Julian’s black sedan was idling at the curb, its exhaust plume white in the cold rain.

The driver, a quiet man named Thomas, opened the door for us.

“The Drake,” Julian told him as we got into the back seat. “As quickly as you can.”

The car pulled out into the traffic, the tires splashing through the puddles on Michigan Avenue.

I watched the headlights of the oncoming cars blur through the rain-streaked window.

I pulled up my laptop, balancing it on my knees as the car jostled over a pothole.

I logged into the old project portal using my read-only administrator credentials.

The system was slow, lagging under the weight of the active transfers.

“She’s already moved two million,” I said, reading the ledger screen. “It’s going through a shell company registered in Delaware before hitting the Caymans.”

“Can you block it?” Julian asked, leaning over to look at the screen.

“No,” I said. “I don’t have write-access anymore. Adrian revoked my security keys two weeks ago.”

I felt a dull ache in my temples.