I almost laugh. The dismissal stings, but I’m not surprised. He’s never seen what I see, because he’s never wanted to.
“I’m telling you, the patterns don’t fit. I ran the numbers twice. Someone is laundering serious money, and it’s—”
“Don’t chase shadows, Seraphina. The client is high-profile. Be careful what you put in writing, yeah? Just flag the activity and close the file.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
For a minute, all I can hear is my own pulse. The urge to slam my fist against the desk is almost overwhelming. Instead, I let out a long breath, shaking with something halfway between anger and excitement. I turn back to my screen, clicking through every scrap of data, chasing the feeling in my gut. There’s a story here. I know it.
Sharov’s face stares up from the monitor. I trace the hard line of his jaw, the cool disinterest of his mouth. Powerful, untouchable, dangerous. The words loop in my head. I can almost hear the echo of his voice:“You don’t belong here.”
Maybe I don’t. But I’m not leaving this alone.
By the time the sun sinks low, I have a new folder, hidden deep. Sharov. Inside: every screenshot, every thread, every whisper of his name. My nerves buzz, alive with risk. It’s reckless, maybe even stupid. I don’t care.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, steadying myself. One more glance at the encrypted files, one more scan for any detail I’ve missed. The day slips away, leaving only the glow of the screen and the memory of last night’s heat lingering on my skin.
I’m in deeper than I meant to be, but it’s too late to stop now. Something tells me I was never really out of his orbit, not for a second.
I try to force myself back to routine: close the tabs, finish the report, be the obedient cog they expect.
I keep coming back to that photo. Miron Sharov. There’s a cold certainty to the way he looks at the camera, even in pixelated grayscale. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. The world bends for men like him.
A rational voice in my head whispers that I should let this go. The job isn’t worth trouble. High-profile clients don’t like their shadows exposed. My manager’s voice echoes:“Don’t waste your time on ghost stories.”
Curiosity is its own kind of trap, and I’m already caught.
I scroll past news clippings, finance pages, international headlines, and little quotes about “philanthropy” and “emerging markets.”
Every article avoids the details, and every detail feels deliberate. There’s no real information, not where it counts. Only hints about Russian investment firms, shell corporations, a handful of sanitized interviews. In one, he’s flanked by two men in black suits. Their faces are blurred, but even in the blur, something about them is threatening. I stare, searching for cracks.
The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the air-conditioning. I should be scared. I am scared, a little. The stronger feeling is hunger. For what? The truth, maybe. Or just the satisfaction of pulling at a thread everyone else is too afraid to touch.
I jot notes in my own shorthand, careful to keep the folder buried deep in an encrypted drive. My screensaver kicks in, all swirling pixels, but I tap the spacebar and start again.
I dig through company registries, offshore filings, the sort of paperwork only criminals or analysts have the patience to untangle. The further I go, the stranger it gets. Bank records disappear from public logs. Names appear, then vanish, replaced by numbers. There are emails that arrive and self-delete, pings from servers in places I can’t trace.
At some point, Izzy messages me:You alive? Or are you still hungover from the ball?
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking. I type back:Alive. Drowning in work. Call you later.
It’s almost true, but she doesn’t need to know how the memory of last night has burrowed in, or how the name I found today feels like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
I lean back, scrubbing at my eyes. My body aches. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, haven’t moved in hours. The city outside is all glass and glare, sunlight sliding toward dusk. Myfingers hover over the keyboard. This is where smart people would stop. Back away. Save the file, turn it in, move on.
I double-click the next document instead, heart picking up speed. Sharov’s name blinks in the metadata, and suddenly, I feel like someone’s watching me from the other side of the glass. I swallow, glancing at the window. Nothing but my own reflection, pale and strained.
Still, I keep digging. Whatever game I’ve stepped into, I can’t look away.
***
I’m still at my desk when the office starts to empty out. Most people have already gone—phones silenced, screens dark, the late sunlight slipping in at a low angle. I pack my bag in slow motion, double-checking that every file is encrypted, every scrap of paper in the shredder. My head aches from staring at code all day. Still, the urge to look again—one more time, just in case—buzzes beneath my skin.
I’m tugging on my coat when I hear footsteps. My manager, Todd, rounds the corner with his usual forced smile wiped clean. He looks tired, mouth set, tie loosened a notch. I can tell he’s been watching me; maybe he always does. He leans against my cubicle, arms folded.
“You got a minute?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I meant what I said earlier, Seraphina.”
I swallow, forcing my expression neutral. “I’m just flagging what’s there. You said to—”
