Mira’s finger hovered over the enter key. The license confirmation for glowed on her screen, a $14,000 annual commitment her boss, Donetti, had greenlit with a grunt. “Make the coats faster,” he’d said. “Faster, cheaper, and make the lapels sit right.”

“What the hell is that?” Leo whispered, his coffee forgotten.

“Holy hell,” breathed Leo from the next desk, watching over her shoulder. “Does it do the new dynamic button stress?”

She swallowed. The needle paused, waiting.

Then she found the hidden folder.

Mira looked at Leo. Leo looked at the growing ghost-garment hovering between their desks.