With his canvas bag heavy with unauthorized manifests and the cold weight of the metadata photo resting in his pocket, Ryan turned to give his desk a final, sweeping check before the evening system lock took full effect. The fourth-floor marketing pod was entirely deserted now, the rhythmic clatter of daytime keyboards replaced by the low, mechanical hum of central air-conditioning units winding down for the night.
As his gaze swept across the matte plastic bezel of his primary monitor, a stray glint of office light caught the edge of a faded, curling yellow sticky note that had somehow escaped his notice earlier in the frantic afternoon. The handwriting—scrawled in the hurried, looping script of Marcus, the senior logistics coordinator who had cleared out his cubicle and vanished from Corravale Beverages months before Ryan even inherited the desk—bore a final, chilling directive: They buried the Mascot audit long before you got here. Don't look for the physical ledger in the sub-basement.
A cold draft seemed to slip through the sealed glass facade of the high-rise, making the loose paper twitch slightly on its tired adhesive. Ryan swallowed hard, his throat tight, and forced himself to turn his back on the silent workstation. Walking quickly toward the elevator bank with his coat buttoned against the artificial chill, his shoes echoing sharply against the empty corridor, he pressed the call button, desperate to leave the corporate ghost town behind and catch the evening train back to Rhodes.