CIAN
I opened the door to my study and shut it behind me with enough force that the lock caught on its own. The click was quiet but just as final. I stood there for a second, my hand still on the brass handle, letting the silence of the room settle over me like a second skin.
Then I moved.
The desk was where it always was. Heavy oak, dark enough to swallow light, positioned at an angle that gave me a view of both the door and the window. I had sat behind it a thousand times. I had signed documents there. Made decisions that changed lives. But today I wasn't interested in paperwork.
I pulled the drawer open. The middle one, second from the left. The wood slid smooth and silent on its tracks. Inside were the usual things. Pens. A letter opener I never used. A few folded documents I hadn't gotten around to filing. And beneath all of that, tucked into the corner where no one would think to look twice, was a small panel built flush into the bottom of the drawer.
