He left on foot and let the rain thin to a fine mist along the next two blocks. Glass gave him the angles he needed. A florist's window. A dark shopfront. The mirrored door of a pharmacy. No one paced his stride.
A sedan waited where he had left it, lights off, nose to the kerb. He unlocked it and slid in without looking back. The engine turned once and held a steady idle. He set a route that avoided cameras where possible and moved off at a measured pace.
The city thinned as he drove. Bright streets gave way to narrow ones where the light failed in patches and the rain drifted rather than fell. Traffic lights pulsed across wet asphalt. Shopfronts closed their metal shutters with tired groans. The car travelled through it at an even pace, neither urgent nor slow.
He parked two blocks from the address and finished the distance on foot. The air smelled of old water and cold metal. A man smoked under a balcony and did not look up. Aiden crossed the pavement and entered the foyer of a tired block where the tiles were cracked and the lift shuddered when it breathed. He pressed the call button, waited, and then chose the stairs instead. He timed his steps against the shallow echo of the stairwell and marked the doors he passed. Second floor. Third. Fourth.
At the fifth, he stopped. The corridor stretched long and dim, with paint flaking at shoulder height and carpet worn flat along the middle. A door near the end opened before he reached it. Edmund stood there, neat as always, in a dark suit that did not crease. His expression was composed, his hands clean, his eyes alert without urgency.
"Sir," he said, voice low. He stepped back to clear the entrance.
"Edmund," Aiden said. He entered without touching the frame.
The apartment had been prepared. Two chairs sat in the centre of the living room on a square of plastic sheeting, backs pressed together, legs tied through the rails. A man and a woman occupied the chairs, wrists secured behind them, ankles bound, blindfolds fixed. The gags sat firm at the corners of their mouths. Their breathing was loud in the quiet.
Windows had been taped and sealed. A towel lay rolled against the base of the door. The extractor fan in the kitchen hummed. The light had been turned low and steady. On the sideboard, Edmund had arranged a file, a laptop, and a small printer. A stainless trolley stood under a clean sheet beside the sink. Nothing in the room was theatrical. It was a workplace.
Edmund closed the door and locked it. "We cleared the neighbours," he said. "Cash, three nights. Two adjacent, one above." He gestured to the sideboard. "Your review."
Aiden walked to the file and opened it. The top sheet was an index. He skimmed. Vendor invoices. Subcontractor routing. Bank timestamps. An internal memo with a forged signature. He lifted the second page and saw a diagram printed in clear lines. Funds moved from a shell vendor through a subcontractor account and on to a trust with a family name. It was tidy work at the surface and incompetent beneath it.
"How long?" Aiden asked.
"Four months," Edmund said. "The variance triggered on the last reconciliation. I pulled the chain within the hour. The laptop travelled with them. We took it on entry. Backups appear local only."
"Sum?" Aiden said.
"Not fatal," Edmund said.
Aiden turned a page. Photos. The couple smiling in a holiday rental. The man wore a company polo in one image. The woman held a glass of wine with her left hand and wore a ring. He closed the file and looked at the laptop. Edmund had a flow chart open and a folder structure visible on the desktop. It matched the paper.
"Who found it first?" Aiden asked.
"I did," Edmund said. "On the variance sweep. I have already corrected the memo trail and closed the vendor profile. The subcontractor has been retired."
Aiden nodded once. He took in the room again. Space. Angles. Distances. The couple had stiffened at the sound of voices but had not moved otherwise. Their shoes were wet on the outside. Their hair had flattened where the blindfolds sat. Sweat had begun to show at the temples. He noted each sign and filed it with the rest.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"There is a single contact beyond them," Edmund said. "A cousin. He sent the first trust documents and then disappeared from the ledger. I have his details. He will be addressed before dawn."
Aiden closed the file. "Good," he said.
He crossed to the chairs and stopped at a point where both could hear him. He removed the gag from the woman first and eased it to hang at her neck. Her breath came fast through her nose, then steadied as she found the rhythm of her mouth again. He left the blindfold on. He repeated the action with the man and watched the angle of his jaw. Panic flared, then was pressed flat by control. They were not brave. They were calculating.
"You are going to speak one at a time," Aiden said. His voice did not rise or fall. "You will answer exactly. You will not invent. If you invent, I will know. Edmund will repeat back what you say. If it does not match the record, you will be corrected."
He rested his fingers on the back of the woman's chair. "Where did the idea begin?" he asked.
"With Mark," she said at once. Her voice caught and then cleared. "My husband. He said the vendor list was long and no one would see one more name."
Aiden moved to the man's side. "Mark," he said. "When did you create the first entry?"
"April," the man said. "Second week."
