Shadows of the Gilded

The ledger swam before your eyes, a river of zeros and coded entries that all led to the same dead end—a shell company in the Caymans with a name that was barely a whisper in the dark. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the low hum of the server room a constant thrum against your skull. You'd been hired to find discrepancies, not conspiracy. But the pattern was there, a ghost trail of millions bleeding out of Voss Industries in untraceable increments, each one a breadcrumb leading toward the Serpiente cartel.

The door hissed open behind you. You didn't turn, didn't flinch—just let your fingers resume their lazy dance across the keys, the picture of a bored auditor burning the midnight oil.

"Working late," a voice said. Not Damien's. Rina's. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each step a measured threat. "I thought you'd be at the penthouse party. Damien's been asking for you."

You turned, offering a tired smile. "Numbers don't party."

Her eyes swept the room, lingering on your screen for a fraction too long. "No," she said, soft as silk. "They don't. But they do lie." She smiled, and it didn't reach her eyes. "Don't they, auditor?"

The word hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Your heart hammered, but your smile never wavered.