The numbers bled. Not metaphorically—the ink actually smeared under Zhang's thumb as he traced the ascending figures, streaks of black leaching into the paper's fibers like wet mascara. Lin snatched the statement back, holding it up to the moonlight. The account number pulsed: **XG-7782-449** flickered to **XG-7782-448**, then **XG-7782-447**, counting down with glacial precision.
Zhang made a sound like a kicked dog. "That's not—"
"Possible?" Lin finished. She flipped the paper over. The reverse side showed the same numbers, the same bleeding ink—but the account digits now read **XG-7782-446**. "The system isn't corrupt." Her voice was eerily calm. "The system is *conscious*."
A gust of wind nearly tore the statement from her hands. He caught it instinctively, his fingers brushing hers. The digits changed again—**XG-7782-445**—and this time, the shift prickled against his skin like static. The novel had never mentioned sentient bank accounts. Then again, the novel hadn't mentioned Lin knowing the plot either.
Zhang staggered back, pressing his palms to his temples. "This is a glitch. A hack. Someone's—"
"Editing." Lin's glasses reflected the descending numbers. "Think, Zhang. When you withdraw cash, do you ever check the serial numbers?"
Silence. The implication settled over them like ash.
He exhaled sharply. "They'd change too."
Lin nodded. "The narrative updates everything—including the parts we don't scrutinize." She tilted the paper sideways. The account number now displayed **XG-7782-440**, the last digit dissolving midair like smoke. "We're not breaking the system. We're *debugging* it."
Zhang's laugh was jagged. "You're saying we're *code*?"
"No." Lin folded the statement into precise quarters. "We're the *comments*—the parts no one expects to execute."
The rooftop door creaked. All three turned. No one there—just the wind nudging it shut again. But the movement triggered something in Zhang. He lunged, snatching the folded statement from Lin's grasp. "Prove it."
Before anyone could react, he flicked open a lighter—the same one that hadn't ignited earlier—and touched the flame to the paper's edge.
Fire shouldn't have spread that fast.
The statement combusted in a single *whoosh*, blue flames licking up Zhang's sleeve before vanishing into harmless smoke. No ash. No residue. Just the acrid tang of ozone.
And the numbers.
They hung in the air for three impossible seconds—**$260,000** glowing neon-bright—before fracturing into binary dust.
Lin didn't blink. "Satisfied?"
Zhang's hands shook. "What *are* we?"
The wind died abruptly. Somewhere in the city, a clock tower struck midnight. Twelve chimes, each reverberating through his ribs like a bass note.
Lin adjusted her glasses. "We're the variables the author didn't account for."
Far below, the heiress's car door slammed. An engine revved, tires screeching against wet pavement. The sound faded too quickly—swallowed by the night.
He flexed his fingers, watching moonlight glance off his unremarkable skin. "So now what?"
Lin turned toward the skyline. "Now we find the source."
Zhang bristled. "What source?"
"The hand holding the pen."
A satellite blinked out overhead. Then another.
The brokerage app on his phone chimed. **$260,000** had become **$0.00**.
The account number simply read: **[REDACTED]**