POV: Dante
I don't like going up to Risk Analysis without warning.
Every visit disrupts the floor: keys that stop working, conversations that are cut short. Normally it's useful. Not today.
Today I want to see her.
The elevator rings "ding" at thirty-one. The doors open and the smell of reheated coffee greets me first. Then, underneath, what really brought me here: that warm trail that I already recognize as my own.
Aurora.
I don't need to see her to know where she is. I follow the direction in which the air changes, where cheap perfume and disinfectant are no longer enough to cover up who she is.
I find her in her cubicle, in profile. Her body leaning toward the screen, her fingers pressing the mouse. Next to her, the analyst from the adjoining cubicle, the same one who didn't leave her side yesterday, with an alert expression.
I stop a few steps away.
On the screen, the first thing I recognize is not the company logo.
It's a line.
"Aurora Program - Cohort 03."
For a second, the entire floor falls silent.
Blood pounds in my temples. The thread that had been tugging at my mind since I saw her file suddenly tightens.
Seraphim → internal foundation → community programs → Aurora Program → her.
I knew I would come across that file. I didn't think it would be so soon.
Aurora swallows. Her scent changes: subtle fear, mixed with the warm base of her body. She doesn't take her eyes off the screen.
The analyst next to her reads the same line, frowning. She says something I can't hear, but the gesture is clear: warning.
If I stay a second longer, I'll cross the line between surveillance and exposure. I can't afford that.
I resume walking, as if I had come straight to Andrade's office.
I knock on the glass frame with my knuckles.
He looks up.
"Mr. Noir," he says. "I wasn't expecting you today."
"I need a quick status on Seraphim," I say. "And to know what files Vega is reviewing right now."
His gaze shifts toward the cubicles.
"She's with the community program funds," he replies. "I wanted her to see the entire structure before moving on to operations."
"Including the scholarship programs," I specify.
He swallows.
"Yes, sir."
I enter the office. I close the door.
"Has she mentioned anything... personal?" I ask.
"Not yet," he says. "But if the scholarship that brought her here is the same one listed in those funds, it won't be long before she connects the dots."
I look at Aurora's reflection in the glass. She's not looking at us, but her posture is that of someone who has just stumbled upon something of her own.
"I want a list of the transactions associated with that program," I order. "Dates, amounts, adjustments. Mark any unsupported 'fund reallocations.'"
"We already have some marked in the audit," Andrade says. "But no one had connected that to her scholarship. We didn't know that..."
"You didn't know because I didn't know either," I cut him off.
I remember the foundation committee: folders, photos of students, the name of the program flashing before my eyes: "Aurora."
I didn't remember that the name and the person would meet like this.
"Do you want us to remove her from Seraphim?" Andrade asks. "We could reassign her. She's still new."
It would be the logical thing to do.
Move her away. Take her off the line with her name on it. Protect her from the guilt that comes when you understand that your life is paid for with money that smells like something else.
My rational side knows this.
The other side sees something different: if I take her out now, knowing that she was right there in that file, she'll sense that I'm treating her like a problem, not like an analyst. And she'll keep looking for answers, just somewhere else.
A confused omega is easy to push into the wrong arms.
"No," I reply. "Leave it where it is. If we move it now, she'll smell manipulation. We'll let her see it. But I want mirrors of everything she touches. Reports, notes, drafts. If someone deletes a comma, I need to know.
"I'll coordinate with systems," he says.
"And Andrade," I add, "if she mentions a conflict of interest, don't shut her up. Document the conversation and send it to me."
"Do you want me to reassure her?" he asks.
I think about it.
If you tell her, "Don't worry, it's normal," she'll know you're lying. If you admit that it's strange, she might run away or look deeper.
"Tell her the truth you can back up," I reply. "That the project is complex. That's why I want her there. Don't tell her which part involves her more than necessary. Not yet."
I leave the office.
The floor tries to look normal.
Aurora is still in front of the screen. Her colleague is no longer by her side, but the empty chair indicates that she will return. She, on the other hand, hasn't moved. The cursor blinks next to the program line, as if it too is waiting for her to decide what to do with it.
Her scent comes in soft waves. Heat, fear, something stubborn underneath. And mixed in, that unmistakable nuance that reminds me that this isn't just an accounting problem.
I continue to the internal elevator.
As soon as the doors close, I take out my phone.
"Sebastian," I say when he answers. "Expand the search."
"What do you mean, Alpha?" he asks.
"Aurora," I reply. "I want the details of her scholarship funding. Who authorized the transfers from Seraphim, which accounts were touched, which clans have a hand in those funds." And if anyone else could connect that trail to her.
"Understood," he says. "Priority?"
I watch the floor number go down.
Thirty.
Twenty-eight.
Lobby.
"High," I reply. "If Seraphim is tainted, I can clean it up. If they try to use her as a pawn, that's another matter.
I hang up.
The image that stays with me isn't that of the project falling apart.
It's Aurora staring at the line with her name on the screen, wondering if her new life was a prize...
Or the first move in a game that others started long before she knew she was playing.