The air in the B3 sub-basement didn’t move.It sat heavy and stagnant, smelling of silverfish, rotting adhesive, and the dry, alkaline sting of paper that hadn’t been touched in three decades. The August heat had a way of seeping through the concrete, even fifty feet underground, turning the stagnant air into a thick, airless soup. Aria sat at her desk, the back of her light cotton blouse clinging to her skin. The single desk fan she’d found in a storage closet was doing nothing but pushing the warm, dusty air in a slow, rhythmic circle.She reached up to wipe a bead of sweat from her temple, her fingers leaving a gray smudge of dust on her forehead. The 1982 audit reports for the Cross-Vance merger were finally organized, a mountain of yellowed paper that smelled of old glue and decay. Every time she turned a page, the dry paper rasped against her fingertips, a sound that seemed to echo in the cavernous silence of the archives.She felt a tremor in her hands. It wasn’t just the fatigu
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