"Dates," Aiden said.
"April eleven," Mark said. "Then the twenty six. May nine. Then every two weeks."
Edmund spoke from the sideboard without looking up from the laptop. "Matches," he said.
Aiden continued. "Who built the shell?"
"Her cousin," Mark said.
"The name," Aiden said.
"Ryan Bell," Mark said. "He set it up and left it alone."
Edmund typed once and nodded. "Matches," he said.
Aiden placed two fingers on Mark's shoulder. "Copies," he said. "Where are they?"
"On the laptop," Mark said. "Nowhere else."
"Passwords," Aiden said.
Mark recited them. Edmund checked and gave a small sound of confirmation. Aiden asked for the trust documents. The woman supplied the detail, clear and quick, as if she had held the lines in her mouth for an hour and could not keep them any longer. With each correct answer, Aiden felt the shape of the problem settle. It was not the money. It was the exposure. Their work had touched the edges of two ongoing contracts. That was sufficient.
He replaced the gags without comment and stepped away. Edmund closed the laptop and set it beside the file. The extractor fan in the kitchen carried the smell of damp fabric and stale paint. Somewhere outside, a door opened and closed and someone spoke too loudly on a mobile. The sound did not enter the room.
"Removal," Aiden said. It was not a question.
"Yes," Edmund said. He lifted the sheet from the trolley and folded it once over his arm. Stainless trays sat beneath in ordered rows. Cable ties. Towels. A sealed sharps container. Disinfectant. Gloves. A small bin lined and ready. Edmund set a bottle and two syringes on the tray without sound. He placed a roll of tape beside them and drew on gloves with a practised snap.
Aiden washed his hands at the sink and dried them. He did not look at his reflection in the small window. He returned to the chairs and stood where both could hear him but could not see him.
"You stole from me," he said. "You exposed work that cannot be exposed. You are not here because of the sum. You are here because of the pattern and the risk you introduced."
There was no reply. The sound of breathing grew louder for a few seconds, then evened again.
He chose a method that was silent, controlled, and brief. He did not announce it. He did not lean close. He worked with the economy of a practised hand. No flourish. No anger. The first body slackened with a faint release of air. The second followed a moment later, as if the room itself had exhaled. Edmund marked the time with a watch and counted the seconds in a calm voice. He checked each pulse and gave a single nod.
Aiden removed the gloves and placed them in the bin. He washed his hands again, slower this time, and dried them with the top towel from the stack. He folded the towel and set it aside.
Edmund had already begun the quiet routine of containment. He moved with care that did not advertise itself, lifting, lowering, tightening, securing. He did not look to Aiden for instruction. He did not need it. The work was familiar and clean.
Aiden returned to the sideboard and opened the file again. He took the diagram and folded it in half, then in half again, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He closed the laptop and rested his hand on it for a count of three. He did not feel satisfaction. He felt the small ease that came when a fault stopped widening.
"Ryan Bell," Aiden said.
"Already in motion," Edmund said. "He will not move far. The trust gives us two addresses. One is active."
"Do not disturb the pattern any more than required," Aiden said. "Clean lines."
"Yes," Edmund said. He finished securing the scene and turned to Aiden with the composure of a man who had been taught not to place feeling between himself and a task. "The car is staged," he said. "The lift is a risk. The stairs are clear."
Aiden took one last look at the room. The chairs faced opposite corners now. The plastic sheeting had been folded once already. The air had the thin scent of disinfectant. The extractor fan kept its steady hum. The window tape held.
He unlocked the door and stood for a moment in the corridor, listening for footsteps on the carpet. There was none. He walked out. Edmund followed and locked the door behind them. They moved down the stairs without speaking. On the third landing, the lift shuddered and then was silent. Aiden marked the sound and kept going.
The night outside felt colder and very clear. The mist had thinned to a soft drift that made the streetlights glow without halo. A cat crossed the road and vanished between two bins. Somewhere a television was playing a game show at low volume. The street smelled of wet concrete and the faint iron of old pipes.
Edmund stepped ahead to bring the car. Aiden stood under a power line and looked up at it as if it carried music. He let out a breath he had not noticed he was holding and counted the beats until he reached four. Edmund drew to the kerb and opened the rear door.
Aiden got in and settled his coat. He closed his eyes for one second and opened them again. The file in his pocket sat flat against his chest.
"Prepare the car, Edmund," he said, although the car was already ready. "We are going home."
Edmund nodded once and pulled away from the kerb. The city began to fold back around them, brighter with each passing block. Aiden watched the road as if it were a moving diagram and felt the small weight of decision leave his hands. The work had been done. Order had replaced risk. The night, for now, was quiet.