"Ican provide the caffeine."
Myboots carry me to the small kitchenette in the corner, fully stocked with a coffee maker, a mini-fridge, and a massive stack ofMREsdesigned for a siege.
"Black," she requests beforeIopen my mouth.
"Isthere any other way?"
"You'dbe surprised.Mostpeople try to drown the bitter."
"Ilike the bitter."
Ipour two mugs.Steamrises, carrying the heavy scent of dark roast.Thearoma matches theCozyCupback in town, minus the cinnamon and the local gossip.IfChristieknewIkept a woman locked down here, the news would hit theTimberTrailTavernbefore sunset.
Theceramic mug clunks down next to her colored highlighters.
"Thanks."Shekeeps her eyes glued to the monitors, completely absorbed in the cascading data.
Iretreat to my corner, letting the shadows wrap securely around my shoulders.ThisVaultacts as my absolute domain.Ioperate as the phantom of the ledgers, the one who makes massive problems disappear into the void.Theabsolute silence and therhythmic hum of the cooling fans usually bring a deep sense of peace.
Now, a completely new rhythm infiltrates the space.Keystrokestap rapidly, followed closely by the aggressive scratch of her pen.Shetypes constantly, only stopping to scribble notes on her legal pad while muttering under her breath.
"Inventorywrite-off...Depreciationschedule doesn't match the asset tag...Whobuys fifteen thousand dollars of copper wire inFebruary?"
Hernarrated thought process creates a constant stream of verbal noise.Thedistraction should drive me insane, consideringIrequire utter silence to think clearly.Instead,Ifind myself leaning in, latching onto the cadence of her voice like a lifeline.
Itrack her fourth breath, then her fifth.
Mygaze traces her back, following the delicate curve of her spine through the pink cardigan.Sherepeatedly tucks a loose strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, establishing a new pattern for me to track.Shepossesses pure chaotic energy, all contained within a small, soft package.Nowshe sits there tearing apart my life's work with a neon plastic pen.
Twohours bleed away into the humming quiet.
Theair inside theVaultgrows exceptionally heavy.Theventilation system hums, cycling the oxygen, yet the atmosphere feels impossibly thick and charged.
"Youhave a problem in the logistics account," she announces, shattering the quiet.
Ipush off the wall. "Logisticsis solid.Shanechecks every shipment."
"Shanechecks the physical crates," she counters, spinning the chair to face me. "Someoneis skimming the shipping fees.Look."
Apink-tipped finger points directly at the screen.
Iclose the distance, leaning over her shoulder to inspect the indicated line of code.Mychest brushes her arm.
Heatsnaps between us, a live wire arcing through the air.Staticelectricity cracks over our skin, invisible but impossible to ignore.
Sheinhales sharply, the sudden hitch in her breath loudly telegraphing her physical reaction.Six.
"Here," she whispers, her throat tight. "Seethe variance?Point-zero-five percent on every international transaction.Itregisters as dust, completely tiny.Overthree years, though..."
"Itadds up,"Ifinish, my voice dropping dangerously low.
Myeyes scan the numbers, confirming her theory.Theskim lies buried deep in the exchange rate calculations, appearing as a simple rounding error that funnels pennies into a ghost account.
"Smart,"Imutter.
"Greedy," she corrects. "Theygot confident.Sixmonths ago, the percentage bumped to point-zero-eight.Thattriggered theIRSflags."
Istare at the screen, completely losing focus on the data.Myattention shifts entirely to her neck, tracing the delicate line of her throat and the rapid pulse beating frantically under her paleskin.Shepossesses pure brilliance.Theclub has bled cash for months without my knowledge.Ihandle numbers efficiently, but she fluently speaks their language, uncovering distinct patterns hidden deep within the chaos.
