The blue light of the laptop screen was burning a hole in Damien's retinas.
It was 3:00 AM. The city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was a grid of silent lights, but inside the penthouse, the only thing moving was the cursor on Damien's screen.
He stared at the spreadsheet.
Row 412. Shell Company. Zurich.Row 413. Offshore Trust. Cayman Islands.Row 414. Private Equity. Singapore.
The data was a labyrinth. It was a mess of numbers and names designed to hide the truth, and for the first time in his career, Damien couldn't find the pattern. He usually thrived on this—the hunt, the puzzle, the kill. But tonight, the rows were blurring together into a headache that felt like a nail being driven into his left temple.
"Fuck this," he whispered.
He closed the laptop with a snap that sounded too loud in the quiet room.
