The Ledger's Secret

The numbers on the screen blurred, then sharpened. You blinked, eyes burning from another sleepless night in the glass-walled office overlooking the city's glittering spine. The discrepancy was small—a rounding error, a fraction of a percent—but you'd learned long ago that small things hid big lies. You traced the transaction back through layers of shell companies, each one a door leading deeper into a labyrinth you weren't supposed to find.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. The file was encrypted, but not well. One more step and you'd have the name attached to the account that had paid out three million dollars the night before a man named Gregory Hale died in a "tragic" car accident.

The door opened.

Adrian Thorne stood in the frame, tailored suit immaculate, smile warm. His eyes went to the screen, then to you. "Working late," he said, stepping closer. "I thought I was the only one who kept these hours."

Your heart hammered, but your face stayed still. "Numbers don't sleep."

He moved around your desk, close enough that you caught the scent of sandalwood and something sharp beneath. "What did you find?"