Chapter 8 — Masks and Lies

Lyra

The dry click of the handle abruptly pulls me from my concentration.

The office is shrouded in a muted semi-darkness. Light filtered through the blinds casts pale lines on the walls, and the discreet ticking of the clock heightens the sense of urgency. Lucas and I are hunched over a tangle of documents spread haphazardly on the presidential desk. Time-stained sheets, unreadable stamps, anomalies too numerous to be coincidences. A crossed-out pay slip, an unsigned transfer, medical records that don’t match the files.

Everything reeks of concealment.

And we shouldn’t be here. Neither in this office nor in this truth.

I quickly close the file we were examining, sliding it into a slightly ajar drawer. My hand trembles slightly as I push aside an ink-stained notebook. Barely enough time to pretend we belong here before the door slowly opens, as if reluctantly. The air seems to freeze.

Two silhouettes appear in the doorway.

And my heart stops.

It’s him:

The man from that night. The one