Every offshore transfer bore Alexander’s digital signature.

But Alexander wouldn’t flinch.

He had looked at me this morning before the police arrived and told me to stay invisible.

“They don’t look at the people who carry the trays, Clara,” he had said.

He was right.

To Marcus and Victoria, I was part of the office furniture.

I walked down the narrow passage toward the server room.

The walls here were bare concrete, painted gray.

Above me, thick bundles of blue and yellow network cables ran along the ceiling like veins.

The hum of the cooling units grew louder as I approached the end of the hall.

I reached the secondary door, the one leading directly to the primary mainframe.

This lock was different.

It required a biometric scan or a physical key.

I reached into my leather bag.

Beneath the folders, my fingers brushed the cold brass of the key I had taken from Marcus’s desk drawer three nights ago.

He kept a spare override key in an old silver cigar box.

He never thought I noticed him putting it there.