Author's Preface
[Irene]
The glass doors of KS Firm slide open with a subtle hiss, and I step into the cool, air-conditioned foyer of the central office.
My two escorts—both Verin security men in dark coats—remain outside the entrance, keeping watch from the courtyard.
I walk straight to the front desk, present my digital transfer badge, and am directed up to the fourth floor.
The open-plan office is expansive, filled with long rows of sleek, white desks and glass-partitioned meeting rooms.
As I follow the HR manager down the central aisle, subtle shifts in posture ripple across the room.
The sound of typing falters.
Heads tilt toward one another in quiet whispers, eyes tracking my black blazer and tailored trousers.
They know the Seran name, and they know the recent corporate acquisition that put this building under the Verin umbrella.
I ignore the stares as the manager gestures toward a desk near the far corner.
"This will be your workspace, Irene," she says quickly, tapping the laminate surface. "Your network access is pre-configured."
"Thank you," I reply, setting my leather bag on the desk and pulling out my laptop.
I log into the server, bringing up the quarterly market assessments.
[ *** ]
Around 10 AM, a quiet thud sounds beside my keyboard.
A paper cup of hot coffee sits on the laminate surface, steam rising slowly from the lid.
I tilt my head up.
Standing across from my desk is a man in a rolled-sleeve dress shirt, holding his own mug.
He wears a relaxed, confident smile, and his badge identifies him as Romeo Corin, Senior Risk Analyst.
"Welcome to the fourth floor," Romeo says, leaning casually against the edge of the adjacent divider. "Figured you might need a caffeine boost to deal with our database speeds."
I look at the cup, then up at his face. "I've already had coffee. But thank you."
Romeo doesn't lose his smile.
He takes a slow sip from his mug, resting an arm on the low partition.
"You're a hard person to track down in the company directory. People were beginning to think the Seran transfer request was just a system error."
"It wasn't an error," I say, typing as data columns fill the display. "I prefer working on-site."
"Right. Well, if you need help navigating the legacy drives or finding the decent lunch spots around here, let me know," he offers, his tone light and persistent.
"I'll manage," I answer, keeping my eyes fixed strictly on the screen. "Thank you, Romeo."
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then gives a brief nod before heading back to his own station across the aisle.
[ *** ]
By 12:15 PM, the office begins to empty for the hour-long lunch break.
I wait until Romeo and the surrounding analysts step out toward the elevators.
Once the floor is clear, I close my laptop, sling my bag over my shoulder, and slip quietly toward the service stairwell at the rear of the building.
I descend three flights, avoiding the main elevators, and step into the dimly lit basement corridor reserved for building maintenance.
At the far end of the hallway, a door marked Facilities Operations sits slightly ajar.
I knock twice on the metal frame.
An elderly man in dark blue work overalls steps out, holding a ring of heavy brass keys.
His weathered face lightens with immediate recognition.
"Miss Irene," he says softly, his voice low. "Everything is set."
"Thank you, Thomas," I say quietly.
He unlocks a narrow supply closet off the main utility room, stepping back to let me inside.
A heavy canvas duffel bag sits on an iron shelf inside.
Inside are a pair of dark denim jeans, a black leather jacket, and a full-face motorcycle helmet.
"I'll keep watch by the hallway door," Thomas says, turning his back to the closet and pulling the door almost shut behind him.
I change out of my blazer and trousers, folding them neatly into the duffel bag along with my laptop and purse.
I pull on the leather jacket, adjust the straps, and zip the canvas bag shut.
When I step out, Thomas hands me a small brass key.
"The old loading bay at the west wing," he whispers, gesturing toward a dark service tunnel. "The gate is unlocked. I'll lock it back behind you."
"I appreciate this, Thomas," I say, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He gives me a brief, steady nod. "Your father was good to my family, Miss Irene. Go on."
I hurry down the damp concrete tunnel toward the disused west parking structure.
Tucked behind an oversized industrial waste container sits a matte-black sport bike.
I pull off the cloth tarp covering it, slide the key into the ignition, and pull on the dark-tinted helmet.
The engine turns over with a quiet, powerful hum.
The heavy corrugated metal door of the bay slowly rolls up as Thomas works the pulley mechanism from inside.
I shift into gear, roll smoothly out into the narrow alleyway behind the building, and accelerate into the midday city traffic, well clear of the Verin guards watching the front entrance.
[ *** ]
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the underground parking structure of Meridian Bank in the financial district.
I lock the helmet to the frame, carry the canvas duffel under my arm, and walk up the marble stairs to the main banking hall.
An officer at the private client desk checks my identification card, inputs a clearance code, and guides me through a heavy security door into the subterranean safety deposit vault.
"Take your time, Miss Seran," the officer says, locking the outer gate behind me.
I walk down the row of polished steel lockers until I reach box 408.
I enter my six-digit PIN on the digital keypad, turn the physical key in the cylinder, and pull the heavy steel drawer open.
Inside lies a thick stack of untraceable cash, an encrypted security token, and a burner phone.
I pull the phone out, power it on, and dial a memorized international number.
The line rings four times before a low, gravelly voice answers on the other end.
"Speak."
"It's Irene," I say, my voice clipped and steady. "I need an update."
A brief pause sounds over the line before the contact speaks.
"Intel picked up a hit in Toronto a week ago. Someone fitting his description was spotted near the dockyards, but he went dark right after. He hasn't surfaced since."
My fingers tighten against the plastic shell of the phone. "Is the team moving?"
"The boys are on the ground there now," he replies. "Sweeping the shipping manifests and local safehouses."
"Good," I say. "I'm executing an offshore transfer into the primary account today. I'll call back in exactly one week for the next status report. If an emergency happens before then, use the secondary drop."
"Understood."
"Goodbye."
I end the call immediately.
I pop open the back casing of the phone, pull out the SIM card, and snap it in two between my fingers.
I walk over to the small private washroom inside the vault chamber, drop the broken SIM pieces into the toilet, and flush them down.
Taking a small iron weight from the utility drawer, I smash the burner phone against the metal utility frame until the screen and internal circuitry are completely destroyed.
I drop the broken pieces into the waste bin.
Using the private digital terminal in the vault room, I sync the hardware key and authorize the wire transfer into the offshore asset account.
Once the confirmation code flashes green, I store the remaining physical cash, log off, and lock box 408 shut.
[ *** ]
By 1:10 PM, I pull back into the old loading bay behind the KS Firm building.
Thomas is waiting by the pulley.
The moment I cut the bike's engine, he lowers the metal shutter, securing the latch.
"All clear upstairs," Thomas informs me as I unfasten my helmet. "No one came looking down here."
I quickly change back into my corporate attire inside the utility closet, packing the leather jacket and helmet back into the duffel bag.
I smooth down my hair, adjust my blazer lapels, and hand the duffel back to him.
"Thank you again, Thomas," I say quietly.
"Be careful, Miss Irene," he answers, storing the canvas bag back on the high shelf.
I take the service stairwell back up to the fourth floor and step through the glass doors at one-twenty-five.
Romeo is back at his station, reviewing a printout.
He looks up as I walk past his desk, offering a brief nod.
I nod back once and sit down at my desk.
I open my laptop, pull up the risk assessment spreadsheets, and resume typing as if I had never left my desk.
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