Old paper and dust clung to the accounting office like a memory that refused to fade. It was the scent of forgotten lives, of promises reduced to ink, of secrets buried inside ledgers that no one had opened in years.
The clubhouse had finally fallen quiet.
Hours earlier, Noah's keyboards had filled the building with the frantic rhythm of racing code. Boots had echoed through the hallways. Men had argued over security, patched wounds, checked weapons, and waited for the next attack.
Now there was only silence.
The old desk lamp cast a tired circle of yellow light across the mahogany desk where I sat alone. Beyond the rain-speckled window, the mountains had disappeared into darkness. Somewhere below, a floorboard creaked.
Everyone else had gone to sleep.
Or at least pretended to.
Slee
