“You’re not afraid to say that,” he says.
“I’m already in your house,” I say. “If you don’t like what I say, I won’t make it to the tram. So I might as well be useful.”
Another flick of his mouth. Another almost-smile.
“You think he’s inside?” he asks. “The Courier.”
“I think he knows your systems,” I say. “I think someone who works under you let him meet your wires. Maybe for money. Maybe for fear. Maybe to feel clever. I don’t know yet. But he knows your cameras. He knows your alarms.”
I tap another window.
“These are from your estate,” I say. “You called it a routine check. It isn’t. You’ve got tiny drops in feed around service doors and staff corridors. Ten seconds here, twelve there. Perfect little cuts. They sit on days when nothing important is marked, so no one looked twice. No one except whoever cut them.”
I look up.
“That’s why you called me,” I say. “You already saw some of it. You want a second set of eyes.”
“And do your eyes agree with mine?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He studies me.
“Where did you study?” he asks.
“Online,” I say. “University files say Moscow State. The diploma is forged. The work isn’t.”
“So you forged your way in,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because nobody wants to hire a girl from a broken district who learned to code in internet cafes,” I say. “But they’ll talk to someone with a seal on a paper.”
“And me?” he asks. “What are you trying to do with me?”
I meet his eyes straight.
“Eat,” I say. “Sleep somewhere that isn’t a shared bunk. And maybe poke at a system big enough to challenge me.”
His gaze heats a little at that.
“You like pressure,” he says.
“I hate boredom,” I say.
He looks at my laptop again.
“You've had these files for an hour,” he says. “How much more can you give me before I decide what you’re worth?”
“I can map the gaps in your estate feeds,” I say. “I can show you which doors Courier already tested. I can tell you how his style changed over the last year. I can tell you that he’s getting bolder.”
“How?” he asks.
“The early jobs were in empty places,” I say. “Warehouses. Basements. Streets with no nearby cameras. The later ones edge closer to you. Hotels near your meetings. Service tunnels under your routes. And now your estate logs match his cuts. He’s not content to stay out at the border. He’s walking toward your center.”
Silence again. It stretches, but it isn’t empty. I can feel him weighing every word.
