In a dark, private penthouse far away from the bustling centre of the city, the sound of someone typing on a keyboard filled the room.
Carl sat in front of one of the massive ultra-wide monitors, typing away while occasionally taking a slow sip of black coffee. The chatty, playful Carl who teased his sister-in-law over home-cooked meals was nowhere to be found and in his place sat an intensely focused man, his eyes cold and calculating.
Endless streams of encrypted code ran down the screen on his left, and on the table were the paper documents from the folder Phoebe had given to him at the cafe. The folder from the old Harbour. He had gone through the files twice, cross-referencing dates, bank records and financial disclosures.
By the third pass, he exhaled hard, reached for his coffee
