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墨書 Inktalez
As the computer's blue light twisted the numbers on the report into serpentine shapes, the central air conditioning suddenly ceased to function. Sweat trickled down the frame of my glasses, pooling into a question mark at the bottom of the balance sheet—last month's acquisition premium expenditure exceeded the morning meeting report by seven zeros.
The alert from Li Ming's encrypted email shattered the silence. The six words “Singapore APM Bank” flashed on the screen in sync with the sound of Zhang Zhiqiang snipping his cigar. The call log revealed that his cousin's offshore company was conveniently registered at the coordinates where a bullet could pierce through the financial room's bulletproof glass.
“ Supervisor Zhang, do you know anyone who does foreign exchange hedging?” I placed my coffee cup at a thirty-five-degree angle on his desk, its base pattern perfectly reflecting the cigar cutter tucked in his suit pocket. The uncleaned golden flecks on the edge of the ashtray aligned perfectly with the decimal point on the offshore account statement.
He swallowed hard, producing a series of three tremors: “Ha, ha, ha! Young people today are concerned about international affairs?” The reflection from his gold-rimmed glasses cast a distorted cross on the emergency exit sign, and the blinking red light from the miniature camera inside his tie clip matched exactly with the page number sequence of a project proposal that had gone missing two weeks ago.
The iron handle of the archive room's door still carried a hint of ink. Cabinet number thirty-seven, which should have contained the subsidiary equity change agreement, now held half a melted ice pack. A piece of dark red velvet hung from the air vent, matching perfectly with Lin Xueyao's fiber analysis report for her gown that went missing last week.
Wang Mingyuan flicked ash into the reflection in the conference room's floor-to-ceiling window: “The typhoon is changing course.” The watermarks traced by his fingertips on the bulletproof glass mirrored the altered annual interest rate figures on the financing agreement. The blue light from the projector illuminated his left neck, where an old burn scar bulged with veins, resembling tributaries on an offshore fund flow map.
Suddenly, a burnt smell erupted from the shredder, and vibrations like insect wings resonated through the ventilation ducts. As I reached for the first aid kit, someone grabbed my wrist; Li Ming's Swiss Army knife slipped from his cuff and severed the power line. The sparks dancing in the darkness illuminated two lines of code on his lenses—exactly matching the credit limit document number locked by the chairman's office this morning.
As a cleaning cart rolled over the fire door, I pulled out a miniature scanner hidden among potted plants. The watermark “Financial Statement” revealed a face outline under ultraviolet light—Zhang Zhiqiang's cousin’s entry and exit records showed that this person had frozen to death three years ago in a crevice of a glacier on the southern slopes of the Alps.
The rusty smell from the elevator shaft suddenly intensified sevenfold as I loosened my tie, causing motion sensors to activate lights. In a blind spot of security cameras along the emergency exit corridor, fresh asphalt oozed out with a unique rose fragrance from tires belonging to the chairman’s exclusive vehicle. My phone automatically switched to an internal board meeting interface, where a blood-red pop-up was counting down—71 hours 59 minutes and 59 seconds remained until the annual audit.
As I extracted a USB drive wedged between layers in a drawer, glass shattered suddenly from the pantry. As iced Americano spread into claw-like stains on the carpet, ceiling fire sprinklers unexpectedly began spraying pale blue liquid—identical to last week's spectral analysis results for anti-counterfeiting ink stolen from the tech department.
A sealed envelope sent by Wang Mingyuan brushed past my ear; its wax seal cracked under moonlight revealing Shen family insignia. The rhythmic tapping of his shoes against the floor translated into Morse code: eight words—“The body is buried under the crabapple tree.”
All emergency lights in the corridor abruptly went out as a wolf alarm blared fifteen meters away. Li Ming's last location ping indicated it was at the chairman's private helipad; astonishingly, it matched coordinates from twenty years ago when my mother received her terminal illness notification. In that darkness, something metallic pressed against my lower back, and I caught a whiff of Lin Xueyao's newly changed gardenia perfume—mingling with a bitter almond scent characteristic of cyanide.
At that moment, a heavy thud echoed from the direction of the finance office. Amidst the roar of the Security system activating, I felt something sticky on the back of the filing cabinet—transparent tape. As I tore it off, a faint electric current tingled at my fingertips; it was the biometric coating on the Micro Bomb's fuse, with the DNA binding information clearly displaying the chairman's fingerprint code.
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