Chapter 5

The lobby of the Association smelled of ozone and floor wax, a clinical, aggressive scent that choked out the lingering incense of the ancestral altar. Leo stood behind the frosted glass of the main doors, his hand white-knuckled around the worn, leather-bound ledger inside his coat. Through the glass, he saw them: a phalanx of suits, led by the oily, practiced frame of Mr. Chen, flanked by a camera crew whose lenses caught the afternoon sun like predatory eyes.

Chen wasn’t here to audit; he was here to broadcast the collapse of the Lane legacy. A staffer signaled toward the hallway where Leo was trapped, and Chen pulled a replica ledger from his briefcase—a prop bound in the same cracked, aging leather as the one in Leo’s pocket. It was a perfect piece of theater. Leo didn't wait for the doors to swing open. He ducked behind the reception desk, shoved aside a stack of crates blocking the service stairwell, and slipped into the dark, concrete throat of the building.

Rain slicked the uneven cobbles of the Mott Street alley, turning the accumulated grime into a dark, reflective mirror of the city’s neglect. Leo pressed his back against the brickwork, his lungs burning. Behind him, the muffled, aggressive hum of the Association lobby felt like a tightening noose.

"You’re late," a voice cut through the drizzle. Aunt Mei stood in the shadow of a neon sign, her silhouette sharp against the rain. She clutched a navy-blue folder to her chest like a shield.

"Chen has the floor," Leo breathed, clutching the ledger. "He’s spinning the fraud narrative. If I step back out there, I’m the fall guy."

Mei didn't blink. "You were always going to be the fall g

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