The box cleared Silver Moon’s security desk on a Tuesday.
Heavy cardboard, aggressively taped, shipped overnight from a dead-drop in Zurich. Selene brought it up to the penthouse herself. She dropped it on the glass conference table like it was wired with C4.
"Dorian’s care package," she said.
She slid a single, unsealed index card across the glass. Dorian’s handwriting. Tight, clinical.
Aurora. The last of my father’s black-book files. The ones he kept out of the main servers. I haven't read them. Don't want to. He was tracking the third vault. He got close. I think the math terrified him. I’m burning my passports. Heading north. Maren has my encrypted ping if the board completely collapses. Tell Selene I don't expect absolution. But I’m sorry.
I handed the card back to Selene. She r
