The secure records room smells of paper dust and secrets. I stand motionless in the doorway, letting my senses expand into the space—the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the metallic tang of filing cabinets, the lingering traces of everyone who's accessed these documents before me. My fingers find the light switch, and the room floods with harsh illumination that makes my sensitive eyes ache. But I need to see, need to confirm what my instincts have been screaming for weeks.
The door clicks shut behind me with a sound like finality. I hesitate, listening—one floor down, the night janitor's cart squeaks along the hallway; two floors below, security makes their rounds, keys jingling with each measured step. No one is near enough to interrupt what I've come to do.
I move to the cabi
