---
The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.
The numbers above the polished doors blinked lazily—seven… eight… nine…—but each floor seemed to breathe with the hum of electricity. Ethan Cole tugged at his tie, trying to ignore the nervous sweat gathering at his collar.
He told himself this was normal. First-day jitters.
But deep down, something felt off.
When the elevator chimed and the doors parted, Ethan stepped into the twenty-seventh floor of Graywood Capital, one of London's most prestigious—and notoriously private—financial firms.
The floor looked like a photograph out of a magazine: marble floors gleaming like still water, chrome-framed partitions dividing spotless desks, the faint scent of lemon polish and printer ink hanging in the air. Everything screamed wealth and order.
Yet, it was too quiet.
Not the focused silence of productivity — but the kind of silence that presses on your chest, that warns you not to speak too loud, as if the walls might be listening.
He smiled at the receptionist. She didn't smile back. Just nodded, typed something on her screen, and gestured toward the hallway.
"HR's that way," she said without looking up.
Ethan chuckled awkwardly. "Right. Thanks."
He walked down the corridor, each step echoing. His polished shoes tapped against the marble, the sound bouncing off the cold, glass walls. The office layout felt clinical — too symmetrical, too perfect.
He rounded a corner and nearly bumped into someone.
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't—"
"Watch where you're going, new guy."
The voice was female, crisp, with a faint London accent. The woman was petite, wearing a pencil skirt and carrying a coffee cup that said World's Okayest Employee. Her ID badge read: Clara Brooks – Accounts Department.
Ethan blinked. "Uh, yeah, sorry. I'm Ethan Cole—first day."
Clara tilted her head, giving him a once-over. "First day? Oh, you poor thing."
He laughed uneasily. "That bad?"
"Oh, it's not bad," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "It's weird."
"Weird?"
She looked around, then leaned in conspiratorially. "You didn't hear it from me, but… someone jumped off the roof last week."
Ethan froze. "I—what?"
"Mm-hmm," she said, stirring her coffee like it was nothing. "An accountant. Worked here for years. Said to be the quiet type. Then one morning, boom—roof to pavement."
Ethan blinked, unsure if she was serious. "You're joking."
She smirked, lips curving. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
"…I mean, kind of?"
Clara laughed softly, but her eyes didn't match her tone. "Relax, newbie. Everyone pretends it didn't happen. You won't find a word about it on the record. Management's allergic to bad press."
Ethan frowned. "So how do you know?"
"I like knowing things." She sipped her coffee and smiled mischievously. "And I like gossip. But no one knows that I know. So, keep my secret, yeah?"
He nodded, still trying to wrap his head around what she'd said. "Yeah. Sure."
"Good boy." She winked and walked ahead. "Come on, rookie. Don't want to keep the vultures waiting."
---
The main office stretched out like a maze of glass and light. Dozens of desks, identical in design, sat lined in perfect order. Each worker hunched quietly over their screen, moving only when absolutely necessary.
Ethan could feel eyes flick toward him — not in welcome, but in measurement.
Every glance felt like an audit.
A man in a navy-blue suit strode toward him. His movements were sharp, efficient. The kind of man who seemed allergic to small talk. His name tag read: MARTIN GRAVES – Senior Finance Manager.
"Mr. Cole?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
Martin gave a curt nod. "Follow me."
Ethan obeyed, following him through the narrow aisles. Martin didn't speak until they reached a corner office with a view of the city skyline.
"You'll be handling reconciliation for Account Set D," Martin said, handing him a file. "The previous accountant's work has been… terminated."
Ethan blinked. "Terminated as in—?"
"Terminated," Martin repeated, his tone final. "You'll start fresh. Don't waste time on old data."
"But—shouldn't I review the prior accounts to ensure continuity?"
Martin's eyes flicked up sharply. "We value efficiency, Mr. Cole. Not curiosity."
The air between them tightened. Ethan nodded. "Understood."
Martin gestured toward a cubicle near the window. "Your desk. Lunch is at one. Don't be late."
And just like that, he turned and left, his polished shoes fading into the hush.
---
Ethan dropped into his seat. From here, he could see the Thames glittering faintly through the glass. London looked alive, free — but in here, the air felt suffocating.
He exhaled slowly, powering on his workstation.
The monitor flickered, booted up the company system, and displayed a clean interface filled with numbers, ledgers, and balance sheets.
Clara leaned on his partition, her coffee cup refilled. "So, how's the dream job treating you?"
Ethan grinned weakly. "I think everyone here could give robots a run for their money."
"Oh, they're worse than robots," she said. "At least robots don't gossip about you in the break room."
He laughed. "You sure do like gossip."
"Someone has to keep things interesting." She winked, then leaned closer. "Word of advice: don't talk too much, don't ask too many questions, and never, ever use the printer near Martin's office."
"Why not?"
"Let's just say… the last person who used it isn't around to tell the story."
Ethan frowned. "You're joking again, right?"
She smiled lazily. "Am I?"
---
When Clara finally left, Ethan began working through the ledgers. The numbers were meticulous—almost too meticulous. Every entry balanced perfectly. No missing receipts. No errors. No flags.
Except… the timestamps didn't make sense.
Some transactions appeared before invoices were issued. Others were logged on weekends when the system was supposedly offline.
He squinted, scrolling back through the data. That's when the screen flickered again—just for a second—but enough for a message to appear in faint gray text:
> The ledger remembers everything.
Ethan's breath caught.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The words vanished, replaced by the usual spreadsheet.
He sat back, heart thumping. "Okay… that's weird."
The silence pressed down on him again. No one looked up. No one moved. Even the air conditioning hummed too evenly.
He could feel something beneath the surface—like the whole building was keeping a secret.
---
"Lunch break!" Clara's voice suddenly broke the stillness. She appeared at his desk again, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "Come on, newbie. You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just numbers," he said quickly. "Weird ones."
"Welcome to accounting," she replied with a smirk. "Come on, they'll eat all the decent sandwiches if we don't hurry."
As they walked out, Ethan glanced one last time at his screen.
For a split second, his reflection stared back at him—except it wasn't his.
The figure wore the same suit, same tie, but the face was wrong—older, tired, and unmistakably familiar.
The man from the newspaper photo.
The one who had jumped from the roof.
The screen blinked, then went black.
---
And somewhere, several floors above, a faint mechanical voice whispered from an unseen speaker:
> "New accountant detected."