raised her eyes to the window. The city was still there, impassive. But inside, the building was beginning to creak.

The hallways of NCA's executive tower were quieter than an empty church. The frosted glass and polished metal walls reflected every movement as if the building breathed alongside its inhabitants. Everything was measured, contained, beautiful... and suffocating.

Lucía walked behind the internal resources assistant, a young woman with stiff movements and a low voice who pointed out the different cubicles. Each one more impersonal than the last. No family portraits. No floor plans. Just screens, headphones, and silence.

"This is the behavioral analysis team. There are three of you. You'll share a monitoring system, although your reports go directly to management," the assistant said without looking her in the eye.

Lucía nodded. Her long-sleeved, high-necked white blouse was impeccably ironed. She wore light gray wool pants, fitted but sober, and mid-heeled heels of the same color. Her makeup was minimal, but enough to reinforce the impression of solidity. Every piece of clothing, every line of her outfit, communicated a message: "Don't underestimate me. Don't touch me."

The three team members looked up at her. A formal greeting, without enthusiasm. There was distrust in their gazes, and a restrained silence hung in the air.

"Lucía Vega, new organizational compliance supervisor," the assistant announced. "She'll be evaluating protocols and the general climate. You can report directly to her when needed."

"Pleased to meet you," murmured a red-haired woman in her fifties. Her voice was polite, but her eyes were cold.

"Pleased to meet you," repeated another, younger woman with thick glasses. He avoided meeting her gaze.

"Nice to meet you," said the third, still typing.

Lucía observed them in silence for a few seconds, then said calmly:

"I'm not here to interrupt routines. Just to understand them. We'll see each other soon for a first round of interviews. It will be individual, informal. Nothing invasive." The way each of them quickly returned to their screens was a clear response: they weren't happy with her arrival.

"They don't trust anyone, least of all someone sent from above," the assistant said quietly as they resumed their walk. "You... intimidate them."

Lucía didn't respond. Intimidation was part of her job. Although, inside, something about that reaction made her stomach turn. They didn't fear her like a leader. They feared her like a scalpel.

In the executive cafeteria, the atmosphere wasn't the best. The large windows offered a view of the gray city, crisscrossed by endless lines of traffic. The tables were occupied by small groups conversing in whispers. Lucía poured herself a black coffee. There was no sugar or milk. She preferred it that way. Hot, bitter, real.

She chose a table at the back, alone, next to a smooth concrete column. As she sipped, a murmur made her glance. At another table, at least two people were watching her. When she caught one of them's eye, he immediately lowered his gaze.

"It's started," she thought.

"This isn't a team. It's a disciplined anthill. Everyone obeys, not trusts. And I just walked in like the foot that threatens to crush everything. I've been assigned a trusted role, yes, but I don't have allies. Here, everyone looks out for each other. And me? I also look out for myself."

A subtle noise made her look up. Bruno Ortega was crossing the cafeteria. He was wearing a light blue shirt without a tie, a charcoal gray jacket, and the same firm gait that characterized him. This time, however, he allowed himself to stop in front of her table.

"Have you tried the corporate coffee yet?" he asked, his tone neutral but with a hint of irony.

"Quite similar to the general atmosphere," Lucía replied, taking another sip.

Bruno sat down without asking permission. Lucía noticed he wasn't carrying his briefcase. Just a cup in his hand and a tiny wrinkle in the hem of his shirt, as if something had upset his day.

"I heard you made a good first impression," he commented.

"Oh, really?"

"Don't get me wrong. Here, being feared is a compliment."

Lucía looked at him without smiling. There was something in his way of speaking that seemed designed to disarm her. It was... annoying.

"I'm not here to be feared. I'm here to understand."

"That sounds dangerous," he replied, lowering his voice.

There was a brief silence. The sounds of dishes, footsteps, and distant voices floated around, but between the two of them, everything became dense.

"And you, Bruno? What do you expect from my role?" Lucía asked, crossing her arms.

Bruno held her gaze. Not with defiance, but with quiet interest.

"I hope you don't break. Bright people don't last long here."

When he left, something lingered in the air.

"He speaks to me as if he knows me. As if he guessed something I don't even want to admit. I'm not weak, but I'm tired. What if he is too? What if...?"

She stood up, put down her empty cup, and returned to her office. Outside, the sky was beginning to darken, even though the day was just beginning.

Bruno returned to his office on the executive level. He closed the door with a soft click and leaned his back against it, for the first time in a long time without the urge to open his email or check notifications.

He poured himself a drink of water, even though he wasn't thirsty. He walked to the window without looking at the city. In his mind, he saw her again. Sitting at that table, her spine behind him as if supporting her. Upright. Inaccessible.

Lucía Vega.

She wasn't the type of woman one easily desired. She was more the type one thought of from a distance, like an unsettling enigma. There was something about her way of speaking, her measured words, that made him more alert than usual.

But it wasn't just that.

He had noticed the way her blouse outlined her slender neck, the way she held the cup in her left hand-with that almost elegant gesture that had nothing to do with the concrete hallways. And in her dark eyes, there was a burden that didn't match her coldness.

"I didn't come to this company looking for companionship. Much less comfort. But there's something about her that breaks through my quietest defenses. And that... that's fucking dangerous."

He took off his jacket and dropped it on the chair. He ran a hand down the back of his neck.

"It's not just her presence. It's how she walks. How her voice can sound precise without being cruel. How you can tell she's carrying something, even if she never says it. It intrigues me. It disarms me."

And for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to touch her skin. Not in the office. Not between reports or protocols. But in the intimacy of a long, honest night, where masks had no place. Where she could stop holding herself up. And so could he.

But then he shook his head, almost angrily.

"No," he said softly, like an order.

Because that was forbidden.

Because feeling was dangerous.

And because, in this place, desire was the most costly weakness.

He sat in front of the monitor. The screen shone with his reflection. He still had the face of someone who refused to think about what he had just felt.

Lucía Vega wasn't an option. She was a warning.

And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her.