Before Ryan could pull his hand away from the cold, unyielding padlock of cabinet four, heavy and hurried footsteps slapped sharply against the linoleum of the records alcove. Craig, an operations floor manager with his sleeves rolled up and a striped tie wrenched askew, rounded the corner of the steel shelving units, his face flushed and damp with stress as he caught sight of Ryan standing alone near the restricted archive.
"Fujimoto," Craig breathed, his voice tight with an erratic panic that cut through the low-frequency hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. He planted a hand against the metal filing cabinet, effectively blocking the narrow exit of the alcove, and glared down at Ryan with accusing eyes. "Tell me you didn't touch the regional distribution drawers. Internal audit is tearing the fifth-floor server room apart because a primary asset ledger—the entire unmasked Chiba transfer log—vanished from the holding bin less than twenty minutes ago."
Ryan felt the dense, illicit weight of the leather-bound ledger pressing hard against his ribs through the canvas fabric of his messenger bag, his pulse spiking a frantic rhythm against his collarbones. Swallowing the dry knot in his throat, he smoothed the front of his pressed white collared shirt with mechanical precision and forced his features into the dull, accommodating blankness of a perpetually tired marketing coordinator, meeting the manager's desperate gaze without breaking stride.