CASSIAN
The study was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of the desk lamp.
I preferred it that way. Overhead lights always felt too formal, like an interrogation room or a hospital ward, and I had spent more than enough time under those lately.
My fingers curled around the heavy ceramic of a coffee mug. It was black, bitter, and entirely necessary, though my hand gripped it with the exact same weight I usually reserved for a glass of scotch.
Spread across the dark wood of the desk were stacks of documents. They were carefully organized, piled in the precise layout of a man who had spent the last four days reading the exact same lines over and over again.
I wasn't just skimming. I was looking for the patterns buried beneath the surface of ordinary corporate reports, the tiny irregularities that most people wouldn't even notice.
