Story code: ST-000453
Part 2: The Whistleblower’s Bounty
The clatter of mechanical keys echoed through Claire’s headset, a sharp, staccato burst of sound that cut through the roaring in her ears. *Click-clack-click.* It was the unmistakable rhythm of a keyboard shortcut. He was taking a screenshot.
A fresh surge of adrenaline slammed into her already taxed system, mixing violently with the agonizing waves of cramping in her abdomen. Claire lunged for her mouse again, ignoring the wet, sickening squelch of her own blood as her weight shifted on the chair cushion. Her hand connected with the plastic shell. This time, she didn’t bother aiming for the ‘Stop Share’ button. She slammed her palm down on the escape key, then frantically clicked the red ‘X’ on the presentation software, collapsing the entire program and finally severing the broadcast of her desktop.
The Zoom interface snapped back to its default gallery view. Tomas’s face expanded to fill the center of her monitor.
He was no longer looking at his camera. His eyes were locked on a second monitor just off-screen to his right, tracking back and forth as he examined whatever he had just captured. The earnest, desperate-to-please expression he had worn for the last hour had vanished entirely. His jaw was set tight.
“Tomas,” Claire rasped. Her voice sounded thin, fractured by the excruciating pain radiating from her pelvis. She cleared her throat, swallowing down the copper taste of nausea, and tried to summon the authoritative tone of a senior project manager. “I apologize for that glitch. A stray popup. Let’s return to the-”
“That wasn’t a glitch, Ms. Claire,” Tomas interrupted. His voice was quiet, stripped of the nervous energy that had defined him all morning. “That was a forensic audit alert from the compliance software. It stated that the offshore shell accounts have been flagged for unauthorized fund transfers.”
Claire stopped breathing. The pain in her lower half seemed to detach from her consciousness for one brief, terrifying second, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated dread of exposure. The text had been on screen for less than five seconds, but he had read it. He had captured it.
“You’re misinterpreting an automated system test,” Claire lied, her hands gripping the edge of her oak desk so hard her knuckles turned white. She needed to sit upright. She needed to project dominance. But her core muscles refused to engage, trembling violently under the strain of the concealed hemorrhage.
“I worked in financial compliance for six years before taking this vendor contract,” Tomas said, finally turning his gaze back to the webcam. The green ring light illuminated his dark eyes. “I know what a Tier-1 audit trigger looks like. And I know it includes your employee ID in the routing line.”
He shifted in his seat, the leather of his chair squeaking through the microphone. “If I send this screen capture to your Corporate HR and Legal departments right now, you will be terminated by the end of the day. They will likely call the police.”
“Tomas, listen to me,” Claire pleaded, her professional facade crumbling as another contraction ripped through her uterus. She doubled over slightly, unable to stop the pathetic groan that slipped past her lips. She rested her forehead against her left hand, trying to keep her face in the frame while hiding the worst of her physical collapse. “You don’t understand the whole picture.”
“I understand that this contract is the only thing keeping my family in our home,” Tomas replied, his voice tightening. He leaned in closer to his microphone. “I have two daughters, Ms. Claire. My wife lost her job six months ago. We are drowning in debt. I spent three weeks preparing for this handover just so your company wouldn’t cancel the vendor agreement.”
Claire kept her eyes squeezed shut, fighting the dark spots blooming at the edges of her vision. The wet warmth beneath her had spread down her thighs. She was losing too much blood. She had to end this, call an ambulance, and figure out the corporate fallout from a hospital bed.
“If you want this contract,” she whispered, her breath hitching, “you will delete that screenshot. If they fire me, the entire transition gets paused. The project goes into a freeze. You won’t see a dime for months.”
Tomas fell silent. Claire forced her eyes open, blinking away the sweat stinging her lashes, and stared at the screen. He was looking at his second monitor again, his hand resting over his mouse.
“But if I report you,” Tomas murmured, almost speaking to himself, “the whistleblower policy guarantees a bounty. And they would need someone to immediately take over the project management. Someone who already knows the server pathways.”
Claire’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t just realizing his leverage; he was calculating his own survival against hers.
“Please,” Claire gasped, the word tearing out of her as the worst wave of agony yet struck her lower back. Her vision went entirely gray for a terrifying moment. She slumped sideways, her shoulder hitting the armrest of her chair, no longer able to hide her physical distress.
Tomas’s eyes snapped back to the camera, his brow furrowing as he finally registered her slumped posture, her pale, sweat-drenched face. “Ms. Claire? Are you unwell?”
She couldn’t answer. Her phone sat on the edge of the desk, just inches from her trembling fingers. She needed to dial emergency services. But if she broke eye contact, if she let him think she was ignoring his threat, he would send the evidence.
Through the speakers, the crisp, distinct chime of a new email draft opening echoed in the silent room. Tomas’s reflection in the camera lens showed the stark white glow of a blank message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, suspended between the email address for Corporate HR and the delete key.