The Ghost in the Manifest
The Municipal Archive basement smelled of ozone and slow-rotting paper, a scent Leo Chen now associated with the systematic erasure of his own history. He sat at a terminal in the restricted records wing, his fingers hovering over a keyboard that felt like a relic from a different century. His city access card—the sleek, encrypted plastic that had granted him entry to every high-rise boardroom for the last five years—was a dead weight in his pocket. It didn't work here. Nothing in this district did.
He wasn't looking for money. He was looking for the architect of his father’s ruin.
Leo bypassed the public database, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he navigated the
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