The office smells like stale cigarettes and broken promises. Forty years of nicotine-stained ambition seeping into the walls, the desk, the filing cabinets that haven’t been opened since before Splinton was president. Three in the morning. My peak hours. My “on” time. Keeping hours more regular to raccoons. The air is always thick with silence at 3am. That’s how I like it. The ledger sits on my desk like a loaded fucking gun.
