Then she smiled the kind of smile that meant wait here while I call someone to deal with you.
Grant Hollister arrived 90 seconds later. He came from the elevator bank with two engineers flanking him like bodyguards. His badge said VP of Engineering. His suit cost more than Terrence's grandmother earned in a year.
He stopped six feet from Terrence and crossed his arms. "Who let him in?"
The receptionist pointed at Terrence. "He says he's here for the bounty."
Grant looked at Terrence, not at his face, but at his clothes, his shoes, the fraying strap of his backpack. He looked at him the way someone looks at a stain on an expensive carpet.
"The bounty is for engineers, not for street kids."
"I'm an engineer," Terrence said.
"You're a kid in a dirty hoodie who smells like a Greyhound station."
Grant turned to the receptionist. "Call security. I don't want him touching anything in this building."
"The website says anyone can participate," Terrence said. His voice was steady. "It doesn't mention a dress code."
"The website also says applicants must demonstrate professional competence." Grant looked him up and down again. "You don't even look like you can spell competence."
A few engineers had gathered near the elevator bank now. They watched the way people watch a car accident, fascinated, a little guilty, unwilling to look away. One of them had her phone out. Her name was Briana Wells. She was 26, a junior security engineer, and she had been at Nexus for 14 months.
She pressed record.
Grant stepped closer, close enough that Terrence could smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp, designed to remind you of the distance between your world and his. Close enough to make the height difference feel like a weapon.
"Let me explain something to you, kid. More than 200 engineers have tried to crack this vulnerability. Real engineers. People with degrees from schools you couldn't find on a map. People who've been writing code since before your mother figured out how to use a phone. Every single one of them failed."
He gestured at Terrence's entire body, head to toe, slow and deliberate.
"And you think you're going to walk in off the street and solve it?"
"Yes."
Grant laughed. It was not a real laugh. It was the kind of sound people make when they want everyone around them to know something is beneath them. Two engineers behind him laughed too. Then three more. The sound bounced off the glass walls.
"What's in the bag? Your lunch?"
"My work."
"Show me."
Terrence hesitated. Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out the notebook. It was held together with rubber bands. The cover was soft from years of handling. The pages were warped from humidity and filled edge to edge with handwriting so dense it looked like a circuit board.