Every step felt like a mistake, the metal stairs ringing softly under our weight.

We reached the landing.

The door to the office was slightly ajar.

A yellow light from a desk lamp spilled out onto the wet floorboards of the catwalk.

Killian pushed the door open with his foot.

Sitting at the desk was a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket.

His head was slumped forward onto a stack of shipping manifests.

A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat near his right hand.

“Marcus,” Aries said, stepping into the room.

Killian approached the desk and pressed two fingers to the man’s neck.

He looked back at us and shook his head.

“He is gone,” Killian said.

“Look at his fingers,” I said, pointing.

The tips of the dead man’s fingers were stained a deep, dark purple.

The same color as the chemical reaction on my testing plate.

“He didn’t just import it,” Aries said.

“He was silenced.”

Killian began searching the drawers of the desk, tossing files aside.

“The shipping ledgers are gone,” Killian said.

“The hard drives have been pulled.”