Chapter Three - Seraphina
Morning comes too soon. I barely sleep—my brain refuses to let go, replaying every inch of the ballroom, every accidental touch, every word the stranger spoke.
His voice lingers. I try to shake it off, convince myself it was nothing.
Just a man, just a dance, just a party. No reason for my hands to tremble at the thought of him.
My laptop blinks to life, humming quietly in the morning hush.
I settle at my desk, oversized sweater swallowing my arms, hair scraped up in a hasty bun.
The apartment is all rectangles and angles, neat and silent except for the clack of keys.
I can still smell last night’s perfume on my wrist. It’s a reminder I scrub at with the heel of my hand. Stupid. Time to get back to real life.
The first files are easy—bank statements, routine transfers, the usual petty fraud.
I lose myself in code, in the logic of patterns, until the edges of the night before start to fade.
Not completely. Every now and then I catch myself glancing at the window, as if I’ll see that black mask reflected back at me. Ridiculous.
By noon, my eyes ache from squinting at encrypted logs. I shift in my chair, spine popping, and take another sip of cold coffee.
That’s when I find it: a set of transfers that don’t fit. Tiny withdrawals in the early hours, routed through shell companies with nonsense names. On their own, they look like noise—barely enough to notice.
They repeat, looping through different accounts, skipping between jurisdictions. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure no one noticed. Except I did.
My curiosity sharpens. I write a script, fingers flying.
As the results pile up, my pulse quickens.
The same names keep surfacing, drifting through every layer: faded LLCs, offshore trusts, strings of numbers that feel almost mocking in their simplicity.
Each lead seems to vanish into the same fogbank, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
An hour slips by. Maybe more. I almost don’t notice when the pattern resolves into something clearer—a series of recurring wire codes, identical in format, buried in the metadata. At the bottom of the transaction chain, a name. Miron Sharov.
My hands freeze. I stare at the letters, reading them over and over as if the meaning might change if I blink.
Sharov. My heart thumps, irregular. The name isn’t exactly common.
I run a quick background search. His public record pops up: corporate registrations, international addresses, old news pieces.
A couple of photographs, all steel-blue eyes and unsmiling mouth.
I feel a jolt somewhere deep, sick and hot at once. Powerful. Untouchable. Dangerous.
It’s absurd—coincidence, surely—but something in me refuses to let go.
I scan the photos again, lingering on the lines of his face.
Could he be the man from last night? I can’t tell.
The image is grainy, the light all wrong, and the idea is ludicrous anyway.
Still, my brain won’t let go of the suspicion.
Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe I’m hoping for an explanation that doesn’t exist.
I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment. In the darkness, I see the cut of his mask, the burn of his stare. I can’t shake the feeling that somehow he both saw me and looked right through me.
My phone buzzes. An email from my manager. “Status on the report?” it asks, nothing more. I sigh, pulling the cardigan tighter around myself. I’m halfway tempted to reply with the whole story, screenshots attached, every red flag circled in bold. Instead, I open a new draft and type out a summary.
Possible irregular activity, recommend further review. I hesitate, then add: Pattern suggests potential syndicate involvement. Multiple accounts, layered code, links to known foreign entities. High risk.
I read it back twice before sending. My finger hovers over the mouse. The room feels colder, the day darker. Why am I hesitating? It’s not like me.
Minutes later, my phone rings. I let it buzz, forcing myself to breathe. I know what’s coming.
“Seraphina.” My manager’s voice is flat, bored. “Got your note. You’re overcomplicating things. It’s probably just layering to avoid US tax. We see it all the time. Don’t waste your time on ghost stories. Get me a tidy summary by five, and move on.”
I almost laugh. The dismissal stings, but I’m not surprised. He’s never seen what I see, because he’s never wanted to.
“I’m telling you, the patterns don’t fit. I ran the numbers twice. Someone is laundering serious money, and it’s—”
“Don’t chase shadows, Seraphina. The client is high-profile. Be careful what you put in writing, yeah? Just flag the activity and close the file.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
For a minute, all I can hear is my own pulse.
The urge to slam my fist against the desk is almost overwhelming.
Instead, I let out a long breath, shaking with something halfway between anger and excitement.
I turn back to my screen, clicking through every scrap of data, chasing the feeling in my gut. There’s a story here. I know it.
Sharov’s face stares up from the monitor. I trace the hard line of his jaw, the cool disinterest of his mouth. Powerful, untouchable, dangerous. The words loop in my head. I can almost hear the echo of his voice: “You don’t belong here.”
Maybe I don’t. But I’m not leaving this alone.
By the time the sun sinks low, I have a new folder, hidden deep. Sharov. Inside: every screenshot, every thread, every whisper of his name. My nerves buzz, alive with risk. It’s reckless, maybe even stupid. I don’t care.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, steadying myself. One more glance at the encrypted files, one more scan for any detail I’ve missed. The day slips away, leaving only the glow of the screen and the memory of last night’s heat lingering on my skin.
I’m in deeper than I meant to be, but it’s too late to stop now. Something tells me I was never really out of his orbit, not for a second.
I try to force myself back to routine: close the tabs, finish the report, be the obedient cog they expect.
I keep coming back to that photo. Miron Sharov. There’s a cold certainty to the way he looks at the camera, even in pixelated grayscale. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. The world bends for men like him.
A rational voice in my head whispers that I should let this go. The job isn’t worth trouble. High-profile clients don’t like their shadows exposed. My manager’s voice echoes: “Don’t waste your time on ghost stories.”
Curiosity is its own kind of trap, and I’m already caught.
I scroll past news clippings, finance pages, international headlines, and little quotes about “philanthropy” and “emerging markets.”
Every article avoids the details, and every detail feels deliberate.
There’s no real information, not where it counts.
Only hints about Russian investment firms, shell corporations, a handful of sanitized interviews.
In one, he’s flanked by two men in black suits.
Their faces are blurred, but even in the blur, something about them is threatening. I stare, searching for cracks.
The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the air-conditioning. I should be scared. I am scared, a little. The stronger feeling is hunger. For what? The truth, maybe. Or just the satisfaction of pulling at a thread everyone else is too afraid to touch.
I jot notes in my own shorthand, careful to keep the folder buried deep in an encrypted drive. My screensaver kicks in, all swirling pixels, but I tap the spacebar and start again.
I dig through company registries, offshore filings, the sort of paperwork only criminals or analysts have the patience to untangle.
The further I go, the stranger it gets. Bank records disappear from public logs.
Names appear, then vanish, replaced by numbers.
There are emails that arrive and self-delete, pings from servers in places I can’t trace.
At some point, Izzy messages me: You alive? Or are you still hungover from the ball?
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking. I type back: Alive. Drowning in work. Call you later.
It’s almost true, but she doesn’t need to know how the memory of last night has burrowed in, or how the name I found today feels like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
I lean back, scrubbing at my eyes. My body aches. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, haven’t moved in hours. The city outside is all glass and glare, sunlight sliding toward dusk. My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is where smart people would stop. Back away. Save the file, turn it in, move on.
I double-click the next document instead, heart picking up speed. Sharov’s name blinks in the metadata, and suddenly, I feel like someone’s watching me from the other side of the glass. I swallow, glancing at the window. Nothing but my own reflection, pale and strained.
Still, I keep digging. Whatever game I’ve stepped into, I can’t look away.
***
I’m still at my desk when the office starts to empty out.
Most people have already gone—phones silenced, screens dark, the late sunlight slipping in at a low angle.
I pack my bag in slow motion, double-checking that every file is encrypted, every scrap of paper in the shredder.
My head aches from staring at code all day.
Still, the urge to look again—one more time, just in case—buzzes beneath my skin.
I’m tugging on my coat when I hear footsteps. My manager, Todd, rounds the corner with his usual forced smile wiped clean. He looks tired, mouth set, tie loosened a notch. I can tell he’s been watching me; maybe he always does. He leans against my cubicle, arms folded.
“You got a minute?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I meant what I said earlier, Seraphina.”
I swallow, forcing my expression neutral. “I’m just flagging what’s there. You said to—”
“I said to finish the report and move on,” he interrupts, voice dropping. “You’re not here to play detective. We don’t need the drama. Clients pay for discretion, not heroics.”
There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard before.
He glances at the monitors, lowering his voice even more.
“Look, you’re good at your job. That’s why I keep you on the sensitive stuff.
These people…” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be listening.
“You don’t poke at them. If you see something weird, you leave it the hell alone. Understood?”
I want to protest, but the warning is clear. His eyes linger on me, waiting for some sign of disobedience.
“I understand,” I say, the words tasting sour.
Todd’s face softens a little, but only just. “Good. Don’t fuck this up for us.
You know how fast word gets around in this city.
Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of these guys.
Especially not over something that’s not our business.
” He pushes off the cubicle wall, rolling his neck like the conversation is physically painful.
I force myself to nod, already feeling trapped. He walks away without another word, shoes scuffing across cheap carpet, leaving a hollow silence in his wake.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, pulse thrumming in my ears. I gather my things, every move deliberate. My bag feels heavier than usual. My hands are cold.
In the elevator, the mirrored walls catch my face—tired, pale, a little too hollow around the eyes. I look away before the doors close. Out on the street, the city roars back to life, neon buzzing, traffic shoving past. I tell myself I’ll let it go. I’ll do what he says.
But as I walk home, the name Sharov keeps circling in my mind. Every step feels like I’m falling deeper into something I can’t control.